There Will Be a Place For You

It was a promise I have held onto. It came from Carmen, who I have approached in the midst of many crises. Her magnanimity is inimitable.

This summer, I didn't know where I would live, but I knew that my church community and family would be able to make space for me. My friends on Plum Street let me stay there; my friends on Clay Street let me stay there; a few other places were possible. Carmen said as I returned from Morocco, "There will be a place for you."

A few weeks later, Sarah announced that she was moving down the street as a more permanent place to live (weddings were impending), and would I like my old room back? I said yes. The weddings didn't bother me; they seemed a long way away. But if we've spoken within the past four months, you know that wedding planning and weddings are what's been happening since August. Carmen's is under two weeks away.

The details will bore me now to write, but for a while I wondered if I would have to move out of Plum Street. Again, Carmen said it in a morning conversation, "There will be a place for you," with such confidence, like the eldest of three sisters that she is. When someone says it like that, you need to believe them.

A few other people I like were looking for roommates, but I hated the idea of moving all my things, which balloon up when I settle for more than a month, and I cherished a hope that there would be a person wanting to move here. I didn't have a second choice for a roommate, just the first choice, and she came to live here in January!

Change is always on the horizon. I want to at least believe the promise of a place for me, but I also want it to extend to you, and to people at their wit's end; to people returning from somewhere; to people estranged from loved ones. There will be a place for you. I pray it now, and proclaim it: there will be a place for you.

If I Had it to Do Over...

If I could sit myself down in late July 2016, I would have listened to my very legitimate worries about how to say goodbye, what to pack, and what to do about money. After just listening to all that, December Me would have told July Me the following important information:

1. When it comes to packing, remember, people live there. They either know how to do it or are surviving without doing it. (This apparently does not apply to shoes. Bring ALL your shoes.)

2. Bring a journal from before you left. You were a person quite different then, but still a whole, dignified person. It's good to remember those days when you understood the world around you.

It's also good to see the holes and questions you had before the move. Moving has brought new pain, but it has answered some of your questions, deepened your dreams, changed your life.

3. You don't have to go everywhere and experience everything right away. Reading books is still an acceptable pastime, no matter the continent.

4. You're going to write again. And you're going to love it.

Market

Stacey and I went out today to explore our neighborhood. It was a multi-dimensional trip, filled with optimism. We wanted to learn the neighborhood, buy an outrageously long list that included a doormat and a particular type of water filter, and to end the trip with smoothies. All of this sounded feasible in our minds.

We found the shops, and entered one with lots of shampoo in the window. Many men were rushing in and out. Inside, to the right were shampoos of all sorts, and to the left, wine of all sorts. Maybe liquor, too? We got caught up in a tide of leaving men, and saw no more. Shampoo is stupid, anyway, and we didn't need it that badly.

Next, a hardware store, in the front of which were stacked plastic containers of all shapes and sizes. Atop one pile snoozed a black and white cat that Stacey told me we could not have.

Then to the market where they sell vegetables, meat, olives, and fresh and dried fruit. Olives have appeared rather often in the last 24 hours, and I'm pleased with that. I admit to feeling rather daunted by the market stands, because they were soon to close, and we had their full attention. I find that annoying in places where I do speak the language. It was here that I realized I didn't even remember French numbers. We left for a supermarket where we could see the numbers, and maybe overpay, but at least avoid the staring.

On our way home, we remembered our desire for smoothies: It's hot, and smoothies are good! And look, there seems to be a place that sells beer... but probably other things, like maybe smoothies?

Here is where we found out that we didn't know the French word for smoothie, and we didn't have our phones with us to translate it. So we got beers, and they served us olives and peanuts, and one Moroccan bought us a second round. I'll leave it to you to Google what "smoothie" is in French. And I'll leave it to you to surmise whether we got a little lost on our way home.

Oh, never mind: it's "smoothie," and yes.

