Morning? Already? Why Are We Awake?

Disclaimer and apology: Anyone who read this blog after posting yesteray will realize my mind never caught up with the day. Misspelled words, twisted phrases, and garbled thoughts jumbled together to give a good example of a mind that remained in bed even though the body was up and moving. Thanks to my friend Donna, who sent not one, but two, e-mails to point out I was coining a new language or in error. SHE is obviously another of those from the planet of "Eyes Open, Mind Alert"!

I sleep soundly. I will sleep through almost anything except the sound of someone in need, a crying child, or my own snoring! There was a time I would have slept through all of that; becoming a mother changed that. Infants must have immediate recognition of their needs and I learned to sleep tuned in to what might be needed in the middle of the night. However, waking and responding did not mean I was fully functioning. Waking because it is time to be somewhere (such as a place of employment, school, etc.) means I don't bother to wake at all; I stumble from bed to bath to breakfast to bus without truly being awake and alert. I set everything I needed out at night (still do) and counted on stuff being where I put it as I groped my way through preparation for the day.

Dave, Helen, Belle wake and know that the day is out there, things are to be done, and light is good, noise is even better, and life is to be lived. Marc, Bett and I are difficult to wake; we awaken startled no matter how gentle the approach and bounce off walls without knowing what hit us. If breakfast is served, we are happy to eat it; if it is not served, we are content to wait. For me that first cup of coffee is as important for the warmth it brings to my hands, the aroma, and the time it buys for me is more important than the caffeine. I would be as supremely happy with tea or hot chocolate. Now you may have noticed I did not mention either Kevin or Jenny. That's because I don't know for sure, but I think they both belong to the alert members of society.

Dave bounds out of bed (well he did until his early 60's), is talking before his feet hit the floor, turns on every light in the house, needs the TV, his phone, his computer and anything else that blinks, beeps, snorts, and buzzes going on around him. Through forty-six years of marriage he has never figured out this disturbs the troll that sleeps on the other side of his bed. He slurps coffee, munches noisy cereals, and yawns and scratches with amplifiers attached to his body for optimum sound. While none of this would faze another morning person, any of the above brings him to the very brink of death every morning.

We had been married a few weeks. Light was softly creeping into our room through the drawn curtains. We were spooning with my left arm over him. He grabbed my wrist, sat bolt upright, and roared "I can't believe it!" Hair standing on end, my heart in my throat, every nerve ending screaming, I too bolted upright. "What?!?" I fully expected to see my hand hanging by a thread from the wrist it was supposed to be attached to. "You! You are wearing a ring exactly like mine!" You can imagine when I could breathe at all, I used every ounce of breath to tell him exactly what I thought of our matching rings (our wedding bands), his idea of humor, and what should be done to people who do that in the morning. He was gazing into the face of his beloved turned suddenly into Medusa.

Having married in the glorious '60's, 1965 to be exact, it was the dawning of the age of Aquarius, knee high boots, butt high skirts, and voluminous hair! Ratting was a process of backcombing the hair until it was the size of the finest of afros. The top was then painstakingly smoothed over the whole for a sleek but airy do then well laquered to keep it all in place. I was in the bathroom and had reached the point of very long hair fully ratted without any smoothing. Dave was two rooms away in the kitchen eating a crisped cereal. Every spoon scrape on the bowl, every slurp, every chew was going through me. I stomped through the apartment to confront him. "If you can't eat that quietly," I hissed, "then suck it until it is soggy!" Every syllable was enunciated carefully to make sure there was no misunderstanding.

Let me clarify here that Dave is not a sloppy, messy, rude partaker of food. It is the magnification of light, sound, sensations in my caused by the way I am wired in the morning. He is quite normal. I remember one morning while I was day-care provider to several neighborhood children. Little Gina, of the very big voice from a very small body, was hungry. Helen asked, "Where are you going?" Gina told her she was going to ask for breakfast. "Wait!" The command was given with authority and knowledge and Gina waited. As I poured my second cup of coffee, Helen heard the cup and pot rattle together and said, "OK. We can go ask for breakfast now."

