Liver Coincidence

synchronicity (ˌsɪnkrəˈnɪsɪtɪ)

— n

an apparently meaningful coincidence in time of two or more
similar or identical events  that are causally unrelated

Do you believe in synchronicity? It's basically a fancy word for spiritual coincidence. Tonight I was at a nice little church-related Christmas party. Ok, I laughed so hard my throat hurt, so don't think this a quaint church event. My church is a lot of things, but quaint isn't one of them. I like quaint, don't get me wrong, it's just not us. That's a digression.

Anyway, I met someone who a.) spent a career researching transplant science, b.) engaged in initial conversations about the ethics of transplant, and c.) witnessed the first liver transplant ever.

I thought that was pretty amazing since I am a.) fascinated with organ transplant, b.) writing a book about liver failure and b.) planning to explore liver transplant in my writing.

If the person I am referring to happens to read this dispatch, no pressure, but I think this is really cool and I thank you.

With love, T

The Education of Terri Dee Mork Speirs

Women do 2/3 of the world's work but receive only 10% of the world's income.

Women's education is the most powerful predictor of lower birth rates.

Of 1.2 billion people living in poverty worldwide, 70% are women.

Women own around only 1% of the world's land.

Women are 2/3 of the 1 billion+ illiterate adults who have no access to basic education.
 
And yet there is one lucky woman, lucky beyond words, who just might walk away in a few weeks with a Master of Fine Arts Degree. Thanks to willing references, a scholarship from the Women of the ELCA, a student loan, an understanding family, and the good fortune of being born in a time and place whereby she could imagine school in the realm of her reality.

And thanks to her desire to go west. That is the stupider part of the story. Because the only reason she wanted to go west was so to escape the pain she felt when she lost her eastern-bound job. As if going 1,000 miles in the other direction would make her feel better. It didn't. But thinking about it did.
 
She was so bound and determined to go to Antioch University in Los Angeles that she applied only to that one MFA program. There was no back-up plan. When she didn't get in, she agreed to be put on the waiting list. When she still didn't get in, she applied a second time. When she still didn't get in, she agreed to again be put on the waiting list. And when she finally got in, it was like Antioch had found her.
 
She was so focused on going west that she hadn't even checked out the fact that Antioch shared her value of social justice. She hadn't checked out its theories on education. During her first writing residency, she didn't know until halfway through the week that half of the instructors were actually students. It turned out to be a place where students and teachers learned together, which, coincidentally happened to be her philosophy of education. There was no hierarchy of the smarter people. She hadn't known that human decency would be valued above all. Which, as happenstance would have it, also matched her way of thinking.

When Antioch found her she didn't know that her cousin-in-law lived three miles from campus, had a spare house, an extra car, another bicycle, and boundless hospitality, thus saving her approximately $7,500 in hotel expenses and gaining her exactly three additional family members for the rest of her life. Not to mention hiking in the mountains and biking on the beach.

She didn't know that writers don't simply get exiled. They write about exile. They don't simply feel deceit, heartbreak, love, and truth. They seek to understand it. Baltimore had spit her out. Los Angeles scooped her up. Des Moines held her tight while she wrestled these real and imaginary demons and angels, for some dumb reason manifested in terms of miles and horizons. She learned that her exile and heartbreak were far less serious than others'.

Now, two years later, she feels all melancholy about it all. About what she put her family through to make this work. About how they happily obliged. About how her husband worked double overtime so she could write. About her kids who didn't get tucked in for about 50 nights. About her student loan and how it will be paid. About the things she's learned and the people she's met. About the fact that Mona Simpson keeps popping up on her Facebook as "someone she probably knows." She doesn't, but apparently nine of her Facebook friends do. She's now two degrees separated through nine lives to this famous writer, you know, not to name drop, but Steve Jobs' sister. About the fact that her mentor, Hope Edelman, is a multiple New York Times bestselling author and one of the most insightful teachers she's ever had. Yes, she now shamelessly name drops.

But mostly, she's infinitely grateful.

And now, she will go back to work on her senior seminar and reading prep, lest this all be a dream that goes puff into the night.

With love, T

Salon Expectations

Queen Noor

Tomorrow is salon day.

I was reminded of my high expectations when I mentioned the appointment to my 12-year-old son, Aidan.