That's a Wrap

The experience of leaving began this February. I remember, because I told myself over and over that it wasn't time yet; it wasn't time to grieve; it wasn't time to prepare or pack; it wasn't even time to say I was leaving to anyone else. But I knew. February is six months away from August, and six months is a quarter of the time I've committed to this new endeavor. That's so ridiculous! I should not spend a quarter of my time in Morocco preparing to leave for here again!

Two weeks from now will find me in a very different setting from today, and I've made it no secret—I'm sad to say goodbye. I was listening to radio guest Norman Lear on "Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me" a few days ago, and he said that his 94 years have equipped him to give the following advice, and I'll paraphrase it: 

Just two words, "over" and "next." When something's over, you gotta leave it. It's over. What's next? And if you could also imagine a hammock in between the two words, you've got it just about right. 

So many things are over. Where is that damn hammock? 

The Longest Day of My Life

Prompt: describe the longest day of your life 

[A story of when I was returning from a mission trip in Australia at age 15. More significant events took place, but this one sticks close in my memory.]

Technically, it would be the day you cross the international dateline, right? What could make that set of flights longer? How about a 24-hour virus that caused you to fill your sick bag every time you experienced turbulence?

While all your friends gleefully bought kangaroo jerky at the Sydney airport, you put your head between your knees and tried to disappear from earth. But, no, you had to line up to go through passport check? or something, and then security, where you discover too late that you had a water pistol in your backpack. But what's worse than holding up the security line for an inadvertent water pistol? Your friend being stopped instead, by mistake. As security searches her extensively, you once more wish to disappear, because of course you aren't thinking about your stupid, delaying-everyone water gun that could have righted the whole situation. You're looking for a trash can to throw up in.

Then everyone in your group of 72 has to board late, and the plane had to wait, and so you're last in the queue to take off, and when you finally arrive in Dallas, you're feeling great, but a little tired from living two days.

I Rock Your Baby Son to Sleep

When you announced that you would be married instead of going to college, I felt giddy with joy. Not, mostly, for noble reasons: it was putting together a wedding at such a young age; I must have seen a hundred movies with weddings and flowers, and rings, and kisses. Part of me was sad, too: we had planned to be college roommates; we would have made friends and histories that entwined forever.

So what would our lives look like at this distance? Occasional visits, always something shared deep down: separating histories, but a wire that kept our hearts moving in the same direction. Praise God! I have not lost you, friend. And I have gained a whole family of friends because you chose so bravely:

--------

I rock your baby son to sleep
Slanted light from the hallway
A CD plays a lullaby
Mellow-sweet, a gentle moment.

Suddenly, a pang tells me
how blessed you are among women;
that even to endure a thousand
crying, up-and-down nights,
bottle-or-no-bottle nights,
is worth his trusting, sleepy heart,
his fingers twirling his cropped, blond hair.
He snuggles into my arm and my side.

If I remain single and childless,
tonight I felt I’d miss
half the stars in the sky.

Never one for greed, I hope,
I delight in seeing your faces as
the skies unfold new grandeur before you:
the word “dog,” learning to run,
then the rock-step, snapping fingers,
sharing toys with his new brother.

Dinosaurs

Me: Dad, I wish I had gone through a dinosaur stage as a child. I was missing out. I really like dinosaurs.

Dad: Well, that's all very nice, but where were you when they were sickly?



I remember one of the most interesting conversations of my life was when Kelly taught me what it is to imagine away boredom. We were maybe 12 years old, and I am sure it was largely motivated by the movie Jurassic Park. As we were in the car headed past fields separated by tree lines, with a forest bordering the horizon, she quietly mentioned, "sometimes, when I'm bored, I picture a pack of velociraptors coming out of the trees."

Ever since, I have often imagined dinosaurs entering into my life. I  especially love the way Dinotopia makes it possible for humans to interact with dinosaurs (specifically the herbivores).

June

It's beautiful: being overcome
by simple exhaustion at the end of a school year.

[Breathe.]

