A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Bath

Apparently, my dear children have both reached interesting stages of development, which combined, can make for the most ridiculous situations. Asher has hit the three's, which, in his case, is turning out to be worse that then two's with lots of whining, much upset over being told "no" (about anything, even having a whole banana versus a half) and a great need for mom (no doubt part of the battle between establishing independence and still needing to have many needs met by us parents). Harper will be 16 months old on October 1, and while her stage does not include the adolescent-like moodiness of a three year old, there is much noise and some frustration as she struggles with knowing she can communicate and move around but lacks some of the skill to achieve her self-imagined potential.

So Tuesday night, I made a valiant attempt to get both my children in the bath before bed and their respective stages collided. They were in desperate need of cleaning as I had forgotten the last time they had a bath (a few days) and both had been happily playing in the dirt-filled kiddie pool turned massive mud puddle in our backyard before dinner. I announced happily, as dinner was wrapping up, "After Harper finishes up, it's bath time." There were some protests from Asher because it wasn't his idea, but before I could get Harper out of his chair, Asher had removed his diaper (dinner's clothing included his diaper and socks as I had stripped him after the mud puddle fun). While Asher tromped around the house with the air of a triumphant, naked boy, I corralled Harper into the bathroom with some wipes to clean her poopy bottom before getting in the bath. With much squirming and protesting grunts from her, I finally had her clean but the bath mat was much the worse for wear.

Returning to the bathroom after tossing her diaper and washing my hands, I asked Asher to try to remove his socks. "Dare duck, Mom," he announced after tugging at them lightly while standing up. Urging him to try again, he replied, "Look, Mom, dare's poop on da floor." I peered into the small bathroom to discover a nicely laid, three inch turd on the floor and Asher still in his socks. Oh-so-calmly I replied, "So there is. Do you want to sit on your potty?" Asher, squatting close to his poop and peering at it so inquisitively, replied "What color is it, Mom?" Answering his question nonchalantly, I stuck one arm out to grab Harper as she made a mad toddler dash to join Asher and another arm out to pull his training potty into the bathroom. Harper squealed as I removed her from the site of this intriguing scene and carried her with me to get the child's gate. The children obviously needed to be locked up (or was that me? I would later wonder). Asher proudly sat on his potty, asking for a book and his helicopter. Harper screamed in great protest, grabbing the gate and attempting to keep it from going up as I struggled and finally succeded in getting the gate situtated in the bathroom doorway. I scooped up the poop with a plastic bag and went back to the kitchen for disinfecting wipes.

During my trips back and forth to the kitchen, Harper kept up a constant running, flapping and protest grunting routine, running between the bathroom and the kitchen, between me and Asher. She was, quite clearly, very offended at being locked out. On one of my returns to the bathroom, I found a nice puddle outside the gate where Harper had briefly stood nd attempted to pull Asher's hair. Back to the kitchen for a towel I went, followed quickly by a "phalump. " I turned to find Harper, having run after me with wet feet, sprawled on the floor. I picked her up and mopped the floor as I comforted her. Somewhere, deep inside, I realized that the situation was becoming critical. We weren't just talking messes here, we were talking bodily injury! Yet, I charged on.

Asher was done sitting, having produced nothing more for him to admire. I cleaned up any remnants on the bathroom floor and training potty and started to run the bath water. Back to the beginning of this scene, it was again time for Asher to take his socks off. I urged him to attempt this on his own. He obediently sat on the floor and started lightly tugging on the toe of one sock. Making no progress he complained loudly, "Can't do it, Momma. Help me." He shifted where he was sitting on the floor, and I tried to guide him in hooking his finger on the back of the sock and pulling it over his heel. My gentle instruction was met with, "Look, Mom. More poop. " Pause. "What color is it?" I had one child, one floor and one potty nicely cleaned but had neglected to clean the other child's bottom. "You've got to be kidding me," I said out loud, shut the water off and set Harper in the tub in less than an inch of water. "Don't touch it," I toldAsher and got him to stand up, away from the poop. "Why, Mom?" he answered. "What color is it?" he asked again. "Brown," I replied and headed back to the kitcehn for another disinfecting wipe.

As I come back into the bathroom, my dear girl was standing in the tub and then, quick as an oiled pig, "phalump," on her back, screaming. I dropped the cleaner, grabbed a towel and lifted Harper out to comfort her as I cleaned up the very last remnants on the floor and Asher. With almost hysterical laughter, what a feat this was.

