A long goodbye, a fond farewell

I had to go to the Chandler Downtown Library to settle a debt my children and I had accrued over several months, perhaps years.

While paying the fines I told the gentleman behind the information counter how I had routinely brought my four kids there since my teenagers were little tykes - for story time and to stock up on books and movies every summer. His sympathetic smile and kind words indicated his understanding of my gratitude for that institution's role in my family's well-being for so many years.

"I'm old-fashioned," I declared. "I still prefer books and newspapers to all this computer stuff." I indicated all the technology usurping more and more floor space.

I was not to visit that library again. We were moving far from the realm of that colossal building with its broad windows letting in a refined degree of intense desert light; tree-lined courtyard with avenues created by concrete benches where you could sit a spell and peruse newly acquired tales; and friendly saguaros and lantanas edging the sidewalk.

Thus began my goodbye tour.

To mail a last package from my Arizona address I went to the downtown post office next, a place from which I had shipped all my Christmas packages, being at once cheap and traditional. To the gentleman there behind the counter, I exclaimed, "I still believe in the US postal office!"

"Well, that's one person!" he joked.

Au revoir to a perfectly plain and comfortable United States Postal Service building where I saw great diversity in my fellow citizens.

On Pentecost I helped out with our parish celebration, and fellow parishioners and volunteers continually came up to our family, wishing us well, expressing surprise that we were moving and that they would miss our presence. Some got emotional and so did I. It was a difficult parting; we had raised our family in the faith at Holy Spirit Parish, where three of our four were baptized, for 15 years. People had often come up to us after mass to assert just how much our kids had grown from the babes in arms who joined God's family years before.

Later that day my Moms' Group, begun with strangers who fast became dear friends, had a party. My artistic friend Holly,with whom I visited the UK in April 2015, generously hosted. Driving to her beautiful  home, I was feeling sad and wistful, most afraid of this good-bye. For within this group were the ladies who helped me raise my children during easy and trying times, who helped me fix myself when I was feeling lost, overwhelmed, uninspired, inept, besieged, or just plain tired and old. And their children have been for some time friends so invaluable to my own kids that they are family, cousins or siblings of the honorary kind, the bond growing stronger each year as they've passed through the stages of development from toddler to teenager - even as families became busier and some moved far away; moms went back to work; and those remaining stopped seeing each other as often for birthdays and holidays.

But we managed our farewell during this final gathering, said "until we meet again", and I cried only when the moms presented me with gifts I did not expect: a beautiful memory book of our families' time together, charming dangling earrings just my style, and a necklace meant to symbolize the unbroken chain of friendship.

There were more final face to face conversations with friends, one final park play date for my kids with friends who helped them get through their first and final year at a new school. At a bowling party I broke down as I looked into the face of a very dear comrade in the trenches of motherhood and then quickly and tightly embraced her. At a simple yet truly satisfying gathering of relatively new family friends at their home abutting coyote inhabited desert, I broke down for quite different reasons and found comfort in the husband's and wife's extraordinary empathy, reluctant to have to remove myself from such easy reach of it in the very near future. And I had to witness the last meeting of my son and his best friend from the Moms" Group (they've known each other since they were potty training), for I was the bad guy come to pick Berto up.

On the morning we left our little home in Arizona, I was at first more stoic than I had anticipated, perhaps too weary from cleaning and sorting and looking for little forgotten things and too many goodbyes, poignant or perfunctory, to cry that much. But then I choked up while walking a last short time in that little empty house that had sheltered all of our children during their babyhood. I went then to say goodbye to my Eucalyptus trees, two giants in the front, westward-facing yard that had sheltered us as best they could from the staggering Phoenix heat and who had provided me with the exotic green wreaths tinged with a hint of purple with which I adorned my door each autumn and winter. And I broke down as I hugged them (yes, hugged them). I prayed that whoever came after us would appreciate those lovely monoliths and never, ever think of cutting them down merely because they shed too much bark in a monsoon storm.

Nothing dries tears like adventure, however. I closed my car door with a damp face but by the time I opened it again at a gas station in Flagstaff, I was feeling the exhilaration of being on the road, driving the highway myself, and heading to a new home for my family.

Arizona holds many friends and memories and a permanent place in my mind and heart, but New Mexico is just next door and, after all, it too is an enchanting part of the great American Southwest.

With A Little Help From Our Friends

My dad wrote me a message on Facebook telling me to post something on my blog. I know he meant it, too, because he called me Hillary instead of Hoodoo.

