Let It Snow

One ice storm.
One snow storm.
That's the tally so far for Des Moines in the winter of 2007-2008. Mother nature schedules bad weather on the same days that our digital TV guy comes to hook up the dish on the roof. I absolutely do not want an installer splatted on the driveway, courtesy of a white Christmas on top of the house where this poor guy has to land sans reindeer. So we may go the whole winter without TV, and even I, anti-TV gal, am really wishing we could just get the dog gone cable hooked up.

I've already missed the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade and I'm telling you, I am not missing the ball drop on New Years Eve. Although if I were in my right mind I would get a babysitter and dinner reservations in downtown Des Moines, since it will be two days before the caucuses and our the next President of the United States of America will be there.

Last night the four of us shoveled our entire driveway. Only took about 2+ hours.

My blogging thoughts are dry these days, but I hope you like this picture.

Aidan discovered the power screwdriver.

Amanda described to me in long-hand-verbose-verbal-extreme-detail her social studies project. All about England. "Why not Spain??" I ask. "You speak Spanish." Spain, girl. Spain!!! I know that was the kiss of death for Spain.

Bob is angsting over his sermon.

I am wishing there were people in my conversation pit chatting about something. In English.

Goodnight, friends, and thanks for coming over to the E-conversation pit.

With love, T

I was just wondering. . .

. . .does housework count for exercising? If you can never go to yoga or take a walk or what have you. Does it count if you go up and down flights of stairs a zillion times, happily doing laundry for free? (Relatively speaking of free.)

The kids and I stay pretty close to each other in this house which still feels very big and quiet compared to the close chaos of student housing. We kind of migrate around room to room together especially if Bob is not home. A friend said that we'll know we're "moved in" when everyone starts hanging out in their own rooms.

In the meantime, we are so glad for family who visit, the start of play dates, and the stuff that is going on at St. John's, which is beyond all understanding. I am feeling really old when I start hearing about the programming and summer trips that Amanda will partake with her confirmation class. She is absolutely *thrilled* to have a youth director; who is pretty wonderful. Holy cow, however, youth ministry has changed. I mean, Amanda is just a little girl and I can't believe she's going on these long trips. I admit, this is when it really pays off to have a husband who's a pastor because at least that crosses off one anxiety, namely, who is chaperoning my baby? Because Bob can take care of the kids almost as good as I can. (That was partial tongue in cheek.)

Anywho, time for secret snuggle reading time, so that means we will all migrate upstairs together. :-)

Take care everyone.

With love, T

P.S. Does it count if you have to go down and up four flights of stairs to get a cup of coffee when you're at work? How about if you drink a lot of cups of coffee? If it's 100 percent Fair Trade? Does that count for something? Just wondering.

Quiz: Is this a doctor or a jazz singer.

One day I took my lunch hour and never returned.

It was when I worked for Dr. Worm in Manhattan about 14 years ago and it remains to be about the most spontaneous thing I've ever done. I worked for her for one and a half days. One and a half days too long. While everyone else in the office was nice, I didn't like her. Even when she told me how important she was and how the governor phoned her all the time. It was the time when managed health care was just taking off. I think the employment head hunter sent me to her because I was from the Midwest and gullible, and you know, that so-called Midwest work ethic.

It was when I first moved to NYC and was looking for a job. Seems like there wasn't a lot of employers in Manhattan looking for someone with experience in youth and camping ministry.

Meanwhile I worked another temp job too, at General Refridgermetics. They sold refrigerators. And my job was to answer phones and file all day; working among all these poor salesmen (and I do mean 'men') whose jobs were to simply sit at a bare desk and make cold calls to sell refrigerators. Just seemed so bleak. It was not exactly on a subway line so to get there I drove from the bottom of Brooklyn to the top of Queens, with very careful directions from Bob. Yes friends, I could never make that drive now. It was the last stop before crossing the bridge to Rykers Island, literally. Anyway, they were nice there too and even wanted to hire me. But I simply didn't see my destiny as a receptionist in a refrigerator warehouse. Just couldn't do it. I mean, it was an honorable job and all, but I was going crazy by the end of the day. You try saying it over and over and over, "Hello, General Refridgermetics, can I help you?"

And I couldn't work for Dr. Worm either. And you know what else. . .she was a dentist. A little detail that she didn't easily mention. Nothing against dentists, I mean I need to see one actually. But whenever someone insists on being called "doctor" and then you find out they are a dentist, let's face it, it just says something.

So on my second day with Dr. Worm I left for lunch and never returned. I suppose that was a Midwestern passive aggressive tactic. I did not say, "Dr. Worm, you are an inscrutable fruitcake and I quit." I did not tell the headhunter that she had better not send me to anymore jobs like that. But my way to the highway was so much easier.