It's beautiful.

A Full Day (part II)

7am: The marathon begins! Angela and I see Becky and scream a little.

7:45am: After an ordeal, we find a McDonald's that is open and not corded off for the race. Leah befriends the cashier.

8:30am: We find a good spot for cheering between the 17th and 18th mile markers. We figure we will wait over an hour for Becky to pass by. So we get comfortable, ready to read, making friends with other cheerers: a woman in a wheelchair, and her husband.

It's not long before we put our books away. The runners are passing by, looking sweaty, tired, in need of encouraging words. We begin to clap, loudly pointing out shirt colors and hat colors in an effort to single out the runners, so they know we are encouraging them specifically. This is great fun, by the way! They perk up as we clap and tell them how far they have come. Their posture improves. Their breathing looks less labored. They know they can do it, too.

10:08am: I find Becky. She is looking incredibly tired. She says she has just thrown up all her liquids and she needs water. But she's worried she'll drink too much and throw it all up again. We run past 18 miles. She throws up.

We run past 19 miles and meet up with Joella. Then we begin to ascend a ridiculous hill/mountain. A 70-year-old Polish man comes up behind us. He sees Becky struggling. "I will pull you up this mountain," he breathes, and holds onto her arm, bringing her forward, ahead of Jo and me. We crest the hill/mountain.

10:46am: We pass the 20-mile mark. Becky's new personal record for 20 miles. The last time, it took her four hours and six minutes to get that far. This time, three hours, 46 minutes.

She throws up once more after this. People are concerned, asking a few times if they should call for help or a ride. Jo and I reassure them as Becky shakes her head: she has determined to finish.

11something am: Cathy's sisters (Cath is Becky's running partner) join us wearing bright orange regalia and inflated ducky inner tubes. Their encouragement is so jubilant that everyone around us perks up! One man says to me, "I'm being passed by inflatable animals. Should I be worried?"

At this point, we are headed back down the mountain. Joella and I wonder how we will exit the race and still make it to the finish line ahead of Becky...without getting lost. Is there any chance for us? With less than four miles left of the race, we begin to think we will have to finish with her. Super.

Becky is looking better. She has color. She starts to run with some speed that tires me.

12:01pm: We meet again with the Polish man. He has been ahead this whole time. Becky, Jo, Debby, and Patty pass him. I decide to stay with him (for his sake and for mine). He asks me questions; he can still maintain conversation despite the fact that we're at mile 25! He has run over 230 (yeah, read that again) marathons. Next week he'll run a marathon in Fargo, his 49th state.

12:11pm: Becky finishes her first marathon!

A Full Day (part I)

4:30am: Leah, Joella, Angela, and I leave our house for Wilmington, Delaware. Why? We want to see Becky run her marathon. Ang and I made posters to cheer her on. We brought our lawn chairs and books. If I knitted, I would have brought that, too.

6:15am: We decide we should begin to think about a breakfast stop before getting to the race location. As we are turning onto route 100, Angela spots something out of the ordinary: a girl is lying on her face on the sidewalk next to this high-traffic road, just in front of a pizza shop. "Should we stop? Do you think she needs help?" Angela asks. Of course, as she says this, she is turning off the road, near the sidewalk. Leah is the first out of the car. In our heads, we each think, "I'm so glad Leah is a doctor."

The girl is conscious, trembling, soaking wet from mid-torso down. She has no shoes on, her eyes are open. Her arm hangs out into the street. We can't move her, of course, so we grab two blankets from the car to cover her. She looks so cold. And though it has been raining, it doesn't seem to make sense that she is so unevenly wet. Joella exits the car already on her phone, calling 911. A couple pulls up. The man sits in the road, holding her hand, saying, "you're gonna be fine, sweetie. You're gonna be fine."

Another woman comes up. She thinks she knows the girl. She keeps saying, "are you all right? Is your name Jade? I know this girl!" She is worried; she is overly excited, and therefore not helpful. I am annoyed. Of course the girl is not all right.