Sorry I've taken a hiatus. Truthfully, I haven't been on email, Facebook or my blog hardly at all in the past few weeks, and it's been great. Really great - and very easy, because I don't have a smartphone. Instead, I have been cleaning and organizing my home, reading a book and the newspaper, and playing several mini-pool, Uno, and Doodle Dice tournaments with my kids, particularly my youngest boy, my Dan Sam. It has truly been peaceful and enjoyable. I have always been a lover of home, a bonafide homebody, and to me that means staying out of the virtual world, too.

But it's time to come back, so here you go, Dad.

Picture by Holly

Going on a nearly six-mile-loop hike in the Superstition Mountains with close friends is one of the most amazing things I have ever done to begin the Christmas season. May it become a tradition!

(Though I had several pics to share with you, I had to steal the above from my friend's Facebook, because I lost our camera. No surprise there, but it kept me from posting about our adventure for a while.)

Holly and Chip, our best hiking buddies, invited us on the excursion. The way to the trail was a long way off the highway, and as our car rocked and heaved over the rutted, winding, narrow dirt road, I gaily said to my husband, "Think of all the adventures you'd never have if it were up to you!"

Our friends had said they didn't think there was any off-roading involved, nothing like that terrible drive to the creek that one time. When we finally reached the trailhead, they got out of their car laughing, saying Matthew would never, ever come on a hike with them again after another awful drive. But I think it's a bit like labor. Once you get to the beautiful destination, you quickly forget the travails that came before.

I stand before Weaver's Needle. Pic by Holly

Matthew, athletic though he is, is not a born hiker, but when we were in those mountains with our kids and Yorkie and with Holly and Chip's family, including their Pug, he was glad to be there; that is always true. As we gained elevation, passing by red rocks, wild trees, a tiny stream, sporadic saguaros and towering, spindly stalks sprung from American aloe plants, we did all wonder now and again when we might reach our destination, a landmark called Weaver's Needle. Since none of us could fly as the bird goes, we had to be content to wend along Peralta Trail until we rounded a rock behemoth and suddenly spied our goal. There we had lunch by some huge boulders, from which vantage point we could see the Needle against the bright, open Arizona sky. A lone pine tree stood on the heights to its right, our Christmas tree for a Christmas hike.

Later we scrambled up the boulders in whose shadows we had shivered and munched, inching through a miniature slot canyon and then scaling rocks for a view. The rocks were so strangely cold to the touch, they hurt our hands if we lingered for more than a moment against their surface.

After lunch and some more exploring with friends and dogs, it was time to tread back down, but the return is always easier and shorter when the longed-for panorama has been viewed. At the end of our hike, we enjoyed some chocolate-dipped peppermint shortbread, and I hoped with all my heart then and there that we would eat similar Christmas victuals with our friends at the foot of another beautiful Arizona mountain Christmas Eve 2015.

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I can hardly believe our luck, but New Year's found us again in the company of dear friends, sledding down some hills near Prescott.

That had not been our plan. Our plans were to clean and paint our house on the first day of the new year, prepping our home for our annual Three Kings' Day party. Thankfully, Alex and Dana rescued us from a busy but boring day by inviting our family to go sledding with theirs.

Matthew said no at first...until I got to him.

The kids really wanted to go sledding in Flagstaff, and I had told them that they should all come together and ask Papa for that Christmas gift. There had been no snow at the time of the kids' request, not even in Flagstaff, but 2014 had cried its goodbyes on a frigid wind, dumping snow and rain on the new year as it departed. This invitation was the perfect way to fulfill our kids' wish. It would be even easier to grant since their Grandpa had bought them sturdy inner tubes years before, and a friend had left us her long sled when her family moved.

And so on the first day of a fresh year, I stood in my pajamas, wet from scrubbing showers, and pleaded with my man to consider an abrupt change of plans that would give our kids their gift and lasting memories of this New Year's; after all, it would be Daniel's and Gabriella's first time sledding. He stared back at me in disbelief. This woman with the limp hair, the one who always went insane before parties while trying to get the house and food prepared, was asking him to abandon the practical work she had asked him to do in order to blow a whole day on fun, and fun that would require a long drive north, too. I saw irritation etched on those handsome features, but I also saw a hint of understanding. I hastily forsook my cleaners and sponges and threw myself into the hall closet, dragging out every forgotten mitten, thermal cap, glove and heavy winter coat.