And when I got home, feeling all crummy and weird because people from the Midwest don't just quit jobs like that; well, there was a message from the human resource director at Lutheran World Relief. And could I please call her about a position that had just opened. No kidding, that was the note on the kitchen table the day I left Dr. Worm.

*

So anyway, here' s the treasure for tonight. Jeni from Campus would be so proud. It's the public radio music website. It's free and it's fabulous. I already downloaded a play list of jazz tunes about autumn in New York, Nickel Creek in Concert, and songs by a Filapina crooner named Charmaine Clamor. It's like our lonely old house is now a jazz club. And a bluegrass festival.

Goodnight.

With love, T

P.S. Quiz Answer: The picture is a jazz singer; the aforementioned Charmaine Clamor. Listen to her and absolutely melt. This is definitely NOT Dr. Worm.

Is this Heaven? No. It's Iowa.

You must see this. "Field of Dreams." It's the movie you watch when you move to Iowa. But even if you did not move to Iowa, you must see this movie. Even if you already saw the movie. See it again. It's all about the merging of time and space, past, present, future; following your dreams; and the best theme of all -- reconciliation.

When the doctor stepped into the other world to save the little girl and he gave up his baseball career. . .OMG, I got all choked up. He followed his calling.

Next time we have a day off, we'll go there. To the field of dreams.

With love, T

P.S. So we put in "RENT." OK, too adult for Amanda. Too young adult for me. We didn't finish it. But the music is good.

You are Invited

To Bob's installation as associate pastor at St. John's Lutheran Church

Sunday, November 18, 2007

at two services: 8:45 a.m. and 11:00 a.m.

Thanks be to God!

to be a pastor = Memorization + Indoctrination + Graduation + Ordination + Installation + Insubordination (just kidding, mostly)

The Blur of Time and Space

Hello friends and thanks so much for checking in.

I will have to find the "Graceful Ghost Rag" that Victoria mentions, as I will admit that the lines between the living and dead have blurred for me this past year. And even geographic location blurs for me. For me, it has become a swirling, dirvish mass of life and living and raining and timeless connections to the past and future, here and now. What is that Lakota saying "we are all related" which refers to people, nature, time, and space. I can't spell it in Lakota, mitakue oasin, or something like that.

Gratitude indeed, for one candle named Bob that was *not* lit on All Saints Sunday.

Speaking of, I wanted to mention two publications who have been kind enough to publish this month some things I wrote . More blurs of time and space. . .

The Lutheran Magazine
A Harvest of Crops and Compassion
With thanks to an amazing group of farmers I met this past summer, who are donating a portion of their harvest to the common global good. It got a little cosmic for me as while I was writing this story I kept thinking about the farmers and how they were suffering drought. It felt like a sort of anorexia to me, like how I watched Bob waste away when he wasn't eating; a slow, slow, slow, dreadful witness to death. I wondered if that's how it feels for a farmer in drought, that constant gnawing everyday of worry that the feilds have not been nourished another day. Another step towards death. Then one night when the Twin Cities was getting all those dramatic storms, it was like the drought these farmers were suffering had somehow transformed into a tempest of good will all around the world. Thunder, lightening, and a downpouring of the spirit of giving. Like their compassion had healed the drought. Compassion had healed us, that's for sure. Anyway, well, I hope you will come on over to the Lutheran magazine and read about it and add to the online discussion. I would also like to thank the editors of the Lutheran for letting me write this up.

Lutheran Woman Today
The Valley of the Shadow
With thanks to "Another Terri," the wonderful editor whose blog I mention on the left side bar here, who is walking in her own valley, even as she let me tell our liver-gone-wrong story in this fabulous magazine to which you should all subscribe. Prayers for Terri's healing. I have worked with editors of this magazine all the while I've been with LWR and they have a real knack of linking articles and themes with real life stuff. One of my best weeks ever was time spent on the coffee farm in El Salvador with a previous editor of LWT; who returned home with the idea of "what would happen to coffee farm families if we could double the sales of Fair Trade coffee in one year?" And it worked. And the farmers survived. We are all related.

Take care everyone. Happy All Saints season. Let's all gather at the river.

With love, T

Rock-a-Bye-Wrench

We tried and tried. Or at least I tried. I was certain we could avoid all those boy/girl preferences and raise our kids "gender neutral." Even still, Amanda loved pink, purple, and princesses for years. She now prefers a pretty blue. And even still, Aidan is now fascinated with wrenches. He found a huge one yesterday in the garage and carried it around the house all day.

Why?

I don't know. I don't know why he would want to carry a big, heavy wrench with him upstairs, downstairs, inside, outside. (Why was he not in school? Long story best not told.)