When the ambulance arrives, the EMTs check her vitals, brace her neck, move her onto a stretcher, then onto the gurney, into the ambulance, out of sight and away from the loud woman. We stand about waiting for a few moments, in case we could be of any use. Our work is done here, so we leave, praying for her.

6:45am: Breakfast will have to wait until after the race begins at 7am.

A Skateboarder Being Interviewed

"Simple," I replied,"I don't think about falling."

"But, surely, you will fall," he said.

"Sure, I have fallen and fallen often:

I remember a time

as I jumped up to grind--

my speed was perfect as I hit the rail--

my truck snagged a lip,

unintentional flip.

I landed facedown on the pavement.

Bloody nose.

Bruised face.

Pavement-burnt hands.

The wind all gone out of my body.

I have befriended the

ground, pavement, floor.

And I'll risk it again, every time.

I must soar."

When Cat Fell Out of the World

Cat sat at the window inside the world. She looked at the picture that changed.

But today the screen was up. Cat was suddenly out of the world! The ground smelled like living bugs. The air was achingly close, in her fur, through her whiskers.

The neighbor's calls and sirens and carhorns could touch her pricked ears! Her tail dipped and touched the grasses moved by the wind. She crunched leaves under her paws.

Cat gave a cry. She missed sitting under the table and dodging moving legs in the world.

How Shelby and I Met: A True Story

Shelby's grandmother is beset with Schloppinger's disease, a debilitating, strange disease, which has caused her to lose the use of both arms. Her greatest joy amidst her biplegic life is calling in to win radio contests. Of course, she can't dial, so she has a caretaker make the calls for her. Her whole family scoffed at her silly hobby until she won two tickets to visit Northern Ireland. She was delighted to invite Shelby, who had dialed many a call-in radio program for her. What's more, one of her good friends lived there, whom she had not seen in ages: a Mr. Rochester.

Meanwhile, I was studying in Northern Ireland for my doctoral thesis on bedflies, also known as noctororum scoliorum. I was hiking with my handicapped friend, also a sufferer of Schloppinger's. We were headed to Mussenden Temple to explore the ruins of the burnt castle which an older, insecure bishop had built for his young, beautiful wife. The ruins of the castle are surrounded by a large ditch which had possibly served as a moat in the past.

While exploring, I began to need a bathroom urgently. The only thing to use was the moat. I looked about for a person on patrol who might deter the necessary act. The only thing my eyes lit upon was a battered sign that read: BEWARE, SHEEP GRAZING. I knew, just as I'm sure you do, that certain breed of sheep can spell peril to those who are so unfortunate as to be caught staring upward into their eyes. Looking down upon a sheep means little, however, for they assume you to be their superior. Due to my weighted bladder, I meant to risk it, whatever the cost.

Just as I emerged from the wide ditch, there was a girl of about my age, staring in disbelief at my impertinence. She assumed, quite correctly, that I had used the moat as a bathroom. "Didn't you see the sign?!" She pointed, eyes wide. I tensed immediately, on guard for the sheep attack. She saw my look of panic and assumed a fighting stance as well, believing me to have seen some raucous sheep activity headed in our direction.

Seeing nothing, she saw the root of our misunderstanding, and pointed to the sign of which she had meant to accuse me. Directly beside me was a sign which read: ABSOLUTELY NO PEEING IN THE MOAT. We both laughed, eased by our mistake, and made introductions. We were mutually impressed by our immediate fighting reactions, but our conversation was cut short by the needs of our handicapped companions.

Some days later, we were destined to meet again! While studying, I was staying at the home of a friend named Jane. She told me of her admiration of her employer, a man named Mr. Rochester; indeed, the very same Rochester with whom Shelby's grandmother was so closely acquainted. So it fell that at a dinner party hosted by Rochester, Jane and I were to be in attendance. Who else should grace the table but Shelby and her biplegic grandmother!