And that was how, after some near heart attacks while trying to park in a small area with a hundred other cars off a country road, we ended up in the snow watching our kids play with their buddies, yelling advice at them to keep their bottoms up in the inner tubes to avoid the rocks and then applauding and laughing with each successful run or not-too-painful turnout into the snow. The day wouldn't have been complete if the adults had not had their turn. I'm afraid we did some damage to the sleds, but we zipped and spun and yelped and laughed with the most childlike child there.

When at last our Phoenix toes and fingers complained of alarming numbness, we drove into town to eat a hearty celebratory meal at Prescott Brewery. On our walk back to the car in the nasty chill, prancing like ponies at stoplights to keep warm, we saw the territorial Courthouse and the many trees on its square ablaze with thousands of colorful lights.

2015 began in that unexpected, joyous way.

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Three Kings' Day, aka Epiphany, being my favorite feast - a celebration of the revelation of the promise of Christ to the Gentiles - we threw a party. I lined up my Three Kings nutcrackers and nativities on our table, and around them I placed dried fruit, pita with hummus and yeast breads that I make once a year: Apple-Cheddar Vanocka with saffron threads and a Cardamom Christmas wreath. I also piled the tablecloth with pound cake, gingerbread camels, raspberry coffee cake and cinnamon scones as it was - no surprise to those who know my love of baking - a dessert party. I love pampering people with food on special occasions; it has something to do with growing up in the South and with my own Mama's generous kitchen offerings.

For Catholics the Christmas season lasts for a few weeks beginning with Christmas Eve, so the house was still decorated in all our Christmas finery, including several handmade decorations from the children, when many of our dear friends came for the celebration on January 4th.

I had warned everyone we would sing carols, and so after time to relish the goodies that were hauled in on platters by every arriving family, I pulled out my burgundy guitar and gathered the kids around - more specifically, the girls, because the boys were outside wrestling each other in football and making Taz, our Yorkie, jump for his Santa toys and had zero desire to sing. The carol book was propped upon my lap, but I lost some chords and pitched some notes. Yet, my friends did not abandon this amateur musician as they sat on the couch or floor by their daughters. We gloried through Angels We Have Heard on High, belted out Feliz Navidad and ha-had our way through Jingle Bells. Holly helped me with We Three Kings, and we all merrily sang Joy to the World in the tempo my dad always preferred. Then my man Matthew, good man that he is, marched all those rowdy boys inside. I assigned one day each from The Twelve Days of Christmas to groups of kids crowded about our small living room, and Geraldine, Holly and Dana all helped by taking days themselves. We got mixed up several times, and I twanged my strings and butchered some chords again in my exuberance, but we were united in our silliness. The adults on the outside of the circle laughed as we counted off our list of oh-so-useful gifts from our true love. After the finale I rewarded the kids for their lively participation with English-style crackers, a Three Kings' party tradition.

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Later that week as I strummed my guitar, reminisced and dreamed of next Epiphany, it occurred to me yet again just how beautifully, like long strands of bright bulbs on an evergreen tree, our whole Christmas season had been illuminated by the myriad gifts of friendship. We did indeed have a very Merry Christmas with (much more than) a little help from our friends.

October

Autumn is the favorite season of most. And, ironically, it's not because some of us find it perfectly acceptable to plaster bloody handprints, the shadow of knife-wielding maniacs and emblazon a dripping plea of Help me! in red paint on our windows as Halloween "décor". It's certainly not because our neighbors can trick-or-treat us for a whole month with the most grotesque, gaudy decorations on their lawns, trees and walkways.

It's most people's favorite time of year for far subtler reasons: the cool, crisp weather, the changing leaves, the many harvest festivals and the joy of consuming heartier meals. Halloween is a small part of it, a really fun part as long as it entails black cats, wide-eyed owls, jack-o-lanterns, family costume parties, some self-regulated ghouls and a sprinkling of grinning skeletons. In the Southwest we also get the much more culturally interesting and wonderfully artistic Dia De Los Muertos.

Here in Phoenix we have reason to celebrate when we get that first whiff of fall weather. It usually comes in early October on some delightful breezes, though the native tapestry does not change in any perceptible way. But we hear the whispers of exotic, colorful, cooler climes on that welcome wind. Those breezes quickly shimmy somewhere else, spooked by goblin summer as it comes back to tease us in the middle of the month, stamping our dreams into dust and sending a few of us to therapy...or the northern mountains. But - at last! - by late Halloween we actually stand the chance of being chilly in our sandals and Bermuda shorts.