"Tell Dad I have his wrench," Aidan officially said to me when Bob called home. I did.

So last night when we did our secret reading cuddle before bed, Aidan balked when I started singing Rock-a-bye-Aidan. Not baby, but Aidan. No, that still doesn't work.

Ok, how about this for a goodnight song, in a gruff voice with no melody, "You're a really big boy with a heavy, strong wrench. . ." He thought it was a dumb song. But this morning for breakfast, Aidan was delighted to find a second wrench by his breakfast bowl. A surprise from Dad.

I don't get it. I think it's time for me and Amanda to watch the "RENT" DVD. Bob and Aidan are not interested.

Take care everyone.

With love, T

Seasons of Love

We came home from church all full of choir and orchestral music, so we decided to download the fabulous song from the musical RENT, Seasons of Love. Not only does it make for happy dishwashing and lunchmaking, but I thought it was a terrific way to celebrate our past year as well as All Saints Sunday, when we feel all connected with those who have gone on to glory before us. How do you measure life? (See below for the lyrics.)



RENT Seasons Of Love Lyrics

Five Hundred Twenty-Five Thousand
Six Hundred Minutes
Five Hundred Twenty-Five Thousand
Moments so dear
Five Hundred Twenty-Five Thousand
Six Hundred Minutes
How Do You Measure - Measure A Year?
In Daylights - In Sunsets
In Midnights - In Cups Of Coffee
In Inches - In Miles
In Laughter - In Strife

In - Five Hundred Twenty-Five Thousand
Six Hundred Minutes
How Do You Measure
A Year In The Life?

How About Love?
How About Love?
How About Love?
Measure In Love

Seasons of Love.
Seasons of Love.

Five Hundred Twenty-Five Thousand
Six Hundred Minutes
Five Hundred Twenty-Five Thousand
Journeys To Plan

Five Hundred Twenty-Five Thousand
Six Hundred Minutes

How Do You Measure The Life
Of A Woman Or A Man

In Truth That She Learned
Or In Times That He Cried
In Bridges He Burned
Or The Way That She Died

It's Time Now - To Sing Out
Though The Story Never Ends
Let's Celebrate
Remember A Year In The Life Of Friends

Remember the Love
Remember the Love
Remember the Love
Measure In Love

*
Take care, everyone!
With love, T

City Bob, Country Bob

This dispatch is dedicated to my Dad.
And to the Rev. Al Negstad.
And to Duane Rigg.

None of these people read the charmer blog because they are too busy with respective trucks, tractors, and John Deere collections. So they won't even know about this cyber honor, but I'm making these dedications anyway because our cylinder index just went up by 17. (I think those are cylinders. Or maybe that's horsepower.)

This is kind of like when people in New York City would say to me, "Oh you mean there are universities in South Dakota?" when I told them where I got my degree. They were not trying to insult me; they were genuinely curious. Or when I was dubbed as "farm girl" even though I never lived on a farm. Or when someone said, "Hey a friend of mine lives out your way." He was referring to the state of Washington, which is of course 1,000 miles away from the Midwest but to some New Yorkers it's all west of the Hudson River.

So when our new neighbors do talk with us about the first thing they say, "You sure got a big yard." and "That's a lot of mowing." and "I don't know why anyone would want all that yard work."

My stock response is this: Well, you see, my husband is from New York City and he's never had a yard and so when he saw this yard he just fell in love with it and he actually likes yard work . . .

And by now the neighbors' eyes have glazed; they are wondering why this wife gives such lengthy response to an innocuous comment.

*

"Did you tell the tractor dealer-guy that you're from New York City?" I asked Bob.

"No," he replied.

I think it's a guy thing.

Otherwise it might be like, "You mean, there are no riding lawn mowers with mulcher attachments in Brooklyn?" Meaning no offense, but just in wonder. While I somehow invite such a comments, Bob deftly eludes them. Even when the John Deere guy came to deliver the used-a-bit treasure, Bob could put on his "this is not such a big deal" kind of posture.

But make no mistake. This is a big deal. We have settled in Iowa. We have a homestead. We live in the original house of a former horse farm. We are all well and Bob has a call at a church who counts their top two priorities as "social concerns and fine arts." And they really do mean fine. The little green and yellow tractor has joined with the big city boy and they are happily one. Who says you can't change in the second half of a life's century?

Thank you for the glorious extra hour of sleep tonight.

With love, T

P.S. It's so great to chat about mulching fall leaves on the one-year anniversary of the hospital-binging we did last November. Thanks to all of you a thousand times.

