Christmas Greetings

The snow came softly this morning, while I still lay wrapped in quilts, dreaming. But as soon as my eyes opened, I knew it was there. Even our heavy, dark curtains cannot keep out the distinctive radiance of fresh, pristine snow.

I lay still, relishing the silence of woods still asleep under their downy blanket, until I just needed to get up to confirm what my senses already told me.


So begins another Christmas Eve. The pleasure of gathering gifts, the fracas of crowded stores all done. Yesterday we donned boots and gloves and found this year's tree next door in the Hundred Acre Woods. It lies on its side in the house, waiting for Sweet Daughter to come help us decorate. I pray for her safety today as she drives a significant distance to join us at Sanctuary.

This morning as I take a few minutes to read and meditate, I turn to one of my favorite poems, written by Lucy Shaw. I have shared this one before, but rather than providing a link to that page I will savor her words as I type it once more.

Mary's Song

Blue homespun and the bend of my breast

keep warm this small hot naked star 

fallen to my arms. (Rest...

you who have had so far to come.)

Now nearness satisfies

the body of God sweetly. Quiet he lies

whose vigor hurled a universe. He sleeps

whose eyelids have not closed before.

His breath (so slight it seems

no breath at all) once ruffled the dark deeps 

to sprout a world. Charmed by dove's voices,

the whisper of straw, he dreams,

hearing no music from his other spheres.

Breath, mouth, ears, eyes

he is curtailed who overflowed all skies,

all years. Older than eternity now he

is new. Now native to earth as I am, nailed

to my poor planet, caught

that I might be free, blind in my womb

to know my darkness ended,

brought to this birth for me to be new-born,

and for him to see me mended

I must see him torn.

May you find joy in Him, the greatest gift of all time and...

Merry Christmas from Sanctuary!

A Letter To My Husband

We've spent over two-thirds of our lives together, you and I, and there are days when I can hardly believe this simple truth. We made a covenant to love each other through thick and thin, to grow old together. We looked into each other's eyes and made these promises before God back when we were young and idealistic and had no idea of all the things life could, and would, throw at us, like waves at the pier we love to walk on. And somehow, wrapped in God's grace and mercy, we learned when to ride and when to duck and when to hold our breath until the tumbling stopped.

So many memories. Today I will pick just a few, my bouquet for you.

We ate cake and ham buns and potato salad after we said I do and drove across the border into Canada for our honeymoon. We had one night in the Hyatt Regency and then camped in the back of our car and cooked food on a mini-barbeque until we ran out of money and stayed in my sister's basement while waiting for our apartment to be ready.

Remember the cold winter day when you walked home from college and told me to bundle up...there was something you wanted to show me on campus? We crossed the street in front of our apartment and took the elevator up to where you led me to a girl with a box of kittens. You told me I could pick one to take home. You tucked her under your warm coat and she kept poking her tiny head out as we rode the elevator down. We named her Louie in honor of your best friend.

After we became new parents, come Saturday morning you would tuck First Born Son in his stroller for the long walk to a donut shop in Pacific Beach so I could catch up on some desperately needed sleep. I think you probably saved my life.

When I asked if you could go pick up some things at the store when we took Newborn Daughter home, your eyes lit up like Youngest Grandson's do when when something good is about to happen. Like some cuddly stuffed animals or something? you asked, and I had to reply like some diapers and wipes. You went anyway.

Your steadfast faith in the sovereignty of God gave me strength through our greatest challenge as young parents. As I lay in the recovery room with half of my body numb and all of my heart breaking, you gently cradled our Amanda in your arms as she quietly slipped away from us. Even now, all these years later, it comforts me to know she went straight from her daddy's arms to her heavenly Father.

You took me and our children on these amazing trips all over the U.S. and Canada and Europe, giving us experiences on planes and trains and ferries as well as by car. You gladly assumed the role of designated parent to accompany them on all the amusement park rides that would leave me queasy. You brought adventure into our lives and gave us the thrill of experiencing so many new and wonderful things, many of which I feared we might not survive. But we did.  Just like you said we would.

When we were helping College Daughter furnish her first apartment in Savannah, Georgia, on that infamous day,  9/11/2001, you looked me in the eye and calmly told me we needed to leave her and drive non-stop in our rental car across the North American Continent because you had to report into work in person. You patiently answered all my questions regarding her safety, over and over and over, until I agreed we could leave her there. Then we stopped at K-mart, picked up snacks and pillows and did what we had to do.