Except for this Halloween. It's in the 90s right now.

Despite some anger issues tied completely to summer's leftover temps, I love fall in Phoenix. I love it because of our dear friends. These selfless people spread Autumn joy around by hosting parties and entertaining our children, so that Matthew and I can actually talk to adults without that truly terrifying manifestation of the spinning head that parents in large families so often acquire when taking their brood out to crowded places.

Every year my friend Kim hosts a Halloween party, and whole families dress up. Her house is decorated to the ghoulish nines, and we walk in and gasp anew at her knack for weaving the perfect ambience. I could not attempt to describe her decorations, many of which she designed herself. She even has a marvelous painting of a haunted house lit by an eerie moon in her kitchen. Everywhere you turn you find yourself in a Halloween wonderland. It's her favorite holiday, and it shows in the eyes of all the cats, owls, scarecrows and skeletons peering at you from shelves, walls, hutches and tables.

Our children will someday reminisce about attending Mrs. Kim's parties - how she had the best piñatas that wouldn't break until the big kids had their turn; how there was wicked food including deviled eggs with olive spiders, donuts with vampire teeth, and jack o' lanterns throwing up guacamole; how every year as a party game they got to toilet paper their friends instead of neighbors' houses; and what they and their friends wore to the Halloween party. It's all dark, good magic, and someday they'll realize how lucky they were to experience it. Heck, I'm lucky to be included! I get excited every year and cannot wait to find my costume. It's the only time I get to play pretend.

A week later our family's trick-or-treat fortune increases, for tonight another good friend, Dana, will have the gang over to her house for trick-or-treating, and we'll all party and feast again. Her neighborhood is one of those rare conclaves where everyone decorates their house. They don't just decorate, in fact; they make the whole block scream Halloween with elaborate facades! Our massive group will head out to be spooked and wowed again as we wind our way through the candy-seeking crowd along ghoul-infested streets. I'll snag every chocolate treat I spy in my kids' bag, and they will ask to eat a piece every couple houses. The adults will have beer, talk and laugh again, and the young ones will have far too much sugar and terrorize each other, and it will be a very merry Halloween.

And it's all because of friendship. Our dear friends open their houses to us for celebration. I couldn't thank them enough for all the memories they've given my children. That's what now makes this season so wonderful to me.

A Lady in France

Every great story is a love story.

And every story of conversion is the greatest love story of all.

Today I was talking to one of my dearest friends, Camille, and during the course of our conversation about life, faith, work and family, I found myself alluding to various things I had read in Jennie Goutet's memoir, A Lady in France.

Have you ever read a book and thought, Oh! So-and-so would just love this story! Once finished with a tale, the urge to share it with friends or loved ones or pure strangers is an obvious sign of its value to inspire or entertain. That's why I have a Kelven's Riddle page on this blog, even though the latest book broke my heart (and I relished it). That's why my friend Holly and I bond over Jane Austen novels and Downton Abbey episodes. That's why I've passed Dad's books on to friends and why I told Camille today I would be sending her A Lady in France.

When I think of Jennie Goutet's story, I think of a prayer that I have been praying lately, trying to build trust and courage, Cast me to the wind, Lord Jesus. Of course, I then immediately add, But keep me in the palm of your hand!

I believe Jesus is able to do these seemingly contradictory things, and Jennie's story feels like proof. If anyone has said yes to being cast on the wind, it is she! Yet, if anyone has found herself being sheltered and pulled by God while in strange places and unusual circumstances, it is also Jennie.

I recently commented on her blog, on one of her Monday faith posts which I love, that I have to struggle daily to some degree with my personal fears. In her reply she confessed that she is also a fearful person. You would not know it to read of the many adventures she embarked upon before settling with her growing family in France. The woman said yes to studying abroad in France during college. She said yes to teaching in Taiwan - twice - immediately after graduation. She said yes to ministry in Africa just a few months into marriage with her wonderful French husband.

Of course, willingness to be cast to the wind doesn't consist in being fearless but in being courageous despite fear. Because Jennie said yes to all these challenging and sometimes frightening opportunities and experiences, she is able to take us with her on an exotic journey in her memoir, and she has the great privilege of sharing the compelling stories of those with whom she built community for a time. We connect with these people through her eyes.