Breathing in Music and Art

A quick note because it's Friday and I'm not getting on an airplane, moving, packing, driving, finding an ER, filling a prescription, or setting the alarm for 6 a.m. OK, well, maybe just a little unpacking, but that's OK. Anywho, just wanted to comment about breathing, and how you breath in what's around you. So, I'm still grieving that my kids aren't breathing in Spanish sentences and thoughts anymore, and I'm hoping we'll find a way to do that somehow. But here's the upside, they are breathing in music and art. I can't tell you how rich it is around here. Music and art in Des Moines. Music and art in St. John's.

Amanda and Aidan are both in their own choirs, not because they would likely choose to be in a choir. But because that's just what you do when you're here. Amanda's in a girl choir, Aidan a boy choir. Just between you and me, I spied on Aidan once during rehearsal and he was utterly engaged, all wide-eyed and smiling ear to ear as he tried to keep up with the boys around him. If you know Aidan, remember who does not like to talk, you may see the fact of him singing pretty amazing.

So, for this Sunday, both the kids' choirs are singing with the adult choir, and WITH the live orchestra. Imagine it. "Shall We Gather at the River." I wish someone would record it and post it on youtube as I've already got a lump in my throat just thinking about it.

I'll give you a hint at tomorrow's dispatch, you really must come back: What is green and yellow and Bob all over? Another hint: City Bob, Country Bob.

Laters, gators.

Love, T

P.S. Photo above courtesy of my Mom. :-)

Suburban Blues

If you had a dear friend who also happened to be a professional therapist then you would also be informed that it is normal to have a little, shall we call it transitional depression when you move. I mean, honestly, everything with the move is fine and all, but it's just different and it takes getting used to.

I think the biggest change is the quiet neighbors. Everyone just keeps to themselves. There are houses for sale across the way and I am hoping and praying and praying and hoping that some families with kids move in. Really loud kids who keep knocking at our door, bugging us wild all day and night. I miss that. When I realized that we were not going to receive cookies to welcome us to the neighborhood, I brought some hello truffles to the families next door. Not sure how impressed they were, but what the hey, I couldn't stand it. Yesterday the kids and I followed another "for sale" sign down the street, with the hopes it would lead us to another potential new family. We saw a mother and son raking leaves in the front yard. We consumed them with over-eagerness. Hi! We're the Speirs! Do your kids like pizza? What school do y'all go to? You're from Nigeria? We love everyone from Africa, each and every one. Can we be friends? Want to come over for coffee? Do you like soccer? We have a big yard, want to come over for soccer? Actually, they were very nice and accepted our enthusiasm with much grace.

Pathetic.

But that is the suburbs, I suppose. I know that acquaintances and friendships can form, they just take longer. And there is something inside me that just can't understand all these plots of yards divided by dog fences that each have their very own riding lawn mower. I mean, can't we simply share? It just seems silly. We are taking the Lonn approach -- letting the grass grow as long as the neighbor's can stand it. (Well, that's not really the Lonn approach, but he came up with that for a great line once.) Victory for today: we figured out the local sanitation procedures.

Anyway, I wanted to post this picture of one of our garages that has potential of transforming into my pottery-barn-garden-center-art-cottage.

For now I am thinking that the best remedy for the transitional depression is to adapt, starting with alarm clocks for all. Mama panda got the deluxe one with nature sounds. Because we must get out of bed in pitch black morning and I started this crazy thing of cooking hot breakfasts for the kids before school. Am working on putting other lights around the house on timers because I can barely make it to the a.m. kitchen for the blackness.

If you had a dear colleague who taught middle school for 15 years then you would believe her when she tells you that this picture is normal. You would breath a sigh of relief when stuff like this makes her laugh. You would think how pretty it is that your son colored his creation perfectly inside the lines. Now you see why I call Aidan my cute little Donald Rumsfeld? By the way, as of today I've been informed that I cannot kiss or hug him in public. We agreed on high-fives.

As always, I am wondering why I am blogging when I am so tired and it's time to turn on my ocean sounds and go to sleep.

Thanks so much, friends, for logging in. You're the best. You really are. And I so much appreciate your thoughts and prayers.

With love, T

When in Brooklyn

If you could jump into this picture, walk out onto the street, and look in the same direction -- you would see New York Harbor and practically the Statue of Liberty. This is in front of the Speirs-Mansour house where Bob et. al. grew up. And where now a cute pair of twin nieces grow.

As I said before, Brooklyn is like never leaving because you can so easily fall into your old patterns. I couldn't believe how many people I knew just walking along the street. "Hi! How are you!" Kiss, kiss, along the side of cheeks.

One nice change though is that Amanda came along with me on a really long walk. 88 blocks. In the past she would ride cozily in her stroller and sleep most of the way. By the end of the outting she was longing for those days. I thought about the blessing of a little baby who grew up willing to walk with her mother for hours, arm in arm, hand in hand.