We were departing his basketball practicee whereby the coach had them playing shirts and skins. (I texted Bob to ask if it's appropriate for boys to play shirts and skins because I thought it was weird.)

"Tomorrow you will have a new mother," I said, after settling the fact that the coach gave the boys a choice whether to be shirts or skins and Aidan had chosen to be on the fully clothed team.

"Oh, what happened to the queen?" he said.

"Huh?" I was confused. Was the tween boy being a smart aleck by implying that my long needed salon appointment was making me an diva mother? Was he making fun of me? Should I cancel the appointment?

"No, remember your last hair-do was that queen," he said, sincerely. He wasn't being a smart mouth, he just had a really good memory. He was right. Last time I went to the salon I took a picture of Queen Noor's hair. Straight the shoulder, layered on top. I was confident that my hair magician could transform me into the former first lady of Jordan whose husband died in spite of long stints at the Mayo Clinic, purple Royal Jordanian Airliner parked at the Rochester, Minnesota, airport for weeks and months. Noor means "light" in Arabic.

"Oh yeah, you're right," I conceded. "I did go for for the queen. I think this time I'll go for the Diane Keaton." A whispy, whimsical bob. You may remember her as the bad parallel parker in "Annie Hall." Bob and I still laugh at the line when she parks in Manhattan and her date, Woody Allen says, That's OK I'll just walk to the curb from here. Bob and I actually say that to each other fairly often, when one or the other of us parallel parks.

"Oh, what's that hair like?" Aidan said.

"I'll show you a picture," I reassured him. I got the feeling that he was afraid that I might actually do something really outlandish.

You see, lately, I've been sporting the recession hair-do. Long, thick, stringy, often pulled into a severe bun. That's when you avoid the cuts and costs of the salon and do the best you can with your cheap shampoo and hot flat iron. If you're lucky, your natural color blends with the color of gray, until your daughter one day discovers your secret.

"MOM! Holy cow, you've got a ton of gray hair!" my Zena-like, statuesque 15-year-old daughter, Amanda, informed me the other day when she hazarded to lift my hair and look underneath. But that's another story. Back to my salon appointment for tomorrow. . .

So anyway, my Queen Noor do worked fairly well for a long time. A loooooong time. I had thought that my next plan would be the Talia Balsam, otherwise known as George Clooney's ex-wife, look. One elegant length, straight the the chin. That's before my hair turned into the recession do, and to be honest, I think it has transformed kinda Michelle Bachmanish. Or maybe it's the serial killer mother eyes. My daughter, who happens to be a varsity cheerleader, says that I tend to evoke serial killer mother in pictures. Sadly, she's right. For some reason when I'm in a picture, I try to present a happy smile and I end up looking menacing, in a middle class kind of way. I get those crazy Michelle Bachman eyes. I'm not crying in my soup about it, I'm just saying all the more reason for a salon appointment.

Diane Keaton

Goodbye recession hair. Goodbye liquid assets for this pay period. Hello high expectations.

I wish my salon medicine woman all the best. You're invited to do the same.

Bob hasn't texted me back yet regarding the shirts and skins dilemma. And just in case you're wondering, this blog post is actually a cleverly disguised yet elaborate procrastination tactic to avoid writing my cumulative annotated bibliography due soon and very soon.

Thanks much for coming over! Hair prayers welcome.

With love, T

Notes from three women

She told me she needed to interview someone for her community college class on nonprofit organizations. And so we agreed to meet in my office, where I do communications for a small nonprofit that runs a network of 12 food pantries. She was skinny, her voice was gravely, and her face was potholed as if she'd smoked cigarettes since she was a baby. Her hair was overly blond and kinda stringy yet she was well presented with a long skirt and pretty top. I had to listen hard to understand her words because she didn't enunciate like I'm used to; it was almost like hearing a heavy accent, the accent one talks when they've lived hard. I thought stupid, patronizing thoughts like how great it was that people like her could go to community college. She got right to her assignment, pulled out her notebook, and asked me questions.

"What's your mission?" she asked. I answered.

"Who do you serve?" she asked. I answered.

"Where do you get funding?" she asked. I answered.

And on with all the typical nonprofit questions, until she got to this question: "Do you have interns?" Yes, I answered. Not a lot but sometimes, I said. Why don't you send me your resume and tell me about your interests, I said.