Waking Marc was a study in providing the most ease into the day with the least annoyance. On cold mornings, I would heat the oven to 200 degrees, put Marc's little rocking chair near it, put a blanket in the chair and have a cup of warm chocolate ready to hand him. I would wake him quietly and bring him out to his chair. Once he was wrapped in the blanket and holding the chocolate, I would crack the oven door open and turn off the heat. I was nearby to keep an eye on him but I left him alone. He often was as gentle with waking Bett talking softly to her and not touching her to get her ready for the day. In our home, once Marc was older, Dave and Helen removed themselves early to leave the two non-morning people to bumble and occasionally rumble their way through morning. We were conscious of each other's need to have space, darkness, and silence; nonetheless, there were THOSE days. “THOSE” days indicating the times when in spite of best efforts we got in each other’s way and nastiness erupted with the violence of acid reflux.

When I owned my own typing business contracting for work out of our home, I could wake slowly after Dave left for work, get the kids off to school, and then type my way through the day. When I had to go back into the world of business in the mid 1980's, I had to function to get to a very early bus and actually make my way into downtown Minneapolis without being a danger to myself or others. I usually napped on the bus. I arrived near my workplace two hours early because of the way the bus service from our home to downtown was scheduled. I would make my way to Woolworth's, long since gone, and have coffee, read or do my Bible study, and maintain silence until it was time to go to work. Peter's Grill was another favorite place -- they used the heavy crockery dishes of places remembered from childhood. The aroma from the kitchen, hot coffee in my cup, and the far-away clatter of crockery was soothing somehow.

Having survived the scarring of mornings with me to this point, Dave occasionally brings a coffee offering to the troll he lives with. There he stands beside the bed, softly calling my name until I wake enough for him to hand me the coffee. Then he turns and leaves the room. On one side of the door is the troll clutching the coffee in a dark room with baleful eye cast at the light showing around the edge of the door. On the other side is Dave with all his light and sound going on around him knowing he has minimized his danger for at least one morning.

Don't think I haven't tried to change. God looked at morning and knew it "was good". He also created people to work hard during the day, fall asleep once it was too dark to see, and wake well-rested when the sun peeked over the horizon. He never planned on shift work which is like sand to an oyster on every human cell in a human. He never planned on alarm clocks going off before it was time to be up and moving. He planned on people waking in the slow dawning of a day and moving in tune with nature. God did not want us sleep deprived and rushing at top speeds before we were fully awake. He wanted us to have a full day of work with lots of time to spend with Him. He never planned on artificial light to turn waking hours topsy-turvey.

Don't you dare get me started on Daylight Savings Time. God has no clock. It is the twisted mind of man that keeps adjusting the time to rob us of an hour in the spring and give it back in the fall. The sun doesn't work on a giant battery that makes it run slow when the battery is wearing down; leave it alone it does it's job all by itself. Didn't I tell you not to get me started? All the things we do designed to make us function prior to sunrise are perversions created by man for man.

All of this came to mind because this morning, 30 January 2012, Dave and I could sleep until we woke. He has the day off. My alarm went off and I managed to find it and stop it. I didn't wake to do it. I was sleeping really well. Mr. Bright Ray of Sunshine got up! He made noise in the bathroom, but I was sleeping through it (I can just tell you he was making noise because he was UP). The next thing I know he was calling my name sharply with a tone that implied frustration, worry, and urgency. He wanted the battery container because our programmable thermostat was not working (because of dead batteries – just like me in the morning!). I was up without thinking, my head was roaring, my body was sensing extra chill in the air and I was on the move. I grabbed batteries from the basket of Wii supplies for the granddaughters, and said, "Here!" (Marc I have been paid back in spades for a particular morning from your early teens when I brought you awake with one rudely phrased bellow!)

The torture was not at an end. Dave now expected a mind fuzzed and glazed from startled awakening to know what times we have the blitzkrieging thermostat programmed for temperature changes as well as knowing what the temperature settings should be. Since he was holding his nose two inches from the thermostat to program it, he did not notice my slow progress toward him with blunt instrument in hand. I tried to give him settings. I have no idea if they are the correct settings -- we will find out when we begin freezing earlier than we wish or wake thinking summer arrived. I took great satisfaction is hissing that the battery container is where it always is but his lunch box for work was covering it. I crawled back into bed, covered up and waited for warmth and comfort to settle the nerve endings that were like frayed electrical wires.

Not to be. My befogged mind came to grips with a 9:00 AM appointment Dave had and my promise to make waffles for breakfast. Not frozen toaster waffles, not instant mix waffles, mix-from-scratch-know-what-you're-doing-beat-the-egg-whites-into-peaks waffles! I got up.