I did not cry at the ordination even though it was the most perfect event you could imagine. I took many pictures but then realized that not everyone in the world wants their face posted on my blog, and I did not think to have people sign release forms, so anyway, I'm playing it safe and will not post the people tour. Trust me, it was a glorious collection of friends and family.

I *did* cry when we went out to Gino's the next day. A former Italian pizzeria turned into Italian restaurant. The Speirs have been eating there for two decades. It was another thing that does not change. I wait in line while Bob finds a parking spot. We see the same people, order the same food. Bow ties in vodka sauce. Chicken parmesan. But it's all better because the kids are older and this time we have dear friends from Minnesota with us, Harry and Martha Mueller. We looked for the unhappy couple (a reference from the care page, later I'll bring it back). It was like I blinked my eye, 15 years had passed, and now Bob is ordained, etc, etc. So I cried over my pasta.

Anyway, I wanted to show you four of the reasons why we love Iowa. The call committee chair, the church council president, toi, moi, the senior pastor, and a youth group representative. Friends, can you believe that this delegation from St. John's in Des Moines joined us for the ordination!! Along with the Bishop. It was so fun to have them with us and to tour them around Sunset Park. It was just too short. And now you get an idea of what future parties at the Speirs house in Des Moines might look like.

My ordination formal came to me the previous day, direct delivery from Egypt with thanks to my in-laws, Carol and Ragaey. I am more and more amazed at the perfectness of things that come our way. Which relieves me when I have serious second doubts about stuff like, did we buy the right house? Did we enroll our kids in the right schools? All the huge decisions you make with such little time and information. You just have to believe that you were led to places for a reason, right?

It's a Saturday morning and time to make cinnamon streusel muffins for the kids. Bob is at a confirmation breakfast because tomorrow is Reformation Sunday and confirmation. I will find a good picture of Joseph Feinnes, the handsome Irish actor who played Martin Luther in the feature film. While Martin Luther did a great thing by liberating us from indulgences and all, let's face it he's not much to look at. Thank goodness for Hollywood and a new image. Coming soon.

With love, T

Finding Furniture and Other Things

Hello and welcome to the charmer blog. I wanted to thank everyone for your thoughts and prayers for ordination, which was glorious. Brooklyn fits like a glove. When you're there, you wonder if you ever really left. I've also been meaning to tell y'all that I really have wanted to write personal responses to you when you comment here, but I can't figure out how to do it on this blog site. So anyway, please know that your words and attention are so much appreciated, and I'll keep trying.

Tonight, I wanted to give you views inside and outside my new office, that is our new church, that is Bob's new call. While in the parking lot, I found this shadow of the steeple on the next building. Made the kids wait in the car while I took a ton of pictures because I thought it was pretty.

That's my office window way up on the top floor, above the trees, in the downtown-Des Moines-scape picture. You can kind of see the air conditioner in the window. This is how you open up a deployed office when you work for a non-profit agency.

1. You find space that is cheap or free.
2. You figure out how much office furniture you can mooch from the determined place.
3. You estimate how much you can spend for the rest.
4. You buy the nicest, yet cheapest stuff you can find.
5. You worry that you're spending too many hours assembling said nice/cheap stuff.
6. You profusely thank the people who have helped you secure the space.
7. You attempt to explain to said people in 10 seconds exactly what you do.
8. You look for the balance of fitting in and keeping to yourself.
9. You write this up in a contract and send it to your vice president for finance and administration.

This is what the inside of my office looks like. The pieces are parts of a filing cabinet. A simple filing cabinet. It's driving me absolutely crazy!!!! I am not hard wired to assemble this filing cabinet. I couldn't find a screw driver in the whole 4 floors of the building so it had to wait until tomorrow. I'm giving all my secrets away to my colleagues in Baltimore who are wondering exactly what I do with my days.

Anyway, speaking of furniture, oh my gosh, you must see the kitchen table that came our way compliments of a very special family from the congregation. They didn't know our house. We didn't know their table. We needed a table. They needed to get rid of one. And it fits just splendidly. Perfectly. Spectacularly. See for yourself.

Why am I blogging about furniture when I need to make waffles in 8 hours, all dressed and ready to go?

Thanks so much for coming over.

With love, T

Food Tour of Ordination

Free MySpace slideshows, photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com

(Turn your sound on, if you can. If you're still not getting sound, then click the tiny speaker icon on the lower left corner of the food slide show. The music makes the pictures taste better.)

Danish, Italian, Egyptian, Norwegian, Spanish Food.

Catered, home-made, donated, pot-luck Food.

Sweet, savory, buttery, deli Food.

Planned, surprised, hoped-for, delivered Food.