You bought us the Grandma Van so we could continue having adventures with a whole nother generation. Things like camping in the woods and by the ocean, crossing mountains and exploring ghost towns. And somehow you always knew when this grandma needed a night in a motel so everyone could have a dip in a pool and a hot shower and no one would have to sleep in the 'well'.

You shared my dream of a place called Sanctuary and took us traveling on most of California's backroads until we found it. You indulged my eclectic way of furnishing it, slowly over time, with countless stops at yard sales and thrift stores and even an antique store or two. And now, this is the place where I want to finish growing old with you. Up here in the woods with the deer and foxes and bears, where we can warm ourselves by the wood stove in winter and hike by the rivers in the summer. I think Robert Browning said it best:

Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
the last of life for which the first was made:
Our times are in His hand
who saith "a whole I planned -
youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!"

Infestation

This morning I am visiting the vet. I have hauled two pet carriers stuffed with complaining cats into the waiting area. Every time we come the patients seem to be primarily canine. Big ones. 

"Are most of your patients dogs?" I quietly ask the receptionist.

"Oh, no," she says. "We take cats, too."

I gaze around the bark-filled room, then back at her.

She shrugs. "Some days we just seem to get all dogs," she says.

Domino is making himself as small as possible in his little carrier, and is shedding fur like mad. Simon fills his larger carrier so his cringing isn't quite so evident. But I can tell... neither one is happy with me this morning.

After Domino's encounter with Mama Fox, it occurred to me that they really should have rabies vaccine. If Mama Fox had gotten close enough to sink her teeth into his flesh, and if she was carrying rabies, we would have had a real problem. Even if she wasn't carrying rabies, unless we could prove so, we probably would have had to quarantine Domino. Or worse.

The possibility of or worse has me worried. So here we are, surrounded by all kinds of big dogs, in a waiting area that seems much too small to suit my cats.

When our turn comes, we emit a continuous, low growling sound as we pass through the other patients to enter the examination room.

So I explain our situation to a vet who is new to us and whose mind seems to be somewhere else. The assistant gathers syringes and I am trying my best to keep Simon on the table. He has a memory of this place, which is not in my favor.

"Oh, I see a flea," the absentminded doc casually announces. 

"They haven't had fleas in years," I say, trying not to sound defensive.

He sort of hears me and tells me to use Advantage, but I already have decided the flea is a hitchhiker left behind by the big dog who preceded us.

When we get home I distribute a generous amount of cat treats to reduce the trauma of the morning and reestablish good will.

The next morning I stand near the front porch watering flower pots. My poor sunflowers and marigolds had been neglected while the fox family was in residence. I apologize to them as I tip the water can and then I feel something, a sudden terrible itching on my leg... on both legs. 

I set the  can down and desperately pull up my pant legs. There, in startling contrast to my alabaster shins, cling all these tiny black specks. When I try brushing them off they begin this frantic dance. Fleas! Dozens and dozens of them, biting and jumping and leaving itchy red welts on my poor legs.

I jump up and down like a crazy woman. I have never seen so many fleas in one spot in my life. The Mama Fox and her little ones left us a souvenir and I am not happy. No siree. Not happy at all.

I go inside and de-flea myself. Then I take another look at Domino, who is madly scratching himself. I see Simon doing the same thing, although with slightly less vigor. His thick fur must provide some protection.

So the next few weeks go something like this:

An immediate trip to Petco to pick up Advantage. Lots of it.

Putting one cat, then the other, in a gentle headlock to pluck fleas from around their faces and ears. Quite simply put, they hate this (of course) and try their darndest to avoid me when they see the tweezers coming. I get good at dragging Domino out from under the bed.

Vacuum. Spread borax and vacuum some more.

Apply cream (repeatedly) to the hundreds of red, itchy spots on my body.

Make a trip to the hardware store and find someone who is knowledgable in the area of flea bombs.

Set off flea bomb under the porch. This goes against every natural bone in my body, but we do it any way. There just isn't anyway to sprinkle borax under the front porch.

I am pleased to report that with persistence and sheer grit we finally conquered the little buggers. 

Fixing the opening under the front porch has just moved significantly higher on our ever-growing 'to do' list.