That is when I discovered my waffle iron wasn't where I keep it. Remember I said I plan things out the night before and life goes well; no previous night planning and the pieces of the morning just won't fit together. It is sort of like trying to do a picture puzzle with the pieces of two puzzles mixed together.

I keep all heavy electrical appliances in the floor level cupboards of which there are ten. This meant that I had to open each door go into a squatted and bent double yoga position while reaching far into the cupboards. There were the small roasters, the pizzelle iron, the ice cream maker, the large crock pot, the pasta machine (not electric but heavy), the fondue pot, the malt maker, the large and small George Foreman broilers. All were the wrong colors. The waffle iron is white with a blue grip. On my second time duck waddling around the cupboards, I found a white electrical . . . sandwich maker I didn't know we still had! Dave came out to help look; we came up empty. On the third time around, I found it! It had tipped over behind the ice cream maker and large crock pot. I brought it out and plugged it in.

I carefully followed the recipe double checking all my additions. I whipped those egg whites to perfection and folded them gently into the batter (in spite of wanting to pound to pieces anything animate or inanimate that moved). Dave was very still in the living room. By the time I had the first waffle cooking I realized a breakfast that is a calorie and carb splurge for us includes eggs and sausage or bacon. I had prepared neither! So, saved from ourselves, we ate our waffles, buttered (well, margerined) and lite syruped before Dave left for his appointment. I was able to freeze two full waffles which will make 4 half-waffle breakfasts which will go with sausage or bacon some morning before work for Dave. The cleanup is still sitting there taunting me to get busy. If I don't turn, I can't see it and it won't bother me until after I get back from grocery shopping.

I am out of sorts, tried to scald myself in the shower but succeeded in getting the water moderated before I completed the job, have jumped every time my mantle clock has chimed the hour in spite of that being one of my favorite sounds, have fallen over the dog twice, and otherwise shown that this day is beyond recovery for one from the slow to awaken set.

When I return from grocery shopping, I will turn to my Bible study to see if God has some wise words for a soul that feels like jello on a vibrating fat reducing machine. I bet He has them. I bet He shows me. I bet He gifts me with something wonderful. In fact He has. We went to buy Subway Sandwiches and saw both the neighboring Osprey and Eagle soaring overhead. He gave me Dave who is patiently aware I am writing about him disturbing my morning. While he was worried about a chilled house and the possibility of frozen pipes, I was mentally picturing a fire in the fireplace and warmth like a blooming rose! While he was practical, he knew I was in some other place, another planet, another sphere. God put us together and He knows why He did that. I will thank God for this day, I will thank God for Ospreys and Eagles, and I will thank God for Dave. I will try to get over morning arriving with a bang rather than a whisper!

Hey! It's Snowing!

Funny, we have finally had some weather more typical of Minnesota. I'm not looking out my window and seeing "mud". We moved our bird feeder to the front deck as an experiment this year. What with Nutmeg being let out that door often, we weren't sure it would work. We put the feeder on a "shepherd's crook" hanger, put our Christmas wreath on the same hook and the added two suet offerings on the deck railing. The first to come, as usual, were the chickadees. Funny little birds that flit and zip from the weeping crab to the feeder an back again. Then a few hesitant juncos appeared. They will clean up what the messy sparrows throw around. Then a flock of starlings stripped the weeping crab of all it's apples. My current favorite is a little downy woodpecker that comes to check out the suet.

Mr. DWP and I spent one afternoon playing hide and seek. He would come to the suet feeder and munch away like me at a salad bar. I would try to take a picture with my phone. I finally got two that showed the little guy but not well. He didn't seem to mind my being close to the window, so I got my camera. That's when he tagged me for bird paparazzi. He flew into our locust and hid behind the largest of the three trunks. When I put the camera down, he came back to the suet. I lifted the camera and it accidentally went off. He flew to the locust and sat there peeking around the trunk to see if I had gotten tired and gone away. Back and forth we went until I started to get the mental image of a Woody Woodpecker Cartoon. I finally gave up and set the camera aside. He ate his fill and then flew away.

The pictures you see in my blog site are taken by me. They are some of the best I have to offer. A camera defeats me. Dave had a once-in- a-lifetime chance to fish with a guide. He returned at the end of the day proud of his string of fish. It's true there were no award winners on it; nonetheless, it was an impressive string of fish. I took a picture to save a life-memory moment. Uh. It is a good thing he wore an identifiable belt buckle because that and the fish were all I caught on film.