The aroma of waking up to Food being cooked in the Speirs-Mansour kitchen. The Egyptian chef who home-baked and deli ered trays and trays of savory, meaty, buttery Food.

The taste of a midnight female feeding frenzy of home-made frickadilla (how do you spell Danish meatballs?). The Danish chef who suprised the ordinand with a wrapped, edible ordination gift.

It was an international feast at Bob's ordination with thanks to Lorraine, the most amazing financial counselor, friend, sister-in-law, and reception coordinator ever.

A people tour of ordination coming soon.

With love, T

What is Eleven Years?

This what Aidan wore on the plane to NYC yesterday. He's an unabashed Yankees fan, in order to be opposite of his dad, and with thanks to his Uncle Richie. I'm going to NYC today. O my gosh, that poor futon in that poor apartment in the background. If there were ever an image of our lost liver year, it would be that frumpled futon. Whoever was able to sleep, would sleep coiled up and boiling there in the kitchen/living room/morgue.

We've come a long way, baby. :-)

Now that I am in full throws of ordination mode, if you could please allow me this one dispatch of pure, unadulterated, schmultsy, bleeding heart reflection on our road to ordination. In academic terms it's a college bachelors degree and then a seminary master's degree. Although master's of divinity is actually a 4 year program, which is the length of some doctorate programs. And for students with families it usually takes 5 years. For Bob it took eleven years, because he started part time while working full time and taking care of new babies. He began at the New York Theological School in Manhattan. Then he took classes at St. Mary's Ecumenical Center while we lived in Baltimore. And then you know the rest of the story at Luther Seminary in St. Paul, where he finished off. Including a year of experiential education internship with a liver that lost and found it's soul.

But if you count the other stuff -- teaching Sunday school, mopping a flooded fellowship hall, driving the church van, unplugging holy toilets, hosting visiting youth groups, helping with the boilers, organizing trips to the national youth gathering, making mass batches of spaghetti sauce, building trust with parents who don't speak English, opening the church yard for the neighbor kids, serving coffee, taking kids to camp, you know stuff like that -- well then you add a couple more decades to the mix.

But even here and now, today, the day before Bob's official ordination into word and sacrament ministry; I realize that it's all about the people and the experiences. So, the bishop will lay his hands on Bob and he'll get a piece of paper that says he's ordained, and I'll cry my eyes out -- but he was actually ordained a long time ago. By many of you, and the people all along the way who worked with him, taught him, loved him, trusted him, laughed and ate with him. All of you who healed him last year. By the people of St. John's Lutheran in Des Moines who called him to be their associate pastor.

It was the people at his home church at Trinity Lutheran in Brooklyn, who said a long time ago, "Robbie you should be a pastor." And if I could speak on Bob's behalf, I'll say that was pretty much unthinkable to him. He was a quiet guy who liked playing basketball in the park and just helping out a little here and there. He mostly preferred to keep to himself. But the people at Trinity were relentless with encouragement and support, before, during, and after seminary. Even to this day.

So anyway, there you go, a wife's exposition on her husband's ordination. And I'm getting all nostalgic for New York City and all the people and the walking, all that I miss very much. I miss the constant contact with neighbors and the extremely social nature of life there. I heard this interview on NPR yesterday about an Iraqi refugee family who settled into Bay Ridge (our other neighborhood in Brooklyn) and the Iraqi commented how friendly people are there. "I understand!" I exclaimed to the radio. And for a moment I wished I was that refugee and living in Bay Ridge. Oh I know, that's completely ridiculous. Just nostalgic, that's all.

Well, I better get my laundry done and pack so I can head out to the airport. Tomorrow is a big day. I'll try to take lots-o-pictures, if I'm not just in a complete puddle of tears. Be back in a couple of days.

With love, T

P.S. The answer to the question in the title: Amanda.

What Wondrous Love is This

Hello everyone and thanks so much for coming over to the Charmer blog. I wanted to take a few minutes to comment on the organ recital that we went to last Sunday. "Our" organist and "our" new church. (Even though Aidan was heard saying that he didn't really want to come back to church again that day; and he was welcomed to the wonderful world of PK's.)

Have you ever been to an organ recital? They projected her image on a big screen in the front of the church. We could see her hands flying all over the multiple keyboards and push/pull controls of the organ.

But it was the feet that really stunned all of us, even Amanda. Our organist's feet moved like Fred Astaire's. She was like a tap dancer, perfectly timed and agile, toes and heels dancing up and down the pedals. She even wore shoes that resembled beautiful yet sturdy tap shoes. That means all her hands and feet were moving in syncopation. I couldn't even count how many rhthyms she had going. She was like a painter producing a masterpiece in fast speed; the orchestral vision coming out huge pipes and filling up a whole sanctuary. You can't imagine that anyone could be hard wired or trained to do that.