We're righteously angry with her first French boyfriend, sometimes appalled by his words and actions and her desire to stick by him. We're surprised by the generosity of her good friends as they all pitch in to pay for her wedding dress when she finally finds a good man who was, as she put it, "not her type". We admire her husband Matthieu, once an atheist, as he walks seven times around Lower Manhattan and prays for a job in fearless imitation of Joshua's march around the walls of Jericho. We mourn for her brother Mark, shocked and deeply saddened by his choice, and ache for Jennie as she recovers from a serious car accident and from her emotionally and physically devastating miscarriage. We love the babies Khadra and Moguay, orphans in Somaliland, whom Jennie tries to nourish back to health. We are inspired by the difficult but blessed work of her friends Malinda, Hannah and Edna for the poor in Africa.

Often people talk about whether a piece of writing is honest - brutally honest - as a way to gage the depth of the piece. Heck, we even recognize it as a way to rate humor. And, of course, we are absolutely right to do so. Only when a writer is heart-rendingly honest can readers say, I've been there!, or I thought I was the only one who felt like that!, or Oh my gosh, I can't believe she is telling me this! Wow...

And, after all, what is a memoir for if not to lay your heart bare to your readers, if not to share the saddest, most desperate periods of your life and the grandest, most joyful triumphs? Jennie does this with humor and humility and with superb storytelling. I knew Jennie could write from reading her blog, but I was astounded by the elegance of her writing in this book, and, I'll confess, at times I was amazed by what she revealed. Things that she had hinted at in pieces on her blog are absolutely exposed here, and we appreciate being admitted to her world even if it makes us cringe, weep, almost faint or want to yell, "Stop wasting your time on that man!"

What do I love most about this book? It is a story of conversion, of spiritual awakening. I eat up faith stories, and the best ones are often told by those who tried very hard to eschew God for some time. In the end they are the best witnesses, I believe. He calls and keeps dialing no matter how many times they hang up, but what happens when they finally answer, like St. Augustine or C.S. Lewis, is always extraordinary and encouraging, miraculous. Jennie found God in an appreciation of Scripture, and though the words "the Living Word" may seem foolish to those who do not have such an appreciation, Jennie illustrates just how God's Word speaks to us throughout the ever-changing circumstances of our lives as she opens each chapter with a beautiful verse that shines light on her personal revelations.

So how does Jennie go from a little girl who feels God's presence and invites Jesus to lay down on her pillow beside her to a young woman who can't bear the idea of religion to a wife and mother who, once settled in France (the place she felt she was destined to be), hosts weekly Bible studies and monthly home church? Well, you must read A Lady in France to find out, and I hope you will be inspired and amazed by Jennie's story - just as I was.

Be Love - guest post by Laney Smith

This is quite beautiful, and a wonderful post with which to begin November, that month of Thanksgiving.

It gives me great pleasure to introduce Laney.


I remember Papa telling stories about the "forgotten ones" overseas. Children with cleft pallets, mental handicaps and deformities dropped at the orphanage door step or left in trash bins. It was as if someone had told the parents that they should be disgusted and ashamed at the sight of such a child. Papa had come the winter prior, traveling all over Kyrgyzstan to sing and play his guitar. He would tell me stories of his fingers nearly freezing off and how funny it was when someone would ask for his autograph. But what he mentioned most were stories of the children that he had to leave behind in the places that they didn't deserve to be.

Growing up in church I got used to hearing missionaries speak of poverty, starvation, and the "less fortunate". I saw commercials begging for donations contributing to the child with the swollen stomach and flies on his face. The phrase "there are starving children in Africa," was common among the parents attempting to creativly get their stubborn kid to eat his green beans. In my mind this was a problem that I couldn't fix in a sad movie that I could turn off and forget about. Their reality and mine had never touched.

I've always had an unquenchable thirst to keep moving. It seems like Papa and I share this desire to see everything there is to see; to understand how others live. When I was younger, friends of ours decided to move overseas as missionaries. Somehow, I came to the conclusion that traveling halfway across the world was the next logical step in my life. Even though I was just 14 at the time, It really didn't take that long for my parents to agree because they saw my passion and understood.

The unsightly two story building should have been condemned with its rooms smelling of urine and roaches scattering up the rotting walls. The blank response of the children upon my arrival seemed to say they didn't understand my look of shock at the sight of them playing on the dirt floor. Were all orphanages like this? Two or three hand me raggedy toys for each room, overcrowded and undermanaged. It was hard to find anyone that looked after the children, because there weren't many.