I am truly sad to say we have very few pictures of our children growing up. Dave takes creative and artistic pictures of things but rarely records family. I would love to take pictures of people, but one would think I have a deep seated Samurai bent. I lop heads, hands holding treasures, and the part of the picture that tells a story without discrimination. When I'm not lopping, I am doing something that makes it look like all my pictures were taken while I sat at the bottom of a murky pool of water! Add to that, it takes me so long to try to make sure I am framing what I want, that people get tired of waiting and just walk out of the picture. I rarely get a good picture of Belle as she is in constant movement and I am not that fast. Bett poses, but that's because her mother has drilled posing into her psyche.

Jenny, I love you dearly, but you could easily be labeled the Photo Nazi! It is time for me to share "the Baby Shower story"! Jenny is a pretty woman who reminds one of the young and healthy Elizabeth Taylor. She has a gorgeous smile and will turn it on at the opening shutter speed of a camera. At the shower for her first-born, I said or did something that Jenny disapproved. She was scolding me. In the midst of harsh statements, drawn eyebrows, and spark-shooting dark eyes, someone raised a camera. Jenny stopped in mid tirade and SMILED for the camera. She has taught her children well. They too will stop on a dime and smile for the camera. Marc hates having his picture taken and will not be brow-beaten into smiling, cooperating or even just being still. He will go along to a point on holidays and very special occasions but when he is done, he is all done.

Next is Helen, also dearly loved, but second in line for the Photo Nazi contest. She has won county fair awards with photos of Bett and Belle, her cats (Calamity Jayne and Annie Oakley) and flowers. She has caught me in all manner of less than photogenic attitudes. She is highly critical of my attempts to take pictures of just about anything. Both she and Jenny are immersed in Creative Memories and have enough scrapbooks between the two of them to paper the globe! I have to admit, with Helen's inability to relax in front of the camera and my inability to take pictures, I have gotten some expressions on Helen that would look nice on Post Office walls.



Now that Bett and Belle have reached the age of pictures and Creative Memories, the excitement of what will appear as an opportunity for blackmail is even greater. We live in fear. However, without malice and no serious planning on my part I often take pictures that give me ample ammunition back at them. Every room shot is usually tipped and every nature shot contains a garbage can, junk pile, or other unwanted piece of flotsam. Dave gave me PhotoShop for Christmas. I have been having fun using some of my pictures to experiment with adjusting color and sharpening the photo. My favorite picture of Belle from this Christmas is not a good picture by any one's standards. She is surprised, close to tears, and laughing. However, the lighting was poor and the picture is blurry. With PhotoShop, I was able to clarify somewhat, crop the distracting busy background and bring the expression more into focus. I also have one of Bett, who posed so it isn't candid, that needed the distracting background removed as well as color correction. As a result of playing on PhotoShop, I have two credible photos that please me very much. They won't win prizes, except in my own heart.

I have been caught with my mouth open, eyes shut, and a moronic expression that could be the model for Walt Disney's Dopey! I have been caught in the act of falling over, moving with all the grace of a pachyderm on a tightrope, and sound asleep in a sleeping bag on a rock in Northern Minnesota! I am loved by my family in spite of the odd things I do, and I am in their photos because they love me. Think about that. My favorite photos of family are not the ones where they look perfectly put together but where they look like we were enjoying each other. I can smile with pleasure over the photos that didn't go altogether well, but show love. I sometimes weep for times I wish I had paid more attention and enjoyed us all more.

For a few:

• Dave begging a kiss from two-year-old Helen.
• Marc sitting in Dave's old chair so we can't throw it away.
• A very pregnant Jenny helping Bett look for Easter Eggs.
• Marc and Jenny on their wedding day.
• Kevin and Helen on their wedding day.
• Jenny's Dad (now deceased) and me watching Belle sleep in my arms.
• Helen, Jenny, Bett and Belle lined up with their backs turned to show all their long hair as Helen was about to lose her hair to chemo.
• Dave looking relaxed on the patio of a coffee shop in Duluth.
• My children, their spouses, and my grandchildren together Christmas Eve of 2012.