Neighborhood

Walking, walking 

out on concrete

blisters forming 

on my feet.

Yesterday's sun still soaks the ground

though it has yet to rise

above the hills for 

one more round.

Nameless neighbors say 'good morning', 

familiar faces, with dogs

who cannot pause 

for a friendly pat. We,

all of us,

are content to hurry on

with our anonymous

lives.

And this thought rises, unbidden,

a recognition: this,

this is the cost of city living.

Houses almost rub shoulders; 

we glimpse each other 

washing dishes through

kitchen windows. So,

to counter intrusion, we

wrap ourselves in a layer of privacy and 

dwell side by side 

inside our fences, without 

ever really knowing 

one another.

But wait...

I lift my head and am greeted

by name. 

I return the greeting...

by name. 

A neighbor takes the time 

to stop and share

his pending grandparent status, and

together we delight in 

his good news.

And now,

 the sun is rising.

Saying Goodbye

"We can't keep them," I announce to National Asset with more than a little regret.

The baby foxes are getting bigger and are much more active. Our cats, Domino and Simon, are getting antsy from being indoors all the time. We've never had this situation before, a fox family residing under our front porch. The porch we walk on, sit on, and visitors step up on to reach the door. 

So I do some research.

The internet consensus is that foxes nesting in such places as under a front porch is definitely not good. Not good at all. Words like diseases and flea infestation and attacking pets keep coming up. Solutions include things like making sure porches are sealed. 

As they say, the horse is already out of the barn on that one.

"I've found a place locally that can trap foxes and relocate them in the woods. They also track other foxes and try to spread them out so there aren't too many in one place where they have to compete for food," I say. "I wonder how much something like this costs?"

We agree, with some reluctance, that this would be a good thing. I say I will contact them for more information next week.

So we spend our time - cats included - mostly in the house. Mama Fox is keeping an eye on us. We don't want any more fox/cat or, actually, fox/anybody drama.

The day comes to call the fox trapper people and I wait and wait until it is too late. I am a little sad to see these creatures go. I worry about the process of trapping them. I worry about not having them moved. I am worrying way too much.

I stop. I realize I haven't heard any fox noises for some time. I crawl in the back of the pantry, the one that shares a foundation with the front porch and put my ear to the wall.

Nothing. No movement, no vocalizations. Maybe they are all sleeping.

I look out windows frequently. No fox sightings. At all.

I call National Asset, who happens to be out somewhere in the world doing what national assets do, and tell him I have no signs of life under the front porch.

"I haven't seen any of them on the animal-cam either," he confirms.

I feel lighter. I venture out and do a walkabout through our woods. I spot some fresh digging under one of the out buildings and there is a different odor.

"Do you think she has moved them over there?" I ask. We decide to move the animal-cam to the other building for observation. We wait a few days. Nothing.


"She's moved them, hasn't she!" I say with great relief. I keep the cats indoors a few more days for good measure, then release them. They have had a bad case of cabin fever and are thrilled (or whatever it is cats feel on such an occasion) to be outside once again.

A few weeks later I lay awake, windows open wide to the warm summer night. I hear a cry, the distinctive cry I had only recently learned to recognize.

Goodnight Mama Fox. Thank you for moving your babies into the woods. 

Morning Walk

I can feel it -

time tick tick ticking 

in my joints, age tiptoeing 

through my body like fog 

creeping, inch by inch,

through a silent forest.

Did life feel as precious

all those years ago when 

things were still

undiscovered territory,

that stimulating blend of dreams

and dread, and I thought, 

truly thought, 

I alone 

could shape my destiny?

I am at peace.

Aches of all kinds - 

heart and mind as well as flesh -

are familiar now. Somehow,

by God's grace, they become 

the strong, neutral warp strings 

 supporting my gossamer woof. 

And come what may,

that which He weaves 

still radiates the colors of 

life and laughter 

and love.

  

I walk in the woods,

distracted from aching this-and-thats by a

blue flash of joy winging his way

expertly through tangled branches.

A chattering bushy gray tail shows off and

effortlessly climbs a hundred feet -

or more -

up, up into the black oak's arms 

stretching skyward through the canopy.

The water is still at the reservoir and

so is my soul.

Crazy Like A Fox

It is early morning. National Asset arrived home late last night from his meetings someplace on the east coast. He has been up for a while, and tells me he has been watching the baby foxes playing outside.