And that's when the conversation shifted. She put her notebook down. She put her student persona down. She put her pretenses down.

"I'll tell you what my interests are," she said, looking straight at me, talking with confidence and conviction that she didn't exude a few moments earlier. Suddenly I could understand her very well. I no longer needed to strain my ears to pick up her sentences.

"My interests are women who are doing prison time and who shouldn't be," she said. "I'm not saying all of them, but I'd say at least half the women in Mitchellville (women's facility near Des Moines) shouldn't be there. They are victims. They were defending themselves. They did drugs to escape. They shouldn't be there and there are no services for them when they get out. They get sent to a halfway house but they don't need a halfway house, they need a chance. They need to get back into the world.

"But I can't do anything until I get my education," she continued. "That's what I'm focused on now." She working towards her associates degree, then her BA in Human Services.

The interview was over. We shook hands and she walked out of my office. I'd given her my business card but after she left it occured to me that I didn't even ask her name. For all I knew, she didn't really exist and I'd simply imagined her.

*

She told me she couldn't get food until Friday. It was Wednesday. She was eyeing the leftover food from our weekly dinner at church. It's food that we put in to-go containers for anyone to take home; food that otherwise would be thrown out during clean up. She told me she didn't want to take the leftovers that others might want. I talked her into taking it. My goodness, take it please. I put the food containers into a plastic bag so it wouldn't look so conspicuous that she was taking it. I asked her to wait so I could forage the church refridgerator for more food. I grabbed a gallon of milk and disguised it in another plastic bag. I gave her my work telephone number so we could chat tomorrow about what food pantry to go to. Later I realized that I could have also given her apples and oranges from the kitchen. I could have run to the grocery store for a gift card. I could have told Bob who could have come up with assistance from a church fund to give her. I could have fixed her life right then and there. Except there are a zillion people like her, thank you very much double dip recession and a cold hearted congress. And I can't fix anyone's life. But I tried as hard as I could to not have a pathetic look of pity on my face as she told me that her cubboards have never looked this bare, that she's never been in this situation before. "I'm a giver," she said, "Not a taker." And by the way, she works full time. She works full time and has no food in the house. Explain that. "We're all givers and takers," I said.

*

She told me she's transitioning from a man. I knew that but I pretended I didn't because I didn't want to hurt her feelings. Her new name is Rebecca Grace. "I got to pick my own name," she said with the most innocent tone of voice you can imagine; a sweetness hard earned by 50 or so years of utter anquish. My Lutheran friends believe that "grace" is a special word. It means loved unconditionally. It means loved nomatter what. It means loved in spite of who we are, what we do, and where we go. We Lutherans believe that but by grace alone do any of us thrive, survive, die, or stay alive. And for those who are into counting heaven, grace is the direct line in. It certainly has to be hard to transition from Michael to Rebecca. For those who are into counting hell, living in another body might be one way to do it. You've got so many people to freak out -- the wife, the kids, the family, the friends, the coworkers. She said that people at her workplace are scared of her. "All they have to do is talk to me," Rebecca Grace said. "I'm happy to answer questions. I won't hurt anyone."

*

These are just a few of the people I've encountered recently. There are so many more, and I wish I had time to write about them all.

Thanks for coming over to the Charmer blog! Wish you all a good night.

With love, T

Dear Planet Earth

Dear Planet Earth,

Hello, how are you today? I understand that you are due to deliver the 7 billionth inhabitant today, according to U.N. estimates. That's about double the global population since I was born, a few years ago in 1962. Evidently, there's a bit of concern how you will sustain all these people. How will they all eat? How will they all stay warm? How will they all get from point A to B? How will they all not fight over things such as water and oil on your crowded space?

If you don't mind, I wanted to offer up a simple 10-point, 10-word solution to ensure sustainability for you, dear Planet Earth. Let's call it the 10-10-10 plan. Here goes:

10 ways to ensure global sustainability, in 10 words:

  1. Women.
  2. Women's rights.
  3. Women's safe healthcare.
  4. Women and girl's education.
  5. Women in key leadership roles.
  6. Women who vote, women in charge.
  7. Women empowered to make their own decisions.
  8. Women who make choices over their own bodies.
  9. Women who are not beholden to decisions men make.
10. Women working in tandem with men for a better world.

You're welcome. Happy 7 billionth birthday!