What does God's family album look like? Are we perfectly posed and smiling or is there a smudge of dirt on our cheeks or nose? Are His favorite pictures the ones where we are battle-weary, dirty and scuffed but victorious because we obeyed and were the type of person He asked us to be? Does He have pictures of us being knit together in the womb where He was fearfully and wonderfully putting us together? Does He shed a tear over those photos where we were being stubborn and insisting on doing things our way? When He shows me the album He has kept for me? Will I be able to share in His joy or will I wish I had done better? I suspect there will be some of both. Regardless, I know He has kept a record of His child growing and maturing in her faith; and He has loved me dearly. The same is true for you.

Blahs; Blah, blah, blah, and Ho Hum!

I must admit the post Celebration blahs have set in. The expectation of what winter will bring following the fancy dress ball of autumn has turned into a major let down! I haven't missed the cold that sometimes drops to minus zero right after Thanksgiving and stays through Ground Hog Day. I keep wondering, however, "where is the snow?" When I was a member of the Columbia Heights High School Choir, we sang "Winter Wonderland" which opened with the line "Over the ground lies a blanket of white; a sky full of stars shines down through the night . . ." My sister Pat being humorous would sing it with the following words, "Over the ground lies a blanket of brown . . " Up to that period Minnesota had not experienced a "brown winter"; not until 1975 (I believe) did Old Man Winter withhold snow from the forecast.

A youngster me would wake on a given morning knowing that snow had arrived. I could smell it during the night and would race to the window knowing the moldy leaves and dust of autumn were all covered over with a fresh coating of white. I was hardly ever wrong. Dave and I sleep with the window open a bit almost all winter long. It takes a real cold snap to force us to close it. I still smell the freshness of new-fallen snow. Not so this year!

When I worked at a church over a period of seven years, I would arrive early because Dave would drop me off on his way to work. After a fresh snowfall, I would deposit my things inside my office and then take shovel in hand and shovel snow. Some co-workers thought I did it to keep the walks dry and safe for them, others thought I did it for an extra jewel in my Heavenly crown, and others thought I did it because I was too crazy to be questioned too closely. I did it to play in the snow. Pure, simple delight in being outside in the snow. If it was still snowing the delight was heightened. Several times, I finished shoveling and went to each office window and created a "snow angel".

Remember as children, we would rush out into new snow and make the first snow angels of the year? Finding a patch of undisturbed snow, we would fall back, swing our arms and legs and then try to rise without ruining our angel. If we remembered to have a broom handy, we could reach out with the handle and draw a halo above our angel. Mom always said the only time she could see an angel was in the snow or when I was sleeping. Hmmmmmmmm.

I still like new, fresh snow! We have a small deck, a patio, a short driveway, and a set of steps by our back door. Those are mine to clear! If the snowfall is very heavy or very persistent as it was in 2010-11, I run out of oomph lifting the snow. Dave and I own one of the snowplow thingys that has a wide yellow blade, a swinging handle, and wheels so I can plow the heavy snow fall to the side of the driveway. I have fun and when Dave comes home from work, he can make short work of my plow ridge with the snow blower. If the snow blower weren't so heavy, I would play with that too, because another love of mine is machinery.

I am no longer agile enough to make snow angels (on purpose that is). Sometimes the very lack of agility causes me to land in the snow and create something akin to a snow angel as I try to right myself before too many neighbors notice. But I still like to be the first to walk through new-fallen snow. The squirrel, rabbit or bird who trounces my unblemished snow before I do better beware! Just the other night, I made an unnecessary trip to the recycling bin to make sure I was the only critter who had left prints in our quarter-inch dusting of sparkly flakes.

I believe it was in 1981 (or was it 1991?) we had the Halloween Blizzard. In one night it dropped about a third of the snow we usually amass over an entire winter. I was beside myself. I could go out and shovel and play and walk. Well I could if we could get out either door! Both our doors were drifted shut and it took determination and lots of work to just set foot on the outside. Once out, I laughed and played and shoveled while Dave shoveled and muttered and groaned. When the shoveling was done, I put our Miniature Schnauzer, Liebchen, on a leash and took him out to play. Dave was done with me, our children wouldn't play so I took the dog. I guess I kept him out too long. For the rest of his life, when there was new snow, if I put on my coat, boots, and mitts he would groan and hide under the bed until I went out without him. Traitor!