The moment I stepped through the door, I had touched my new reality. It was almost as if all the commercials and stories I had heard in the past hit me at once, and the sorrow I felt was more than I ever had. After that day I couldn't stop coming back. I began to visit the orphanage often, and dread the day I would have to leave. I played with the most wonderful children I think I will ever meet; showing love and affection they rarely received, singing songs in a language I didn't understand.

Early on at the orphanage, I met a six-year-old girl named Vica, who became my best friend. She gave me the name "Solnyshka" because she said "I make the room sunny". Almost every morning for four months she would go with me to pick flowers by the road while we learned a little of each other's languages. Even with the language barrier, we connected in a way that seemed as though we filled a void in each other's lives - her desire to be cared about, my desire to care for someone.

In the summer the family and others I stayed with coached baseball for the kids at the orphanage and the villages surrounding. Vica was too young to play baseball, but as I would coach with much animation, I would often look over at the sidelines to see her with a smile on her face, mimicking all the movements I made.

I will never forget the day before I left when I took Vica out for a walk. As I tried to explain my departure in broken Russian, she only understood that I was abandoning her and that she would probably never see me again. A friend of mine stepped in to let her know that I cared about her and loved her very much. He told her that I wasn't allowed to stay any longer, but I wanted to. Having all that said, the goodbye was just as hard, but she understood and gave me the last hug while thanking me for being her new big sister.

When I left she told me to write, so I did, but she never responded. I pray that she was adopted, because it scares me to think of anything else for her, the six-year-old girl who taught me so much about myself and my life. She showed me that it didn't matter that I was young, inexperienced, and that I had a serious language barrier. I could show love, and be love to someone who so desperately needed it. To me that is the most beautiful thing, to be love in someone's reality.

Beat the Blues, Not Yourself

I've been beating myself about the mental bush for the whole week thus far. The same old, same old feeling that I'll never be successful, that I've made so many mistakes in my journey as a writer, that perhaps I'm one of those individuals with some talent who is doomed to fail, because we don't understand a secret ingredient that others grasp so completely in the quest for creative fulfillment.

Or perhaps just most people hate us. Guess I should go eat worms.

When you are hurling negative comments at yourself, cutting down hope with a wicked little hatchet, it's hard to be positive toward others. I apologized again to my husband this morning and asked, as he smiled knowingly back at me, if he thought I would be apologizing again tomorrow.

"Yes."

He's probably right. I hope for better. See? I'm improving; I'm hoping.

Funny thing is that the deeper you sink into your hole of dissatisfaction, the harder it is to pray for deliverance. And I don't mean crying to God, Please make me a professional writer! Please help me to understand what I lack. Please make other people help me somehow.

I mean the kind of prayer that my friend Dana prays with her family, that I found so inspiring when she confided it to me:

Father, thank you for all you've given us....for our health and happiness and our home. Please just keep doing what you're doing.

So I prayed it this morning, a variation.

Please help me to appreciate all that I have - our beautiful children, our home, all our food and especially our health...even our dog, Father.

Throw in a pickup truck, and it could be a country song.

It's about the joy that you embrace when you're down, a clarity of vision and patience, too. This morning at school, my nine-year-old Ana was hugging me at school and pointed to the sky.

"Look, it's a dragon fly, Mama."

I gazed up to see it.

"No, it's a hummingbird," I said with wonder, and we watched it high in the blue, higher than I thought it would go. I felt the gift of it's beauty after these days of selfish absorption.

Then I went to take my big, almost 11-year-old boy his lunch, and he met me by the basketball court.

"Give me a hug and a kiss," I said jokingly.

He looked around sheepishly from beneath his mop of hair, and then consented to give me a hug and a big smile to go with it.

And when I came home, I found an email from a dear, longtime friend who I had not heard from in so very long, and the email read like poetry to me.

So I see again today, God has been very good to me. I just hope I can remember it tomorrow.

Ignacia's Kitchen: Homemade Pizza…or should I say artisan pizza or a fancy named rustic pizza?

I love cooking but there are only two dishes where I like my version more than anyone else’s. Sounds egocentric, but I think it is not a big enough “portfolio” for a career as a chef.

I am happy my friend Hillary is having me as a guest again, so if you like my simple pizza, I would love for you to post the link and share…so she invites me again J.