With love, T

P.S. Dedicated to my husband, who gets this. (Love you!)

For my parents' 50th wedding anniversary

Yesterday we celebrated my parent's 50th wedding anniversary, hosted by the fabulous folks at United Methodist Church in Dexter, a small farm town in SE Minnesota. My mom asked me to give a little speech and here it is:

Today we’re here to celebrate 50 years of marriage of my mom and dad. Five decades of two people being together. If I did my math right that figures to 600 months of patience. 18,250 days of forgiveness. 26,280,000 seconds of commitment. One half century of ordinary days and extraordinary events. A golden anniversary of love—for better and for worse, as they say.

So what was it like 50 years ago? How many of you remember 1961? (show of hands) Was anyone born in 1961? You know, 1961 was a great year:

President John F. Kennedy established the Peace Corps.

Barbie’s boyfriend, the Ken doll, made his first appearance.

The number one song this week in 1961 was “Hit the Road Jack” by Ray Charles.

Pampers disposable diapers were available for the first time.

The cost of a first class stamp was 4 cents.

The academy award for best movie went to West Side Story.

Fellows styled their hair in crew cuts and ladies styled theirs in bouffant.

Minimum wage was $1 /hour.

A baby named Barak Obama was born.

And two teenagers in a small town in rural Minnesota decided to flirt.

It was a town called Pine Island where a couple of youngsters, 17-year-old Milford Edwin Mork Jr and 16-year-old Diane Pauline Stromback, were hanging out with their friends one summer night in front of the Rainbow Café on main street. These two crazy kids, Jr. and Diane, ended up crammed together in a carful of friends and road tripping to Rochester to buy a jar of pickled eggs. (Not recommended, by the way, for all you 16 and 17 year olds in the crowd! I'd definitely go for the deviled eggs.)

I’m using words like “teenagers” and “youngsters” and “crazy kids” but in reality, even at this tender age my dad had already taken on serious responsibilities of a hard working adult with the full time job as a truck driver. My mom was entering her senior year of high school.

They kept seeing each other to the backdrop of the music of Elvis Presley and country and western. Dad had a ’49 Ford with pin stripes and no reverse so he had to be careful where he parked because there was no backing out. And there was no backing out of this thing he had with my mom. I think it was one of those junctures that happens without even realizing it happened; no one knows exactly when it was decided but during the next months as they spent more and more time together, they just knew they’d eventually be married.

But the day it became real was into the next year. My mom had graduated from high school, finished beauty school, and worked as a stylist in Mantorville. One day my dad brought over an ad for Goodman Jewelers in the Cities. Apparently engagement rings were on sale – and so that was final proof that getting married was their destiny.

One “Starbright” diamond and one payment plan later -- Pine Island had themselves a newly engaged couple.

The wedding was at St. Paul Lutheran Church in Pine Island, Minnesota. The bride wore white. And the groom was late. I mean, getting married isn’t any excuse to skip out on your grain haul. It was October for pete’s sakes, a grain hauler’s busy time, wedding or no wedding, as my Dad’s strong sense of work ethic was already firmly set into the fabric of his character. (Invite crowd to view gorgeous wedding pictures and memorabilia.)

In what surely was the most romantic honeymoon on record, Mom and Dad took off in the truck for the destination city of Oneida, South Dakota, population 37. The truck had no heat but it mattered not to my Mom because she knew there was a special addition to this honeymoon – her father-in-law. Yup, that’s right, they honeymooned with Grandpa. The blissful threesome headed west and when my mom got cold, she ditched my dad and rode with my grandfather, whose truck had a mighty fine heater. This seemed like a pretty strong indicator that this family was going to last.

And so this marriage was off and running . . .and so was my dad in his truck, and so were the babies that were to be forthcoming, and so was my mom in her amazing way of running a household often times on her wits and grits and guts alone.

So, how exactly does a couple stay together for 50 years? I asked our resident experts, my Mom and Dad, and they had some pretty good advice for the rest of us.

Mom said it’s important to keep your individual interests yet to also develop common interests. For example, she nurtured her love for growing flowers by becoming a master gardener and starting her own greenhouse. My Mom enjoyed her yard and her house and her swimming pool and her friends. Yet she also made a specific effort to spend time with Dad by doing things together such as enjoying Nascar and wintering in Arizona. And we all know that she literally learned how to drive one of those big old trucks herself so they could go on the road together.