For a time, we had an "electric shovel". This was a mini snow blower. You gave it the action of a shovel, thrusting and scooping. However, it had blades that bit into the snow and threw it for you. It was especially nice after the snowplow went by. We had a Standard Schnauzer named Mr. Whiskers (nasty piece of work who only liked me). He was not much for playing outside in the snow. He would only come out when the shoveling was done and he had level places to be out. We had a snowfall, followed by an unusually mild day. Fresh clean air and mild temperatures made me decide it would be a good day to give the house an airing while I cleared a path with the power shovel. Another fine idea of mine! I lowered the furnace temp so it would not come on, opened front and back doors to let the air blow through freshening every nook and cranny of a winter-closed home. I heard Whiskers barking, but that was not unusual. His two least favorite things were snow and the power shovel. When I could take the constant noise no longer, I turned off the shovel and turned to scold. No wonder he was barking! I had power shoveled about a barrel full of snow right into our living room on top of the dog! Don't you wonder why he picked me to be his favorite person?

I've always wanted to winter camp. Dave doesn't like camping in any form (says he slept in his last tent in 1967 in Viet Nam). He has explained through gritted teeth that spending a night near Lake Superior with the windows in our room open wide so I can hear the lake is like winter camping. I no longer have the strength in my legs to walk from a parking area to where a winter camp could be made especially carrying sleeping bag, plus gear. Unless I decide some year to camp in our son's back yard during the winter, I probably will not be able to do any winter camping. Think of being burrowed into a sleeping bag in a mound of snow with winter white all around you. I know there would be a full moon and clear skies. The sweet odors of wood fire and fresh air would provide atmosphere. If my camping world was completely right, the howl of wolves (in the distance, to be sure!) would round out the experience. I bet it would be a fine night's sleep!

So, a brown winter surrounds me except for the few flakes that have dusted house and home since Christmas. I'm not above making mud angels -- it's just not the same. Muddy the mud man doesn't have a nice ring to it. Stepping outside in the winds we've been having means that your cheeks are sandblasted and your nostrils have a fine ring of dust coated round them. I was cleaning up after Nutmeg the other day and actually got hit in the forehead with a leaf blown at gale force. It stung! No wonder I have the blahs. Guess I'll end this here and knit for awhile.

Clarification

Before I can write too much more on any given subject, I have to clear my son's (Marc) good name. He was teasing me about the length of my blogs so I decided to write one only he could appreciate. I did not expect people to rush to my defense. Our family has a way with words (for good or for evil) and we take each other on often. Marc is the same child who gave me a loving compliment only a son could deliver when he said, "Last night when you sang, Mom, I think you really surprised those people!" I smiled and said, "Really?" He nodded and hugged me. "No one would ever expect that high sweet voice out of a little fat lady like you!" Ah how God provides protection from conceit through the eyes and mouths of our children. Both Helen and Marc as little cherubs dear to my heart charged their friends quarters to see that I could indeed hold my teeth in my hand! One last thought on the time and effort we put into parenting only to have it misfire in our direction. Marc arrived at the door dirty, scuffed, and rumpled after clearly having been in a fight. I asked him if he was fighting. He affirmed that he had been and with Curt, his neighborhood nemesis. I asked if he would tell me what they were fighting about. With a tear threatening to drop, he said they had quarreled over who's mom was fattest. I said, "Oh, Marc, I don't mind what Curt thinks of me, you didn't have to fight over that. We've talked about leaving others' opinion of how I look as their opinion!" To my surprise he stated firmly and without hesitation, "I tried to tell him you were lots fatter!" To God be the glory! I was put in right perspective in an instant.

Marc was not hurting my feelings, he was jerking my chain or as Bett put it, "Stop yerkin' on me!" I jerked back, and accidentally set him up to be the villain. There will be much more about our family's banter and I will tell you it is just that and nothing more.

For Marc

Marc says some people only have limited reading time and each of my blogs is War and Peace paired with Nicholas Nickleby. Get to the point. Tell me what I need to know. No frills, no chills, no graphic explanations. Spew forth or get off the pot! Love you, Marc!

Happy New Year (A Peek Into My Mind)

What part of Happy New Year don't I understand? New: Never Before, Unused, A Beginning of Something. Year: A calendar representation of time marked off in 365 days, broken into groups of 7 representing a week, broken into hours of 24 and so on and on and on. (This year being a leap year just makes for confusion.) Happy: A State of Euphoria, Pleasure, Joy, Enjoying a Happening, Circumstance, or Event. Got all that.

