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. :-)