Finally, finally, with all the bottoms cleaned, the usually neglected bathroom floor clean enough to serve a meal on, Asher's stubborn socks off, both kids were happily playing in the bath tub. It's so funny what goes through our head during these moments - questions about what is the best cleaner to use, where the cleaner is, how best to lock up a child, whether the next best step in a series of critical moments is to set my baby girl in a bit of water, lug her around with me or let her indulge her curiosity and why I chose the first option. There is much here about life, but, most importantly to me, how critical it is to be in the moment, to watch my children's developing abilities and figure out - even with the heat of disbelieving frustration and hysteria - how to react when everything starts to fall apart.

September's Caterpillars

I was reading in bed Monday night, finishing the third book in a series about a teenage girl who falls in love with a vampire (a nice vampire, of course. Who knew? A fun read - The Twilight Series by Stephanie Meyer). The end of the third book was sad, and I was somewhat ruffled. And then, all of a sudden, I was really ruffled, sobbing heavily. Ten days into September, this contentious month ambushed me. Tuesday was one of those days where I had to concentrate most of the day on holding myself together because the slightest breeze would blow away my leaves.

As much as I want to chalk it up to the book, to a theme of struggling with love and loving like your life depends on it, to missing Michael (he's out of town, and this is the first time I've missed his presence in some time), to fatigue, I had to admit it was more than that. Ten years ago, I attended a conference, which was in most regards quite useless and scary (scary in the overly conservative, Christian way), the speaker talked about our life cycles. When we experience good or bad things in our lives, those times of the year may echo that experience in later years. Perhaps it's really a mark on our soul and energy. Perhaps our unconscious is triggered by dates or weather or how the light looks at certain times of the year. Perhaps our memories are linked strongly to the calendar. In any case, September is one of those times of year for me.

Six years ago, I was turning on the radio in our apartment after a walk in Riverside Park in Manhattan with Michael on a beautiful early fall day when the events of 9/11 happened. I wasn't at the Trade Center (Michael was the day before). I didn't know anyone who was killed (though, working in Manhattan, it was one degree of separation, and many days I could hear at work, "Did you hear from her/him yet?"). I did see people and cars covered with the dust, have my school and work closed down for security, saw bus stops and walls covered with missing persons flyers and make shift alters under those flyers. I attended a staff meeting of all college staff and listened to one of the maintenance workers talk about his friends who died at the Trade Center, friends he used to work with there. Michael and I went to a peace rally with friends in Union Square, a quiet (in NYC) gathering. We carved messages on a large piece of metal, and, when it was dark, walked as far south as we could go before the street closures. We could see the continuing smoke, lit yellow by the search lights. For many weeks after 9/11, the subway trains were strangely quiet, the riders carefully tucked into their thoughts and grief. There was tangible grief for concrete individuals and for something ethereal, a sense that something in our lives had ended.

Closely following those events, I spiraled into a depression, the first symptom of which was an inability to read (which, if you know me, is unheard of - I HAVE to read). My depression lasted through the end of my graduate work, a move to Alabama, a month of living with in-laws, a move to Mississippi, a temp job at WorldCom (aka corporate hell), a job search and starting a new job until I started medication. For months, I pulled myself up by my boot strings.

Three years ago on September 17, my sister's boyfriend, Tim Griffith, was murdered. I was nine months pregnant, and my mom called our house. There was something funny in her voice, a forced calm, and she asked to talk to Michael. She told him the news, afraid to tell me. Tim had gone to a Giants' baseball game, his first night out after getting off house arrest, a young man sober after struggling with a drug addiction. He and his friends were walking back to their car after the game, and Tim brushed a car parked on the street. A group of young men got out of the car, and attacked Tim and his friends. Tim died at the hospital from a stab wound. My sister was at a horse show in southern California. Less than a week later, my sister returned from Iraq, relieving an enormous weight and a year of jumping when the phone rang at strange hours. It was bittersweet. My dear nephew, who had lived with us, become a surrogate son, rearranged our childless married lives would return to his mother shortly.

One year ago on September 2, my Executive Director's son died in a swimming accident. Things between Michael and me really started to fall apart, and I grieved for my boss alone when I heard the news at church. I took off my wedding ring that month.

There are two huge, bright, anchoring events that occurred on September 23, 2004 - my beautiful son was born - and September 24, 2005 - I found out I was pregnant with Harper the day after finishing a half marathon.