As a child, I didn't like change (and I haven't changed much in that respect). I remember one NYE being distressed because 1949 was good why did we need a 1950. It was bad enough when in my short span of life the numbers kept going up one, but this was up by 10! Go figure. My mind never did, does not now, nor ever will track like the minds belonging to others. I remember sitting in my favorite security spot, Dad's armchair with matching ottoman, thinking I would like to grab the calendar edge to keep the pages from flying away. That mental picture still comes to mind at various times.

That mental picture of the woman hanging on to calendar pages as if her life depended upon it was there when my so very handsome and wonderful new husband was given a departure date to leave for Viet Nam. Concurrent with that was the pending birth of our first child. How do you anxiously desire something and dread another at the same time. Stop the calendar; that's how! Little did I know. I thank a gracious and merciful God that I did not know. Helen was born to us as a beautiful baby girl, followed four days later by the death of my father, followed ten more days after that by Dave's departure for Viet Nam. Some tornado came along and ripped nearly an entire year off my calendar and stole memories from an overwrought mind between August 10, 1966 and December 31, 1967.

The mental picture has occurred often when something was so right I wanted it to stay. Marc's birth and the look on Dave's face when he saw in his son his own face reflected back. Is that the expression God wears when we get it right? Dave's and my 25th wedding anniversary. While that anniversary is good for a whole 'nother blog, let's just say the chaos of preparing for it was forgotten in the wonderful evening we spent together. In the morning we awoke to the news that the pipes had frozen at home and we needed to get our warm bodies out into the sub zero Minnesota weather to come home and fix them.

Holding sleeping children and then grandchildren is another time when I don't want those calendar pages to even flutter! There is bliss in holding a sleeping baby that far exceeds any other pass time. When else do you receive such complete trust as when a child falls asleep in your arms? Where else can you find the ability to stay so still no matter how many extremities are painfully buzzing and pinging because they too have fallen as sound asleep as the child?

That mental image was present with me the night of 10 September 2001. Little did I know. I am so thankful there is a gracious and merciful God that doesn't let us know. It was such a perfect evening. A beautiful blue sky slowing dimming into a gloaming like none other. Cool air after a very warm day was creeping over everything bringing rest and relaxation. I didn't want to go in the house and end the day as I sensed life would never be like that again.

So. Uh. Happy . . . New . . . Year. My new year doesn't start until May 20. I an no longer new -- only my years are new. I only had two chances at being new. One was at my birth and I hope I did well because I don't remember. The other was the day I asked God to take over the life I was not living well and to make me into His kind of new person. I've dissected New and Year every which way and still cannot decide if I have a grip (don't you dare tell me to get a grip!) The happy part. That's the difficult one. Why are we supposed to be happy just because the calendar pages have flown away and a new bundle have been put in our hands? Why do people get all dressed up, flock to parties (alcoholic and non-alcoholic) to sing, dance, throw streamers, wish everyone "Happy New Year" and go home to face the first day of the new year exhausted and out of sorts? Is that happy? Could our psyches absorb 365 happy days? How would we differentiate between happy, happy-happy, and gloriously happy if all of them are happy?

I have started telling newly weds I hope they experience enough hardship to understand the good times for without measure in this imperfect world, there is no way to experience true happiness. Happiness is not joy. Joy is what the angels knew at the birth of Christ and great joy was known by the angels when He triumphed over the grave and once again ascended into Heaven. Joy is the persistent, all pervading, sense that in the midst of chaos all is well. Joy is what comes when one has suddenly had an insight of God and sees the magnificence of God in His Glory rather than someone to fear or hide from.



Thus another turn of the calendar has come and gone and already the calendar pages are getting away from me no matter how hard I hang on. Each day brings some disappointment, some laughter, some pain, some peace, some frustration, some love, and throughout all there is life. As long as there is life, there is hope. There is hope for those I love to find true refuge and joy in knowing God (the real God who cares for us -- not the faulty God we Christians represent to others). There is hope for a better world when God fulfills His promise to bring a "new Heaven and a new earth". There is hope I will find more golden joy than tin happiness in the things God has given to me: health, home, food, family, freedom, work to do. May I not take any of them for granted. May I keep the kind of mind that evaluates and weighs the worth of living.

May your 2012 be filled with discovery, laughter, kindness, delight, perseverance, love, and joy. Since that took a long time to compose, I guess someone was trying to make it less of a mouthful when they coined "Happy New Year"!