"Did you see all three of them?" I ask.

"There are four," he replies.

"Four! I have only seen three."

"One is a runt. He has a hard time getting up and down the steps by himself," the Asset says. "She has been bringing them food and teaching them to eat."

"What food?"

"It looked like two birds without feathers."

I open our upstairs bedroom curtains and see a flash of black and white.

"Did you let Domino out?" I yell. "He can't be out there with the babies!"

And as the words fly out my lips, Domino bolts past again, this time in the opposite direction with Mama Fox behind him, her long pointy nose literally touching the end of his long black tail. I see him climb the big dogwood tree and stop up near the top, swaying on the small branches and holding on as if his life depends on it.

Oh no no no no no....  I don't wait to see if Mama Fox follows him, but, since I just read yesterday that gray fox are excellent tree climbers, I am worried. Very worried. I run out the front door into the light rain in my pajamas and socks. Mama Fox, who is stationed at the bottom of the dogwood, decides to let us handle the situation and heads down towards the back woods to watch.

So here we stand, National Asset (appropriately dressed for such an occasion) and me in my PJ's, hollering at Domino to come down from there! while the terrified baby foxes are scrambling madly to find their way back in their den under the front porch.

"We need a ladder," the Asset says.

"Which ladder?" I ask as I try to remember where we keep a ladder while attempting to herd the frantic babies towards the opening under the stairs. They do not want to leave their hiding places behind the porch furniture and just dart around and around the white wicker legs.

National Asset goes and gets the tallest ladder we own, extends it to the high part of the tree, and leans it against those tiny branches Domino has wrapped himself around.

"It won't hold you," I tell him. But of course, he ignores me and it does hold and he manages to wrestle Domino into one of his arms and climb down with the other and get the cat past the poor little traumatized foxes to push him into the house.

"I'm going to get some shoes on," I yell over my shoulder. Inside the mud room, I pull on some shoes and grab my rose pruning gloves which come up to my elbows and get the broom and try to enact a baby fox rescue, making quite a fashion statement, I might add.

One of the babies hasn't yet made it back into the den. He is shivering behind the wicker bench. This must be the runt I think. Even so, he has the sense to stay out of my reach and I have the sense not to get down there with my face by the ground to try grabbing him, rose gloves or no rose gloves. I get the broom and try to gently sweep him towards the opening below the porch, but we only go round and round in circles.

"Just leave him," the Asset says. "Let's go get breakfast and his mom will come for him."

By the time we are ready to leave Mama Fox has not yet returned, at least to our knowledge. But Runt is no where to be found. We assume he found his way home.

Domino is now grounded (meaning he won't be let outdoors) until the little foxes leave the den. 

He is not going to like this.

And as for me, I have been learning more about foxes in this short period of time than I thought possible.

Mama Fox has been around for some time, probably several weeks before we discovered that our porch was doubling as her den. I have been taking her picture and talking to her so she would recognize my voice. We have lived life normally, which includes a lot of walking on or near the porch/den and she didn't act any differently.

Two nights ago I spotted her coming up from the woods and circling the property. I knew she was heading to her babies. She was very careful. She came up one side of the property, looking every which way, but didn't enter the porch. Then she went all the way around the other side, very alert. When she finally decided the threat level was acceptable, she slipped under the porch so quietly and quickly that I almost missed it even though I was watching. She was making certain no other predator would find her den.

A little later she and the little ones came outside for playtime. She stationed herself up on the driveway, Mama Fox on playground duty. I quietly took the camera and crept out on the upper deck to take some photos. But somehow I spooked her.  I thought she would turn on me, but instead she ran away from the babies and the den and made this terrible cry. She ran further away, stopped and cried again. I thought she was scolding me. Then I realized that her cry was an alarm that sent them scrambling for the shelter of the den. It worked. It had successfully pulled my attention away from her kits until they were safely hidden.

Crazy like a fox.

Tending The Woods

I am sitting on the front porch sipping ginger tea and savoring the morning when Dan the Tree Master walks up.

"Do you hear the babies?" he asks with a grin.

"Nope," I reply. "They must be sleeping." 

Yesterday as the woods were quietly slipping into evening, I discovered that another family is living with us at Sanctuary. Yes, right here under our front porch. But I am not surprised. 

There have been things going bump in the night.