Anyway, all of that to say that this is one of those two recipes:

Quantities for one round 13 inches or 12x10 inches pizza

·        Mix ¾ cup lukewarm water with

·        3 Tb olive oil

·        1 tsp salt

·        Right after mixing (before the water and oil separate)

·        Add 2 cups flour

·        Mix and knead for a couple of minutes

·        Add more water or flour to get a soft dough

·        Roll dough into desired shape

·        Pinch with a fork

·        Bake it at 400F until golden, for about 10 minutes

Meanwhile, grab you favorites toppings…or the one you actually have…tomato sauce and cheese are highly recommended but actually you do not need them.

·        When the dough is ready, add the toppings and bake for about 7 minutes

Sit, eat and enjoy!

YUM! Cheesy goodness

 

Tips:

·        Add more I like to mix extra ingredients for the kids to play and make fun shapes, then we bake it with the rest of the dough.

·        Add about ½ teaspoon of  dry seasoning to the water, oregano, basil, etc.

·        Use parchment paper if you do not feel like scraping the countertop and do not have a fancy knelling thingy

·        Bake the dough longer if you like the dough crunchier or less if you prefer it softer


My dear friend Ignacia is likely moving back to Chile soon. I am bummed, but I am also happy for her family, that they get to return to their home and family. Their friends in the US will miss them badly, but it is times such as these when you truly thank God for the Internet in all its modern wonder. It is so much easier to keep in touch across continents, and I trust that we will. I hope that we will - always.

As well as some wonderful memories and a scarlet rose plant, she has given me (and you) some excellent, not-too-complicated recipes. She is always generous like that. :-) May her family always be blessed!

 

A letter to you, "post"marked today

I have written so many thank you notes this past month, letters on cards or decorative paper. It has been an important part of my healing process. If you can't escape your emotions, shower them on other people, I say! Of course, if I could I would line everyone up in a room, friend, family, stranger, and pass down the line shaking hands, embracing, clapping people on the back and handing them chocolate pumpkins or turkeys (I don't believe in hearts) for their extreme kindness after the automobile accident. Thank you notes are the next best thing, certainly, and last somewhat longer than candy.

During my convalescence I have also been reading a book my friend Holly gave me for a b-day gift, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. It is a charming and thought-provoking book full of fictional letters between characters whose lives were altered by the circumstances of WWII. If you are feeling slightly ill-used by life, it will remind you of the horror that others have had to muster through. It will also make you laugh. Inspired as I am by it, I'm writing you a digital letter in this strange new era when the USPS is going bankrupt. Humor me in honor of a bygone era of more meaningful communication.

NPPKS Reader
WWW Street
Anywhere in the world (though most likely in the US, Russia, UK or Ukraine)

Dear Kind Reader,

I am finally stabilizing emotionally. Whew! When I came home from the hospital and was blindsided by my emotions, I wondered why I felt so turbulent when other people go through much worse. Now, however, as I knock on wood to remain steady, I reflect that a month is not so long to be emotionally out of whack after a traumatic event - not that I wish to go back to those strange feelings! I have spoken to people lately about everything and have not broken down in sobs. My friends have said I seem my old self, and I feel it. You can't imagine how relieved I am! I couldn't see the end of that tunnel, what with my eyes being all swollen from weeping.

Nevertheless, I am sadder now. I find it hard to contend with the fact that I was involved in an accident where someone died. I wanted that man to have a wake-up call, a second chance. I think everyone has wondered at those emotions. The man made his decision and could have hurt my children when he ran that red light on a suspended license. I am supremely thankful I hesitated on the green so that he hit just where he did. I'm also grateful that I forgave him quickly in the hospital before I knew he had died. It gave me peace. A friend told me not to be surprised if the anger comes later, but I sincerely hope it doesn't. Heaven knows I don't need the force of anger behind my confusion, sadness and new fears.

And guilt.

I have some guilt that I didn't do more for my children in those first several minutes after the collision, guilt that I didn't try to reach them despite my collapsed lung and broken ribs.That is what my recent nightmares are about, though thankfully I haven't had one in a few nights. In them I fail my youngest children in some serious way. That's why they terrify me. When the collision happened I was stunned and in pain, and I could hear Danny and Ella, hear what was behind their strong cries (or so I comfort myself). If they had been silent, I would have forced that lung to expand and called for them to tell me they were okay. Instead, they were calling for me to tell them that I was, and I tried to tell them...

The what-ifs are like a handicap in my driving now. I see a big truck, and I think, What if that had hit us? It wouldn't have been just me. I've had people tell me, "The What-ifs didn't happen. Let it go. Don't even think about it." But I think the real danger of what-ifs isn't, What if that had happened? but, What if that does happen? That is why you can't entertain them. The world has to be faced and bravely, with faith.