"Some people are more than human," said the guy who sat in front of me. "How does she do that?"

I don't know. I had no idea that organists moved their feet in that way.

Anyway, so Bob let me pick out a hymn for his ordination service this Saturday in NYC. By the way, you are all invited. This is such a big deal, and yet we have barely had a chance to plan or send out proper invitations. Once again we rely on the grace of friends and family to pull it all off. I choose "What Wondrous Love is This." I think it's an American slave song. Here's an Irish version found on youtube, with some nice video of Greystones, Ireland.



With love, T

Desperately Seeking Something

Good news: I found my drivers license.

Other news: I am truly hating this school transition thingie. Is it really necessary for me to re-live my junior high nightmares? Just a couple weeks ago my daughter was in elementary school. But since I can't broadcast every little privacy of my children, that's about all I can say.

For those of you who pray, can you please pray for my kids, and pray for the magic parent potion to arrive.

Laters, gators. T

Cecilia and Cecilia

Why am I blogging instead of going to bed, reading, unpacking boxes, washing clothes, decluttering the awesome kitchen island, or . . . you get the picture.

I think it's because I just ate a brownie that was given to Bob for "pastor appreciation month" which has been invented by the hospitality ministry here at St. John's Lutheran Church in Des Moines. Bob said he got here just in time. ;-) I also had some white wine that is supposed to go into a shrimp linguine dish that I'm supposed to make but I keep getting home too late, so the shrimp is not being cooked but the wine is being consumed, tonight with a grilled cheese sandwich. I promise tomorrow night, shrimp linguine for all.

Anyway, it's the chocolate that got me to blogging. It's the topic of the Virtual U for this Thursday and I remembered that I have these adorable pictures of Cecilia and Cecilia, two cocoa farmers from Ghana. My supervisor, Brenda, says that one has been trained as a fire fighter and one has the position of official chaplain for the cocoa cooperative. Which must be something like getting brownies for pastor appreciation month. Another colleague, Kattie, who will be presenting the Virtual U has rigged up some kind of audio thingie of an interview she did with the two Cecilias. It's going to be a great class and you're all welcome to join in the webinar. I'll post the log-in instructions on Thursday.

Anyway, here's to chocolate, and here's the two Cecilias. (Oopsie, the blogger won't let me upload the second Cecilia, I'll try later.)

Goodnight!

With love, T

Getting Lost

The things that get lost or forgotten when you drop out for a while never cease to amaze me. Depending on how you want to count time, I was out with Bob's liver for, say, six months. My recovery has been much longer. I'm not eliciting any kind of pity because I am way over that, but just keep noticing stuff that got waylaid. For example, yesterday I discovered that my passport is a month expired. How can someone who works for an international agency have an expired passport? I wouldn't know except for that I lost my driver's license and so dug out the passport in case I get pulled over. I just had my driver's license ten days ago so where is it now?

So I need to figure this out before this weekend, when I get on a plane to go to Brooklyn, New York, to see Bob get ordained. Depending on how you want to count time this has been eleven years in coming. Eleven years since he started taking seminary classes at New York Theological Center. Eleven years since he figured out that he absolutely did not want me to type his papers because I tend to over-edit. A colleague told me how her husband learned how to type using the Mavis Beacon program. That's what I got for Bob and it worked. He's very handy with the keyboard now.

In other words, I really have to get on that plane and I really need to figure out my ID.

Amanda is watching the movie Selena, which we have watched together about 25 times. It still chokes me up. The kids are kind of in a movie marathon phase of things these days. Desperately seeking friends.

Anyway, this morning in church when people were invited to come up for prayers at the alter after communion I was transported to Christ Church on Capitol Hill in St. Paul, where I came forward for two years depending on how you count time, I came forward to a wonderful woman named Mertle who would lay her hands upon me and pray for Bob's call. After a while I started wondering exactly how long and hard to pray for this, and what exactly will "praying" do anyway. I still don't get praying, but I still go to the alter when possible and ask for someone else to put their hands on me and talk to God. And this morning it was quite amazing to think that we were here, at Bob's call. The lost have been found. So I prayed for thanks.

This church, St. John's Lutheran Church in Des Moines, is really quite amazing. I don't even know where to start. Should I join the digital photography group? Or the recreational reading group? How about the wine tasting ministry (I am not kidding). And then there's the ASAP, Afterschool Arts Program, whereby they are busing kids in from transitional neighborhoods so they can spend time in five art studios -- 2D, 3D, Dance, Instrumental, and Fabric -- all these studios in the church building, run by church members. Art and music, art and music, everything around here is art and music. Gotta go, our organist is giving her premier organ recital this afternoon. Since the organ is in the back of the church, they're projecting her image to the front so we can both hear and see her art and music.