So it is that the date and memory of September 11, 2001 brings up intense memories of Manhattan on that day and an all too public representation of the trials of September and of the beginning of six years when life, a reconstructed life full of adventure and love and discovery, slowly started to be eaten away like a poplar set upon by leaf-eating caterpillars. Infestations usually aren't fatal, but successive years of attack can weaken a tree enough to kill it; and, certainly, ignoring the caterpillars, letting them move in without protest, finding small cracks to hide in from storms is a faster way to go. Somehow, I have to help these caterpillars methamorphose and fly away so the leaves can regrow. So September can be a time for fall, recovery and leaves full of fire.

The Lull of Language

It's Friday afternoon just after lunch. I have spent the first five hours of my work day doing online research, writing grants and trying to avoid a conversation about a co-workers English 101 course. My brain is screaming for some creative activity and my oh-so-favorite song "How to Save a Life" is on the radio (truly, it's time for this song to find a life in the next world. If I could stab it with a sword, I would).

I have been thinking recently about the power of naming something (putting a name to something). Many years ago, in a very different state, I taught an introduction to college class in an adult education program. As a part of the course, we talked about writing and words. We are overwhelmed with words in modern media - written, spoken, sung, lit by fluorescent lights, driven on cars, in cars, personally carried on iPods, cell phones, Blackberries, daily newspapers. So easily we forget the power and mystery of words, and the unprecedented ability of humans to use words.

When Harper was first born, Asher had many words (often in his own language). He used them sparingly as punctuations to his activities. Within two days of Harper's life, Asher jumped to linking two words with the phrase "two babies" (pronounced French-like, "deux bebes" and first put forth as I carried both my children out of their bedroom). Today, he talks nonstop. On my last drive up to Fort Collins, he talked for 45 minutes without pause. Harper, bless her, took a nap. Already, as I wearily answer questions, I am forgetting what a feat it was for Asher to learn a word (and for me to figure out what his word meant. How did "ga ga" come to mean truck?), to link two words together and then to speak in full sentences (now full days!).

There is a mystery to how humans use words, a God-given skill, and a power. Ruling over all the animals, man is given the task of naming the animals at the genesis of the world. "Now the LORD God had formed out of the ground all the beasts of the field and all the birds of the air. He brought them to the man to see what he would name them; and whatever the man called each living creature, that was its name." (Genesis 2:19) Words tame, order, and also call out.

My favorite Greek word is "logos." It's a word with many layers that we translate into English ineptly as "word" and crudely with several words, such as thought, speech, account, meaning, reason, proportion, principle, standard, discourse and logic. Logos is the kind of word that you can only catch the meaning of without the taming and ordering of words (no word for "word"), in a lull of language.

How much logos gained in its language use - established as meaning the fundamental order of the cosmos in Western philosophy by Heraclitus and later, used to mean Christ. My favorite Bible passage, "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it." (John 1:1-5) Here Word is translated from the Greek, logos. I get goosebumps - the intertwining of Christ, God, words, logos, the mystery of God and the trinity, the power of Christ - so represented by the word "logos," in a place that you might get a glimpse of a place without words.

There are times, like Wednesday night, when I want a break from words, when I want to lie in a hammock and swing silently in the lull of language. It is a desire that arose because I am in a relational place between words, between naming, and my minds wants to rush to naming but also fears naming. Michael and I are making moves towards reconciliation. In this nebulous state - separate homes, hearts feeling out if reunion is possible, worthwhile, safe, hearts wishing to be known by another heart that was the best at eliciting wrenching pain - there is no name beyond "reconciling" (making harmonious, making congruous). Between us, we experienced a softening, a willingness to venture towards each other again. This plot of land remains erected as we toss out different scenarios to each other, toss out different words and recognitions of the roads we traveled to get there. While I look forward to what will be built on the plot, desire a name to be there, I fear a name, fear the power of the word - what the possible words will require of me, what power a possible word will have in my world. No doubt, however our new house appears, it will require logos, my love of logos and logos' love.

Milestones

The day after my sister's wedding, Harper hit two milestones. She decided walking was indeed for her, and she stopped nursing. Watching a baby learn to walk is a reminder of what a difficult task this is, and we soon learn not only how to do it without thinking but how to do it backwards, sideways, on hills, over rocky ground, in the dark. Harper is small for her age (just above knee high to me) and resembles a walking doll. She is so pleased with her accomplishment and quite self entertained trying out this new trick around the house, end to end, holding a variety of toys and attempting drinking while standing. My arms are getting some relief as she would rather walk than be held. Asher enjoys the new sport of ten-ways-to-knock-down-Harper-(aka "Not My Sister" and "Can She Leave the Family?")-without-looking-like-I-knocked-her-down. An addict of movement since I was born, I am so proud of Harper and so pleased that she is walking, able to join us for our outside play, hunt for us around the house and even participate in our walks.