When I asked my Dad this same question – what advice he would give to a couples – his answer was quite a bit shorter. He said it takes “a lotta love, a lotta dedication, and willingness to compromise.”

Mom grows things and Dad delivers things. Petunias and lily’s. Potatoes and apples. Children and puppies. Humility and hard work. Now here we are in the year 2011, 51 years after that magical night in front of the Rainbow Café, 50 years after that lovely day at St. Paul Lutheran Church – we can see so much of what they grew and delivered.

Gratitude is one of those things that we often don’t think about until we miss something. It’s hard to be thankful for something that you don’t know you have. The air you breath. The legs you walk on. The house you live in. The people around you. For some reason it seems far too easy to focus on the things you don’t have – a better job, a nicer car, more money, more time. It seems that most often family and friends get together for sad occasions, such as funerals or tragic events, and then they wish they had spent more happier times together, or even just more boring times together. For anyone who’s experienced tragedy, you know that boring times are a blessing.

But if you can turn that around and take stock of all that you have, then it’s hard not to be grateful. The old fashioned way of saying it is “counting your blessings.”

And that’s why we’re here today – to count the blessings. 50 years of marriage brings a lot of blessings. Mom and Dad do see what they have. When I asked them about the things that they’re grateful for they listed so many things that I can’t even mention them all, but I’ll tell you a lot of them.

Mom used the word “respect” and how thankful she is that she received so much of it from my Dad and from us kids too. Mom is grateful that she is given the freedom to be creative with her yard and her house, to make it the home she’s always dreamed about. Mom is grateful that Dad was home for every birth and every Christmas – which is quite an amazing feat given the merciless demands of the truck driving industry.

When I asked my Dad about what he’s grateful for, he mentioned work, the fact that he’s had constant employment all these years. And indeed, even now pushing 70, he’s still at it driving truck coast to coast. He mentioned being grateful for good health and for a lotta luck. He said that he’s thankful for his wife, and I quote: “I think I got the best.”

And of course, Mom and Dad see their blessings whenever look at their children, their grandchildren, their greatgrandchildren. And if you’ll bear with me, I’d like to name us all of and ask if family members could please stand when I say your name.

Children - Tom, Trey, Russ, me

the ones who gave them grandchildren – Jennifer, Amy, Julie, Bob

grandchildren – Priscilla, Danielle, Brandee, Mackenzie, Mallory, Ashley, Paige, Aaron, Amanda, Aidan

great-grandchildren – Kylee (Kyle) and Hunter (Jake)

the Strombacks

the Morks

the friends and neighbors

And my parents see their many blessings when they see you all, their dear family and friends. As we look around this room and we see just small part of what Mom and Dad grew and delivered in their 50 years of marriage. And we give thanks for all the blessings.

Thank you. You’ve been wonderful. Please stay. Eat more food.

Before the mommy blogger there was Shirley Jackson, the mother of horror.

Life Among the Savages

By Shirley Jackson

Farrar, Straus and Young 1953

An Annotation

Life Among the Savages is s sweet mommy-memoir by Shirley Jackson, the same author who wrote a story that has terrified me since sixth grade, “The Lottery.”

As I read Life Among the Savages I couldn’t help but to wonder how her life experience of raising kids in a small town informed her creation of the horror masterpiece, The Lottery, set in a small town with a ritual of annual human sacrifice. Even the title begs the question, who does she mean when she refers to the “savages?” The kids? The townspeople? The parents? And what kind of writer includes the word “savage” in a sweet mommy-memoir title? But then again she titled her second sweet mommy memoir “Raising Demons” so there you go.


The book is full of stories of how it is to raise children, the tender, the frustrating, the funny, and the futile. As one who likes to write about the chaos of my children, I could easily relate to her setting. She opens by describing their house:

“Our house is old, and noisy, and full. When we moved into it we had two children and about five thousand books; I expect that when we finally overflow and move out again we will have perhaps twenty children and easily a half million books; we also own assorted beds and tables and chairs and rocking horses and lamps and doll dresses and ship models and paint brushes and literally thousands of socks.” (1)

She uses the word “and” over and over instead of inserting commas, a stylistic choice that emphasizes the chaos. As the book unfolds she often refers to the white house, its rooms, its pillars, its characteristics; almost as if it were an entity unto its own. She often places household elements as the subject of the sentence, and the people as the object, for example, when describing how the family moved into the house Jackson writes: "One bedroom chose the children, because it was large and showed unmistakable height marks on one wall and seemed to mind not at all when crayon marks appeared on the wallpaper and paint got spilled on the floor" (19-20). Focusing on the house itself is an effective way to tell the story of the people who live inside it, and it inspired me to consider writing my own mommy memoir centered around our big white house, which is a source of as much joy as incredible frustration. Think money pit meets the American dream.