Pray that I find my driver's licence.

Thanks SO MUCH for coming over to the charmer blog.

Love, T

If I Were a Carpenter

Hello everyone and thanks for coming over to the charmer blog. Oh my goodness, it's soooo good to be online again. It's really great to hear from y'all. Thanks so much.

I also finally found the NPR news station; had been suffering through the NPR classical for two weeks, which is OK, but I'm a news junky. Classical goes about a half hour for me, except for when I'm in long-term stress especially while driving. This morning while happily driving a friend to the airport I was assured that the news station really does exist. Sure enough, it was hiding in the 100's frequency instead of the 90's. Thank you, Iowa. Phew.

Anyway, tonight, during our game of Star Wars Monopoly -- we don't unpack boxes here, we play board games -- I heard "If I were a Carpenter." Even the news station doesn't do news on a Saturday night. What a great song; have always loved that one. And of course youtube.com didn't let me down, with versions from people ranging from Alison Kraus to Dolly Parton to Bobby Darin. They're all good. But for here and now, I opted for the good 'ol June Carter and Johnny Cash version.

Sarah Ford, if you're out there, just want to let you know that the Connect Four you sent us last winter is alive and well. Why unpack bathroom necessities when all I really need is to lose again and again in Connect Four?

Enjoy the song!

With love, T

Why the Snake Charmer's Wife?

So moving into a house is like this. You just want to go through your boxes so badly. You want to clean and put things away. You want to find your books and clothes and toothpaste. You want to make lists. You want to clear the clutter from your incredible kitchen island and imagine it as a buffet line. You want to write thank you notes to all the people who stopped by with gifts and who put away your dishes, pots, and pans.

But Aidan requires you to assemble his pirate ship. And Amanda commands you to tune the guitar and teach her the D-chord. And you are mandated to oblige because your kids are lonely and disoriented. You realize that the children’s demands might be at least as important as deciding on a closet for the towels.

Then you cell phone your husband who is out in a man cave – we now have two garages -- and you wonder how the people who lived in this old farm house 80 years ago talked to each other. You try to explain the name you’ve chosen for the new blog. Bob preferred “The Speirs Family Blog.” Amanda liked “South of the Border.” Aidan had no opinion whatsoever.

But the thing is, once upon a time I really did meet a snake charmers wife. It was during the two weeks of infamy when I went to India.

Anyway, it seems that snake charmers are for real. The ones I met where not popular with the locals in the small village in Western India. They were seen as dishonest as they charmed tourists like gullible me into giving them money to see how their flute songs make reptiles rise. I’m sure the locals did not appreciate my fascination fanning the flames of their illegitimate trade. They were viewed as transient community pests. I suppose the charmers could translate to plain old homeless people, the kind you would avoid on the subway or wherever.

So there was one young snake charmer guy who gave it all up. No snake charming for him. His smiley wife got hooked up with a woman’s group, who hooked her up to some kind of a business and personal income. Now the newly-wed couple even have their own house. As she proudly showed our study tour group her wares, a travel companion whispered to me, “The Snake Charmer’s Wife!”

How can you forget that? They got a home, stability, and even kitchen supplies.

*

“But Mom,” Amanda protested, “Dad’s not a snake charmer.”

And I’m not a snake charmer’s wife, I replied, fully accepting that Amanda does not approve of my blog title choice.

But we’ve all been resurrected. We all got a second chance and we all took it. And the more you take second chances, the more there are. Little resurrections abound all around. If you miss the second, then three times’s a charm. Four. Five. Whatever it takes. The potential of newness is endless. New life rising from the oldness.

Besides, I just think it’s a really cool name. It reminds me of the good and the bad. With apologies to those of you who like reptiles, I don’t. Even though I lived with rattle snakes for four summers. To me the snake is a terrific image of that slippery side of us that we would rather not mention. It doesn’t ever go away. You acknowledge it. You are humbled by it. You charm it. You pray. You call upon the authority of Jesus Christ to be present in and around you. And if you bring up snakes at a party, well, I guarantee that you will hear some incredibly creepy stories because everyone has a slithery tale.

*

I hope you will come back to the charmer blog because I have so much to tell you, starting with the kids’ new schools. For Aidan, let’s just say it was love at first sight. For Amanda it was, “Mom, I feel so welcomed.” And St. John’s Lutheran Church in Des Moines -- glorious, simply glorious. It’s like, why did they choose us? They’re so extraordinary and we’re so . . . just us. And we have so many boxes to unpack.

With love, T

P.S. I just dug out my pictures of the snake charmers and the snake charmer’s wife. When I get stuff set up, I’ll scan them and post.