Asher weaned himself quite easily. He gave up feedings progressively without complaint and even a what's-the-big-deal-here-anyway? attitude. Harper was another story. The poor girl had to decrease her feedings down to three times a day quite suddenly in January when I went back to work. When she was down to two feedings, as I thought about dropping her after nap feeding, she would see our couch, the usual location of nursing, and go ballistic (screaming, back arching, head thrown back) until I sat down with her. Somehow, down to one feeding, everything worked out as she was distracted by the activity and family in town for my sister's wedding and, loving milk, took a full cup of milk over nursing. Hallelujah! As much as I love nursing - the sweet time with my baby, the attachment we form to each other, the personality revealed, the soothing that helps us survive starting daycare, traveling and plane rides, the amazing capacity of the female body to solely nourish a baby for six months - I have reached a major milestone I want to celebrate. After 3 1/2 years - 42 months and 11 days - of being pregnant or nursing without pause, I am now neither. My body is mine. I can spend the night away from the house and eat or drink whatever I want.

Quite nicely, as I was coming out of this haze and just realizing my freedom (you'd think it would be immediately evident, but being physically attached to a baby became normal), things conspired so that my friend, Amy, and I went for a hike in the Poudre Canyon. Sadly, having lived in Colorado almost three years and loving hiking, this was only my third hike since moving here. Arranging one was near impossible while pregnant and quite difficult with nursing. We drove up the canyon about 1 1/2 hours and hiked just over an hour along the Cache de Poudre River. The weather had been so wet that it almost felt like a hike in the northwest, damp ground, ferns, brilliant red mushrooms. It was beautiful and relaxing and a reminder of other things I can accomplish.

So many things to ponder from the hike - the joy of conversation with a close friend, the splendor of nature, the smell of dirt and decay and growth, a reminder of how people can do things right (not build, save beautiful land), realization again of how much God values beauty that He would even make mushrooms, in oft unseen places, beautiful.

On our way out of the Canyon, Amy said that she had seen people stop at a certain place near the outlet to swim in the river. She asked if I wanted to go. Absolutely. We found the place, pulled over and walked carefully down the small hill. The river was about the width of the road and varying in depths from toe deep to shoulder deep. The water - good, snow water - was quite cold. A family was swimming up river from us, and we could see a short distance down the river. I took off my shirt and waded in in my sports bra and shorts. So cold at first, my feet, then legs, got used to the cold. Amy waded in up to her neck and swam towards where the water went over a foot high waterfall. I plunged under, hyperventilating, and then faced downstream, submerged up to my neck. The river water flowed strong around me, and I felt like part of the river, my cold body numb, my mind relaxed from the hike. I wanted to stay in that spot, relaxing on a deep couch in the earth, part of of something hugely bigger than me that soothed and cooled, lifted me and whispered water secrets.

Other Waters Are Ever Flowing

Last April, unexpectedly, the Presbytery decided to close our home church, a church my family had moved to Colorado to work with. The news was heartbreaking. I remember watching Michael serve communion at one of the last services and starting to weep because he would soon no longer stand before the church in that capacity. In the last service, our pastor cried during one of the hymns and, chin trembling, voice louder than usual with no amplification, he pronounced the benediction. I huddled with the other women after the service, shared hugs, and cried in grief for the loss and in fear of what Michael would do for work. Outside, the mountains were clearly visible through the floor to ceiling windows.

Within about a month, through a long process and many meetings, the Presbytery changed its decision, and the church was to reopen. I was confused by how to feel and act. I did not know how to turn around in the path I was in and enter that door again. How does one relate to something resurrected after one has grieved its death?

I tend to take my time in making decisions, often quietly weighing the possible paths, then making a decision and standing by it, living it. Staunchly. I have difficulty turning around after a decision. I am not one to pine. After Clare left for Iraq and Jaden had settled into a rhythm in our house, Michael questioned whether we adults had made a wise decision. I was furious that he had not brought up his concerns the the decision making and was unable to entertain the questions. It was made. It was done. We had struggled with it, cried, been exhausted, explained to friends and families, and I was moving into living the decision.