But the other consideration in Jackson’s choice in lifting up the house as a character is knowing that she also wrote a famously frightening book, "The Haunting of Hill House," which I have not read yet but I’m curious if there is a connection in Jackson’s creative process. (This book has been sitting on my shelf waiting for me for months. It's first up after December graduation. :-)

While funny and sweet, Life Among the Savages seems to hint at that part of Jackson’s brain that can concoct the scariest tales ever. For example, she describes her search for a paid mother’s helper, recounting all the reasons why this or that household helper didn’t work out for the job. The mother’s helper, Amelia, who baked a batch of almost evil cookies helps show Jackson’s skill at blending funny and sweet with the slightly eerie:

“Amelia had but one major failing. The second day she was with us – which turned out, coincidentally, to be the last – she made cookies, spending all one joyous afternoon in the kitchen, droning happily to herself, fidgeting, cluttering, measuring.

“At dinner, dessert arrived with Amelia’s giggle and a flourish. She set the plate of cookies down in front of my husband, and my husband, who is a nervous man, glanced down at them and dropped his coffee cup. ‘Sinner,” the cookies announced in bold pink icing, “Sinner, repent.” (98-99)

In this short passage alone, Jackson manages to artfully join words like cookies, joyous, pink, nervous, sinner, and repent. I count her as one of my main influences.

Something about nothing

Thanks to the power of ice and redosing (two advil every five hours is what my pharmacist otherwise known as me has prescribed) I am here live and alive, ready and eager to blog to all of you, gloriously unchanged for two days in my galabea (fancy word for my Egyptian pajamas that, yes, I do occasionally wear in public).

I'm practicing writing really long sentences after a marathon of reading essays by the amazing David Foster Wallace (RIP), who wrote 100 pages about taking a cruise. One hundred pages about an experience mostly spent on the inside of his minuscule cabin because of his self-proclaimed agoraphobia. It's a fabulous essay and so is the one about the Illinois State Fair, which I mentioned in my last blog. I've never read anything before whereby the author starts out by outright insulting his editors and getting away with it. But they are not gratuitous insults, they are truthful ones. And the editors put up with it (although I notice they got edited out) but still, they paid him and gave him more jobs. Of course he was a brilliant writer, so that definitely helps in the getting away with it department. (Note to my current and potential editors: I promise that I am well aware that I could never get away with insulting my editors in my copy, nor would I ever want to. Code: please give me more paying work.)

So, this is what you do when you are flat on your back in bed. Besides looking out the window at the leaves and trees and noticing how one of the tree branches looks just like a descending snake, a head like that character on the Jungle Book movie. I would attempt to draw it, but it's hard to draw when you are flat on your back. I could appreciate why Frida Kahlo had a mirror attached to her ceiling, and then painted all sorts of weird things about her perceived and real body deformities, her having to be flat on her back for weeks and months at a time.

When you are flat on your back all your addictive NPR listening habits become heightened. I am now an expert on the Libyan revolution, the East Coast earthquake, and that former IMF guy who was able to forge a consensual relationship with a chamber maid in a mere nine-minutes. (Evidently, he was known for his charm.) Listening to NPR is awesome when you are flat on your back and staring at the ceiling or at the tree branch snake outside the window (or in the car or at work or cooking dinner).

It's hard not to get depressed when you are flat on your back. It takes me approximately three hours to transition from "hey, it's so nice to be still" to "oh my god, they'll have to check me into a nursing home soon." You start thinking about the sick, the invalid, the sad, the lonely. You realize just how close you are to all those things.

And it all started with a simple fluffing of the hair. All I meant to do was bend over (bad idea) and fluff up my newly washed, sprayed, and curled hair to look the freshest I could look on the way to work. And, zing, an electrical charge goes up the back, and the hair-fluffer falls to her knees staring close at the crumbs on the floor and that's about it. I think we'll be going back to the flattening iron -- no fluffing involved. Back to the no-nonsense look.