At any rate, the lack of anger or resentment - toward man or God - has been one blessing. I don't ask why it happened. Stuff happens; time and chance find us. I felt I lived a sort of charmed life before this, but I also felt my metal had never been tested - that I had not been challenged as others have been. As strange as it may sound, I felt my time had come for a little misery. I will be more empathetic now and stronger, I hope. And good will come from this. Many have told me this, and I believe it. God and I will work together to bring the good.

Danny and Ella do talk about the crash, about safety glass, about red lights, but I think I should stop talking about it in front of them. Danny thinks a "soccer ball" hit mama. Matthew tried to tell him differently at first, but I want to let him think that. If I keep going over it with other people he'll catch on, and I don't want him to be afraid in the car. They have both done so well processing it, and it's really in large part due to the firemen, their papa, and our friends. I'll tell you more about the amazing kindness of our friends another time.

I'm back to feeling more like a writer. Discouragement is the death of all ambition, so I hope it doesn't find me again anytime soon.

I hope all is well with you. Don't forget to write back soon! Thank you for letting me get this out.

In friendship,

Hillary


PS  Danny will not allow me to drive with the windows down in the van. Maybe it's because Papa told him about safety glass after the accident, or maybe it's because after the collision his window and my own were gone.

A Friendly Answer

God hears prayers. I was reminded of that.

He may not always answer. As I told friends recently after seeing the movie Contagion, I feel sometimes as if I'm pounding on a cold stone door three feet thick, that the mail's not running, no messages are getting through, and the gate is barred behind me as I leave the grounds dejectedly....but he hears. I've had answers given before, one of them hand-delivered with a crystal-clear rebuke. So I leave my request parceled on the doorstep, tape a sign to the door, come back and rattle the doorknob occasionally, call out a resounding Hello! that echoes back to me in a thousand different tones of perplexity, frustration, reverence and inquiry. Then I shuffle down the path to keep my neglected patience company, peering over my shoulder in hopes of catching a glimpse of God.

My dear friend Camille's move to a different state last week reminded me of answers given. In saying goodbyes, her husband mentioned how fortunate it was that we had all met in the social hall of our church one Sunday seven years ago.

"I was praying very hard for friends then," I replied passionately.

That is absolutely true, though perhaps pathetic. When I met Camille, I had no friends in this dusty town to talk to. I was raising two fresh whippersnappers; I needed support, fellow women to converse with about my experiences, to share advice, laughter, tears.

Of course, God helps those who help themselves, so when I saw my opportunity, I pounced on it. Literally and not gracefully, I'm embarrassed to say. I saw Camille, elegantly-dressed and with a kind, friendly face, and I heard her mention to an older couple that she sang in a touring opera company. The words had barely escaped and the couple had hardly a chance to acknowledge them when I sprang toward her like a lonely Jack-in-the-box. With wide-eyed desperation, I exclaimed lamely but passionately, "I love opera!"

Another person would have given me a short response, a false smile and turned away, but Camille, though a little startled, chatted with me and gave me a card with her cell phone number, telling me we could get coffee sometime.

It would be a long while before we got that coffee, but we began to greet each other with a smile and pleasantries whenever we met. A few months later, after a Mom's Group I had started in our parish began to blossom (and bless me with the friendship of several lovely, intelligent women), I saw Camille walking out of church as we were waiting to baptize our little girl. She was pregnant. I congratulated her warmly.

"Did you ever start that Mom's Group?" she asked eagerly.

The rest of the story is history, as they say. Since that first Mom's Group meeting to which she brought her infant son and for seven years now we have watched each other's children grow. We have shared faith, tea, countless pastries (we both have a compulsive baking disorder, though hers often yields mind-numbingly yummy results), and time with friends. We have talked about sleep deprivation, nursing, beautiful moments of parental bliss, mommy regrets, history, our personal artistic endeavors, and, of course, God. I could always talk long to my friend about God, and in doing so feel that she truly was a friend given to me through faith. Camille and I became such good friends these past several years, and however it may sound to an outsider, I believe we were both in the social hall that day because God knew we could.

Now that we no longer live close, I find myself unusually grateful for a world that is riddled with cellphones and bubble-gummy social media.

And even though today she's a thousand plus miles to the northwest, even though I've recently felt as if I were prowling outside God's gate in the dark waiting for some guidance, I can reflect with gratitiude on the friendship I was given and remember through it the prayers that are answered.