And there is an odor. Not like the time a skunk sprayed under the porch after The Flood and the workmen told me the only way to get rid of it would be to crawl under there and scrub. Which I declined to do, opting to just let nature take its course.

This odor may not be skunk, but it is decidedly animal in nature.

Then one evening as dusk lingered I caught a glimpse of movement out the window. So she has babies! I think. 'She' being the lovely gray fox currently hanging out in our woods. The Stinky Things That Go Bump In The Night Mystery has been solved. Just call me Nancy Drew.

For the next week or so you would have caught me peeking out windows regularly, so intense was the craving for a glimpse of four balls of fuzzy gray fur. The Asset christened them Huey, Dewey, Louie and Runt. 

Today Tree Master is taking care of our big double-trunked black oak that has been laying on the ground, one trunk pointing east and the other pointing west like some kind of giant compass, for weeks. His crew is also pruning and trimming the four giant oaks that surround our buildings, hopefully forestalling future problems. 

Later, as the crew finishes chipping the piles of downed wood and splitting the compass tree into firewood, Tree Master joins me on the front porch. He advises me to fix the entry hole under the porch and I say I will soon as the babies leave. And we swap fox stories. He tells me he was bitten by a fox as a kid. His father ordered him to go get the shotgun and kill that exact fox and bring it back for examination. But he couldn't find it.

"Did you have to have to have fourteen shots in the stomach?" I ask.

"I don't know if it was fourteen, but it was a lot," he replies.

This was the most dreaded thing in our family when I was a child, the thing that gave me nightmares on the days when I had so much as touched a stray cat. I love all things living. But my dad had this thing about rabies, and he drilled it into us from little on not to approach or touch any animal, living or dead, that was not one of our pets. 

"You will have to go to the doctor and have fourteen shots in your stomach," was his mantra. I couldn't even look at a dead mouse without worrying that I had gotten too close and might need those fourteen shots in my little tummy.

I stare in awe at Tree Master as if he is a campfire story come to life.

"You are the only person I know who actually had to have those shots," I say. "When I got older I thought it might have been something my dad made up to scare us."

"Nope," he says. "It was real."

We walk up to where the young men are splitting the last of the logs. One is behind the wheel of the big truck towing the wood chipper. He is calculating which route to take out of our property. I tell him it is fine if he goes all the way around the back to avoid the other trucks parked randomly on driveways. He gets set to go, and I go up to his window.

"On the way, could you take out as many weeds as possible?" I ask. He grins.

"Like maybe driving in an 'S' pattern?" he replies, and we all laugh.

Return To Guam

The woods are cool and quiet this morning. I pull the small trash and large recycle bins up the long drive, one in each hand, their wheels clattering against the blacktop. I carefully line them up so the driver can maneuver his big truck in the small space down here at the end of the road.

I walk slowly back towards the house, meandering through the still-sleeping trees, picking up downed branches to deposit on piles near the driveway. We will have the Tree Master out in a few weeks to tend our woods. 

A few weeks ago as I worked up in my craft room I heard a loud CRACK! followed by BOOM! I knew instantly what it was. It sounded exactly like trees being felled in old movies. I scoured the woods from my perch on the back balcony, but didn't see anything unusual. I assumed the sound came from a neighbor, or perhaps the Hundred Acre Wood that borders Sanctuary. I went about my business.

Two days later National Asset and I are out in the front of the house. 

"What's that?" I ask. 

We head towards the south corner and find one of the giant twin-trunked black oaks sprawled across the property, one trunk pointing east and the other pointing west.

We 'ooh' and 'aah' and poke at it as if it's a dinosaur carcass, just to make sure it really is dead. Then I phone our neighbors.

"Call the Tree Master," Miles advises. 

So after scheduling and rescheduling a couple of times, due to snow and other inconveniences, Dan the Tree Master himself comes out. After surveying the horizontal oak, he walks around the property with us, advising which trees need work sooner rather than later. He gives us a bid, then looks around at the random piles of downed wood I have collected.

"If you pile those where our truck can access them, I'll chip 'em for you," he says. 

So this morning I gather wood (there is always wood) with renewed purpose, and make piles near the driveways. I look up and Father-In-Law is near.

"Going for a walk?" I ask, and, when he nods, I ask if this is the first walk of the morning. He loves his walks and has been taking several every day.

"Yes it is," he replies with a grin. "You know I was in Guam when I was in the service."