While taking a tour of the large Rochester mansion, a castle, to be sure, Shelby and I finished the conversation from the moat days earlier. So deep in our thoughts were we that we became dreadfully lost in the place. We headed eastward in the mansion, toward voices which we supposed to belong to our friends. How wrong we were!

We trod up a staircase, much worn and quite small, believing it to be the servants' entrance to the hallway near the dining room. We heard laughter: at times faint, then quite loud, then a good deal of talking. But as we approached, all seemed to be coming from one voice, and that not of our friends at all. We assumed our sheep-fighting stances, and tried the door, only to find it locked.

At this, disappointed and relieved, we decided upon an alternate route which finally brought us to our friends who had hardly noticed our disappearance. Rochester was the exception, for he seemed to note our pale faces and breathless entrance. He kept a close eye on us for the rest of the evening, fidgeting more than before, and ushered us out long before the appropriate time of departure for family friends.

With these two singular experiences behind us, Shelby and I were forced to part once more. She and her grandmother were headed back to Pennsylvania, while I stayed in the area for some months more. When I returned to Pennsylvania, Shelby and I met up again at Millersville University: I with my doctorate, naturally, and with a slightly redder haircolor, a common effect of working with bedflies, the notable result of my research.

Wouldn't you know it! We read in the paper just days after meeting again that our friends, Jane and Mr. Rochester had been in love. But those strange voices we had heard in the night had belonged to MRS. Rochester! Mr. Rochester had married a crazed woman many years ago, and had kept her in the far east tower all that time!

Now, just as we told our group of nine middle-schoolers on camp-out night, if you google "Jane and Rochester," you're sure to find the newspaper articles which we found to be so disturbing. For our part, Shelby and I are still divided as to the appropriateness of the relationship which Mr. Rochester had allowed to ensue despite his lawful marital status.

Outpost

We play a game here called Outpost. Red flag belts versus blue flag belts. Each team is searching for the other teams large flags, and pulling opposing colored flag belts. There are four ranks: one general for each team, five lieutenants, colonels, privates. All are worth a different number of points if captured. The lieutenants, for example are 25 points, the privates are 5 points. The best strategy for lieutenants is to simply hide and try not to be captured. Then there are flag-bearers; assassins who don't wear belts and pull only the flag-bearers; then mercenaries who the generals buy to pull flag belts.

The privates and colonels stay together to pull flags and to scout for the flag-bearer.

Easy? Sure. EXCEPT that it takes place at night! I was a lieutenant whose ankle hurt. I ended up running stealthily through the woods, falling into a ditch, and remaining hidden there for the last 25 minutes of the game. While in hiding, I let my imagination take over and I tried to remember all the war stories I had ever read. I thought of Born on the Fourth of July, and All Quiet on the Western Front. And you know what? I can see how little boys love to pretend fight.

Helicopter Season

Jadyn and Luke climb up the ladder and bounce up and down on the trampoline. Jadyn shouts, "I didn't know it was already helicopter season!" "Helicopters!" they join. Luke's big eyes brighten with each bounce.

I hardly know what they are talking about as I try to extricate my ankle from the tiny jaws of the most annoying puggle the good Lord ever allowed man to create. The rat-thing has an uncouth fascination with anything below the knee. His sharp puppy teeth razor through most types of denim, dignity, and shoelaces.

Having distracted the varmint with something slimy and throwable, I finally make it to the trampoline. "Helicopter" seeds cover the jumping mat, freshly fallen from the trees. Helicopter season. We gather them up and throw them in the air and try to catch them with our hands, though our hair does a better job.

This is the first time I have babysat in five years. My favorite part is reading on the big couch with Jadyn and Luke, the youngest of the four children. We make it through The Ugly Duckling, and Why the Sun Was Late. Apparently, it is impossible to sink into the couch the whole way to China. Although, tigers may feed on pineapples, grass, zebras, Jadyns, and hippos.