At the end of July, Michael withdrew his petition for divorce. I am wondering how to handle this change. For nine months, I struggled to salvage a relationship with Michael with emotional outpourings, admittance of wrongdoing, frightening confrontations, cries for help from friends to no avail. After a final discussion about a divorce and Michael's filing, I stepped onto a path that I knew would bring healing. And it didn't include a spousal relationship with Michael.

One of my favorite passages in the Bible is when Christ brings Lazarus back to life. Christ performs a divine miracle after having wept over Lazarus' death. The Bible says so simply, "Jesus wept." I wondered as I read this passage recently, if I was supposed to perform some sort of divine miracle on my and Michael's relationship. And wondered how in the hell I was going to do that. Dead is dead. I've grieved. I was done. I was way down the path from the pile of divorce dung, the scent barely carried on the wind.

In the last month or so, I have reconnected with some college friends. I talked to one of them, Gillian, this last Tuesday, her in her university office in Melbourne and me feeding Harper dinner in Colorado. I told Gillian that I didn't know how I was going to bring back a relationship with Michael from the dead. She replied that maybe the relationship had to be something new, not a bringing back.

A sigh of relief. A FedEx from God. I am thinking now not about attempting resurrection but about spring, a time of resurrection. As the snow melts, the perennials burst forth through thawing dirt, new growth sprouting from something left over from the last season, through the winter, some root similarity. Bright new leaves appear on the same tree branches over our house. I have been thinking tonight about Prometheus and Heraclitus. Poor Prometheus punished by Zeus to be chained in the Caucasus forever, his liver eaten by an eagle, only to be regrown and the liver torn out endlessly each day until Heracles rescued him. Life is not the same endless pain, a resurrection of what was torn out, killed and digested. For, as Heraclitus wrote, "You could not step twice into the same river; for other waters are ever flowing on to you."

(Footnote: Interestingly, the liver is the only human organ that can regenerate itself to a significant extent, and the Talmud refers to the liver as the seat of anger. How anger likes to regenerate itself. How we might have to tear out our liver repeatedly until Heracles - great strength - rescues us.)

A Lion and a Lamb

This evening, after a full weekend attending and celebrating my sister Clare's wedding, my mom and step dad left our house with my nephew and son to spend the night in Fort Collins and take a trip up the Poudre Canyon to look for some of the 650 moose living there. My mother loves mooses (meese). Tomorrow this foursome will hop on a plane and fly to California for the week. Asher has been away from home and away from each of his parents but never both of us at the same time. My dear boy heard he was going with his Nanna, Poppa and "my cousin" (as he calls his cousin Jaden) tonight, hugged his Nanna, said goodbye to me, "Bye, Mom" and walked happily to the front door. No fear!

My mom often reminds me that when I was three, I told her that I wanted to go on a plane by myself and talk to people. I would love to meet that little girl that I was, to know her confidence and her extroverted personality. Now I see it in my son, tromping out the door with his dear cousin and grandparents.

I have been amazed recently by my son. I remember remarking when Asher was less than a year what a sweet boy he was, and, more recently, what a tough, strong boy he his. Several times a day he pulls out a sword and asks me to sword fight. "Ving!" he says as he swings at me. Several times since Harper was born, Asher will approach her while she is crying and hug her, tell her everything is okay, and try to soothe his baby sister. Several times a day he asks me to play Army men, lining up the little green figures and shooting at each other, at cars, at a rhinoceros, lion, monkey and tank. Several times a week, Asher will turn to me and give me a hug, say, "I wuv you, Mom," or grab my hand as we are walking together. A couple times he said, "I wuv holding your hand." Several times a day he asks to play bad men, fighting and wrestling with each other. Every nap and bed time, Asher asks me to, "say pays" and sing "his song and Gesus love me" surrounded by all thirty of his Cars movie car toys and a fresh sippy cup of water. Several times a week, he asks to go on walks, to go exploring, to climb random stairs and steep driveways. Several times a week, Asher pulls out a set of small stuffed bears and their beds and tucks them under a blanket to go night night. Every morning, Harper and Asher wake up with the sun and, when I go in to get them, I find them playing peek-a-boo with the curtains. I am amazed by the fierceness and tenderness in my son, by his natural desire to be a warrior and explorer and by his natural desire to be a lover, nurturer and protector.

I grew up with two sisters, my mother and an often mentally absent alcoholic father. I had boys, young men and men who were friends and family. I had close boyfriends. I lived for seven years on the campus of an all boys Catholic school. But I rarely had the opportunity to see a boy or man who I knew well in all his facets, day in and day out. Even in my thirteen year relationship with my husband, I never clearly saw the dueling or twin natures of a man. Watching my son, I am just starting to feel these two natures and to appreciate them. I wonder at how a boy and young man learns to be both of these parts, what a young or grown man does when he feels fierce or feels tender, feels the pressure to be fierce when he wants to be tender or to be tender when he wants to be fierce, how parents can best help a boy sword fight and wrestle, play a fierce tiger and also feel deep, tender emotion.