"Yes, I know," I say. "You have good memories of Guam?"

"Ohh, yes I do!" he replies.

Father-In-Law was young and single and from a very small farming community when he enlisted in the Air Force and was shipped to Guam. I don't remember him talking about it much before, but now it is ever-present in his mind. There is something about the woods and the way the local airport lays that brings back Guam. He seems to smell it in the air.  

When he first arrived for the visit, I worried about his walks. Short-term memory is a challenge, and we don't want him to get lost. But our neighbor Karen has been most gracious as Father-In-Law walks up her driveway, past the Private Property - No Trespassing sign, several times each day. I think I need to bring her a plate of cookies.

On a previous visit to Sanctuary, Father-In-Law once told me he goes there just to 'breath the air.' This man has loved airplanes and flying his whole life, and has passed this love on to all three of his sons. No longer flying himself, Third Son flew him to Sanctuary for a visit, landing at our airport.

Bobsie and Miles let them park in front of their hanger. They also showed Father-In-Law which gates to use and gave right-of-way permission for walks.

One day Father-In-Law enters the front door of Sanctuary on a return from 'Guam.'

"I have something to tell you," he says, "and there is no need to call the fire department or anything."

"Okay,"  I reply, wondering if he has spotted smoke somewhere. I tend to take things literally.

"I left my walking stick by a gate," he says. I breathe a sigh of relief.

"I can't remember where," he continues.

"Shall we go look for it?" I ask.

"Okay!" he replies.

We stroll up the driveway to Bobsie's gate. 

"Did you come through here?" I ask.

"Could be," he says.

We open the gate and pass through. Chica, one of Bobsie's dogs, perks up and starts towards us. I call a greeting to her and she decides all is well. We continue slowly up towards the hanger, chatting about this and that as we walk. As we near the hanger gate I see something, and so does Father-In-Law. We collect the walking stick, turn around and head back down to Sanctuary.

He points to their garage/guest house. "I have a memory of eating something good in there," he says. "I think a sandwich and a coke." We have taken turns telling him that there is no cafe in that building. But the memory is so strong, surely there must be a building just like it, weathering somewhere in the woods of Guam.

I wonder which of my memories will endure when others have faded with time. Will it be the sweet smell of my newborn babies, or the roses I carried with me as a bride? Or perhaps the scent of spring wisteria wafting through our bedroom window from the arbor Father-In-Law helped build?

Sunday Morning Musings

It is time. We begin the fifteen-hour drive to visit National Asset's parents. Neighbor Boy is minding the cats for us, and it is simply luxurious to travel by car without them. The sky is an endless cornflower blue expanse. Orchards are blooming. We leave the Sierra Nevada behind and delight in our first distant glimpse of Mt. Lassen, at the south end of the volcanic Cascade Range. We drive in the shadow of Mt. Shasta, its round, snowcapped peak appearing incandescent, the only thing still touched by the sinking sun. 

Now, after several days in the home and town where National Asset grew up, it is raining on this Sunday morning. We drive a few blocks to church and sit in the center back section, under the balcony, where Mom and Dad have always sat. I gaze up at the low hanging ceiling.  This is The Balcony. The one where we sat upstairs in cast-off seats from an old theater for Sunday night services during our courting days. Still teenagers, Pre-Asset was trying to teach me Morse code. We practiced by holding hands and squeezing dot-and-dash messages quietly during the sermon. 

Okay. Some subdued giggling may have been involved.

Can't say that I remember much of that Morse code anymore, beyond SOS, of course.  But being in this sanctuary has opened a gate and memories are a-flooding.

We studied catechism down in the basement, and met there for youth group, too. Pre-Asset and I used to sneak into the dark library for a rendezvous now and then, until the custodian, his grandpa, caught on to us. I dressed for my wedding down there in the kitchen by the gleaming pots and pans, and climbed the narrow stairs to the sanctuary to walk down the aisle and say I do. Then it was back down to the basement for our reception: punch and ham buns and cake. The same menu for most funerals as well, ably served by the Ladies Aid.

This morning I sit quietly in my seat. I see bits of ruby and turquoise stained glass, a semicircle peeping over the top of a large, white, rectangular screen hanging on the center front wall. I spent hours savoring the rich colors in the that window all those years ago as we sang and read Scripture and listened to sermons, but now I can't remember what the rest of it looks like.

We sing this morning, too, but not like I remember. The organ pipes large and small are hidden upstairs in the loft gathering dust. Pre-Asset took me up there once, and we walked carefully through this small, crowded forest of metal tubes. This organ was the pride of the church, back in our day. But I think it has been retired for some time now.

Although all age groups are represented, this morning many of the seats are filled with silver-haired folk like us, people who used to be a Sunday-morning choir of mixed parts: sweet sopranos and fluid tenors, altos and basses adding warmth and depth. Now we try our best, but the instrumentation and key signature are not in our favor.

Ours - National Asset's and mine - was the generation that suggested, encouraged, and politely but persistently pursued adding contemporary music and variation in instrumentation to the repertoire for worship. We were delighted when the church leaders agreed, and we took joy in being able to participate as teenagers and young adults with piano, drums, guitar - and even a choir of our own.

But, and this is a BIG but, we never desired - or envisioned - Christian worship that would throw out the baby with the bath water, musically speaking. On this Sunday, the very last congregational song is How Great Thou Art, the only hymn for the morning. And it is the song that comes closest to making me feel like I am actually part of a throng of worshipers instead of an observer, singing meaningful words that have stood the test of time.

We, the silver-haired contingent, give it our best. We try to adapt the traditional parts we know by heart to the limitation of guitar chords. Would it be so bad if someone actually played the organ or beautiful grand piano for just this one song?

Our minds and hearts engage... and when I think, that God, his Son not sparing, sent him to die, I scarce can take it in... while trying to keep pace with well-meaning musicians who either can't hear us or are untrained in the subtle art of accompanying singers. 

The service ends and we are excused. We exit to the front steps. When I walked down them forty years ago as a brand new bride, I could look up and see blue sky. Now the steps are enclosed with walls and ceiling sheltering us from the rain, and packed with chattering people. The Asset and I see faces we recognize, people we knew in high school. Some names come easily. Some we have to work at or just apologize and ask.

I see Mr. Kredit, my high school biology teacher. One of my all-time favorites, he still teaches at the Christian high school, still engenders love for all things living in his students.

"You were Kathy's favorite teacher," the Asset tells him, loudly enough to be heard above the other voices in the small space. I am not sure if he really remembers me or not, and who could blame him? He has been teaching roomfulls of students for longer than we have been married.

"I am thinking about retiring," Mr. Kredit confesses.

"Oh, no!" I say. "Not yet!" And then I remember how old I am and wonder how old he must be. I sincerely hope that more students will be able to benefit from his teaching in the years to come.

We make our way to the car and drive the few blocks home. We will have 'Coffee', the traditional time of visiting with extended family over hot cups of coffee (or tea) and sweet cookies (or cake). The family circle is smaller, a visible reminder of grandparents and aunts and uncles who have gone Home before us. There is a sadness in this, but we are not without comfort:  

We do not want you to be uninformed, brethren, about those who are asleep, so that you will not grieve as do the rest who have no hope. For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so God will bring with Him those who have fallen asleep in Jesus...*

After all, Sunday mornings are for remembering and rejoicing in the Resurrection, are they not?




*1 Thessalonians 4:13-14

The Wedding

The day has finally arrived. We have traveled over 6000 miles by taxi cab, prop plane, Airbus 340 and car to attend this wedding. 

We befriended The Groom when he was pursuing graduate studies at our local university in San Diego. I was a volunteer tutor/mentor to international students who desired an American friend to help them adjust to the new culture and language. Already fluent in English, The Groom became more like a German son to us, and during his time in California we were also pleased to host his parents and sister on their visits. Years later, when he became engaged, he gave us six month's notice to plan and prepare for a trip to Europe to attend their wedding.

And this is the day. The Groom is all smiles and The Bride radiant in her white gown, a lovely splash of apple-red shawl gracing her shoulders. When I compliment them on this special touch, The Groom confides that it is a last minute sort of thing, a recognition of the chilly day.

And it is chilly. It was raining in Munich when our plane touched down two days ago. The young man at the Hertz counter greeted us with the news that they had run out of the small (i.e. cheap) rentals and he was giving us a complimentary upgrade to a larger station wagon. Ron breathed a sigh of relief and bent to my ear, confiding that he had worried our three large suitcases, two backpacks and a purse wouldn't have fit in the car he had actually reserved.