I desire for my children the opportunity to be and be comfortable in being fully themselves. I desire for Asher that he understand how and when to be fierce, how and when to be tender and how to be himself in those situations where he feels both at the same time. May he be a lion and a lamb and may he learn how to lie down with both.

The Meaning of a Song

I am quite sure that I drive myself a little crazy with a constant search for the meaning of things. I am convinced both that we often miss the meaning of some things but also that some of us might give too much meaning to other things. There is both a lack of appreciation of the mystical in our culture and a misapplication of meaningfulness.

This struggle developed partly out of my intuition, a wonderful gift and a scary gift. I often know what people are going to say before they say it, know that something will happen before it does, know that there will be an opportunity for me to act, know what someone is feeling without a word about it. But such understanding is hard to trust - where does it come from? Is it real? How much of this am I making up? Why didn't I trust my instinct? And my logical part quips, you're crazy! Life is more logical than that. And it is scared when I trust my intuition and watch what I knew to be true unfold.

Some of this comes to me because of my relationship to books. I remember a wonderful revelation about ten years ago, a relief that there is no time limit on how much time I have to read all the books in the world (why this would be anyone's goal, is beyond me, but I felt the need to explore them all as I looked around at the shelves of books at Kepler's Bookstore in Palo Alto when I was in ninth grade) because I will always be able to read books. When I am feeling down and defreated, lost and unfriended, my heart takes me to my bookshelf, where I read the titles, brush the books, take one out and read a few pages. It's like having a summer evening conversation with wine and a close friend. I imagine being able to swim in books, surrounded by words and words and all these friends. Books are trusted friends, and in fictional literature, so much of what is written, so much of what these friends say, is symbolic. There is foreshadowing, meaning beyond what is written, meaning in how an inanimate object appears. And so I try to draw these things in life, seeing may things as dripping with meaning. But is it?

I found two more dead birds in my yard. They looked to have been dead for quite some time - dried out, grey, barely recognizable. I wrote in my last post that if I found more dead animals on my homestead, that I'd be worried. I was worried. When Poe wrote, black birds were a foreshadow of death. What about dead animals? I wondered if I really should be worried. When is a dead animal, just a dead animal? When is a dead bird, just the victory of a quick cat?

The second week of July, I got to spend a week in Panama City Beach, Florida, staying across the street from the Gulf of Mexico with my kids, with a youth friend, Hannah, to help with the kids, and with a slew of old friends we met in seminary. Many of them met Asher when he was first born and were seeing him for the first time in almost three years. It was a reunion and a time to relax and enjoy the sacredness of water and gathering of friends.

I experienced a great healing during the week. It feels a little crude to say, but in some ways, I developed a patronus to cast before dementors. The Fray has a song called, "How to Save a Life." The rumor is that this song was written about a young man who was a resident at Shelterwood, a residential treatment center where Michael used to work. When it first came out, this was a fun connection. At the beginning of this year, the song brought up painful memories of Shelterwood, a home to some of the trials I faced. It was absolutely perverse how many times I heard the song in preceding months - in the radio on the car, in my house on satellite radio, on the radio in my therapists office on my first visit (what are the odds?!), in a store. The song constantly pestered me. And I would cry, either from the reminder of deep pain or from frustration that the horrible song was playing again!

What, I wondered, was the meaning of this? Why did I have to hear this song all the time? What was God telling me? Or was it the devil tempting me?

I was in Panama City Beach to help with a youth conference. At the last worship service, the second of nine that I was able to attend because of my kids' sleep schedules, the conference band played a hilarious spoof on the song called, "How to Say Goodbye," razzing the high schoolers about saying goodbye to a sweet summer love they met at the conference. One of lines was, "I could have prayed with you all night." I was rolling. I was laughing at a song that had caused me pain.

I am sitting in my office today, radio on for company. "How to Save a Life" came on the radio (yet again - gritting teeth), and I laugh remembering the beach, my friends, a room full of 600 high schoolers laughing at a "How to Say Goodbye," giving a standing ovation to the band. I have a patronus to cast, a protection. It is only a song, and it is a mysterious part of this chapter. Life is life, and life is dripping with meaning.