The drive through Germany to the Italian Alps is delightful, even in our sleep-deprived state. Everything is so green, a color I have been sorely missing in California during three years of severe drought. The mountain road is narrow and twisting, but not heavily traveled. I am doing fine until - to Ron's delight and my dismay - it begins snowing. Within minutes, it seems, everything turns white before our eyes. This little traction warning light on the dash comes on, alternating between yellow and red. I have never seen one of these before.

"What does that light mean?" I ask as I brace myself for impact or something worse, like sliding over the steep edge just outside my window.

"I don't know," National Asset replies.

"How can you not know?"  A ridiculous question, I recognize, even as it slips from my tired brain through my lips. What can I say. Sudden snow storms in unfamiliar mountains on very narrow roads tend to rattle me. 

But the Asset is loving it. I can see it on his face.

Eventually we enter a very long tunnel. The Germans seem to prefer these to roads that follow the contours of the land, winding around and up and down hills and mountains. When we finally exit on the other side, the roads are clearer. My anxiety subsides.

A small group of family and friends, about thirty in all, have gathered at an inn in the Dolomites for four days of eating and talking and hiking and sleeping and eating and talking some more. The wedding day begins crystal clear, the sun rising above the sharp peaks of snow covered alps. We ride with The Groom's parents to the church, a beautiful old cathedral.

"I must warn you, the seats are very uncomfortable," his father warns just before we enter. I think dangerous is more like it as I straddle the old, unmovable wooden kneeling bench running dead center through the pew. I grasp the seat in front of me and the back of the one I am to sit upon and hobble my awkward way to the end where I am grateful to sit down. I am not quite sure what I am supposed to do with my feet. Maybe this ungainly construction is designed to keep parishioners awake.

The liturgy is in German, of course. Music from a pipe organ, trumpets, and a mixed vocal quartet spill from the loft and resonate against the tall, ornate pillars, the painted ceiling and walls. The sheer beauty of sound and setting brings tears to my eyes.

I can follow the service program for the Mass (an actual pamphlet) fairly well. When it was our turn to sing the hymns (all 30 of us in this large, otherwise empty sanctuary) I am thankful for choir teachers who taught me to enjoy singing in other languages.

But... I am cold. So very, very cold. I am wearing two layers, thinking they would be adequate for a car ride and an indoor wedding. The Groom had talked in terms of 'the chapel,' so I hadn't anticipated a large, ancient, unheated church that is at best only 2 degrees above the freezing temperature outside. When something in the liturgy causes everyone to abruptly stand and reach across the aisle and pews to shake hands with everyone else, my fingers are ice picks.  I do my best not to break a leg on the kneeling board while extending my blueish hand.

Pictures are taken outside after the ceremony, in the small courtyard that serves as a cemetery. Elaborate wrought iron crosses adorn closely spaced graves. The Groom's father tells us that since the space is so small and it has been used for so many centuries, the graves are reused. After 70 years the bones are removed, the name and birthdate are engraved in gold on the skull, and it is stored in another place. I marvel at this show of respect for those who have long since passed on.

We return to the hotel to celebrate. I begin to thaw, a round fireplace radiating heat from the center of the room as snacks and drinks are served. A projector screen is set up and some kind of quiz ensues, pitting the bride and groom in a contest of German economics, geography, history. Language flows around and over me, German, Italian, and occasionally a bit of English, an auditory flash, like the rotating beam of a lighthouse at night. 

In the evening we are seated at the parents' end of a long, elegantly set table. The five course meal is served over the course of four hours, nearly every course attended by a specific wine. I am aware of the honor bestowed on me, seated here with the mothers and aunts, but none of them speak much English and they are shy about even trying to communicate with me. I scour my mind for bits of high-school German vocabulary to insert into predominantly English questions. They seem to appreciate the effort, but mostly I sit and observe.

Late at night there are more games and folk dancing in the fireside room. We feel honored to be included in this intimate celebration of The Groom's wedding but we grow tired. Jet lag and the effort of bridging language and culture catch up to us, and we slip quietly up to our room to rest.

Family Photo

Hey... let's take a family picture while we are all together!

HURRY UP! We're losing the light!

Good, at least somebody's ready.

Wait ... where's Grandpa?

 No, no, we're in the wrong order....

 I think it's a keeper!

Christmas at Sanctuary, 2013