When you are flat on your back you think about all the things that you've been wanting to do like washing the dishes, scrubbing the floor, cleaning out the boy's bedroom from top to bottom and front to back, getting out the press release, updating the website, making extra keys, driving the kids around to endless hours of activities--all the glorious living that you miss so much.

Me and my galabea gotta go. And we thank you so much for coming by and send our apologies if there's anything we did to convey that this blog post had anything substantial to say.

With love, T (et al)

A Full Body Wrap for Mother's Day

Remembering Mother's Day 2007

I suppose because it's mother's day, I thought of an old blog post I wrote about a woman named Miss Kim, from our church in St. Paul, Christ Church on Capital Hill. (Site of the dancing wedding youtube craze that some of you may remember from last year.)

Wo be the introvert in that congregation because sharing of the peace lasts for about ten minutes and everyone generally rounds the whole sanctuary with greetings for all.

On Mother's Day 2007, Miss Kim, who survived the Vietnam war, shared the peace with me by giving me a full body wrap. (See the post.)
It was so cute! She is literally about half the size of me. It really got me to thinking about how complicated Mother's Day is. About mothers who lost their children. Mother's who couldn't have children. Mothers who left their children (in this church, there were enough refugees to hear stories of children separated by war).  Mothers who are astray from their children. Mothers who wanted children. Mothers who didn't.

About mothers who mother others.

About mothers who are forced to bear too many children. And the ones who die in childbirth. (See recent column by my guy, Nicolas Kristof.)

And then there are the "Motherless Daughters," as my current writing mentor, author Hope Edelman has coined in her researc, writing and networking for women who have lost mothers at a young age. She has built an amazing community of love and support and today she posted a lovely blog to commemorate lost mothers.

Bob and I count ourselves lucky to both claim living, lively, lovely mothers -- both who are here and now, yet sadly, so far away. And so we send out our love to Diane Mork of Dexter, Minnesota and Martha Speirs of Brooklyn, New York. I will admit that distance is really the pits. I really miss living in a place where we can participate in family gatherings. And yet we are so grateful for people like Miss Kim and everyone who offer us a full body of wrap where ever we are.

I write this blog and send it out to all of you who care for the children, who care for eachother. Happy Mother's Day.

With love, Terri

Soccer Mom v. Mustache Dad

Sunday afternoon was Amanda's first soccer game of the season. We were the away team playing at the Vision Soccer Academy fields in Waukee, Iowa, about ten miles outside of Des Moines. Take the last gravel road on the right and park next to the 360 panorama of corn fields and the biggest blue sky since last October. Sunshine all over the place. Glorious.

Me, my lawn chair, and my book (my usual soccer game fair) approached the field and searched for a place to settle down for one and half hours of no moving, no email, no thinking, no nothing but for to sit and be. About 99 percent of the time Bob has other stuff going on so he can't go to Amanda's Sunday soccer games. But I don't mind because me and my personal time do just fine together.


"Mom, did you see me make that awesome move or were you reading your book?" asks my daughter, often, after any given game.

"You did great! I saw some of your moves." But she and I both know that I mostly read my book at any given game.

On this past Sunday, I looked for a place to settle and since I was the last parent to arrive the whole parent side of the field was filled up. I had to start the second row and it occurred to me that I had no idea which side was "my" side. I didn't know who the opponent parents were and who my people were. I looked and looked and seriously, I didn't recognize anyone. You may think that Des Moines is just another small town in Iowa, but it's big enough so that we don't know anyone. People in school, in church, in soccer, in baseball--they don't mix. They are all completely different sets of people. I'm sure it's not like this for our opposing, host team, Waukee, a true blue small town in Iowa, where everyone really does mix and match. I don't even see the one family we do know to a small degree, our car pool family.

So I picked a random spot close to the center line and settled into the peace of the afternoon and my book. Suddenly, interrupting my la la land with all the fervor of a Budweiser commercial, Mustache Dad emerged from the line of parents -- standing, pacing, and sweating about ten feet in front of me.

"YOU'RE CLUMPING! GET OUT OF YOUR CLUMP GIRLS! SEPARATE! LET'S GO WILDCATS!"

To be honest, I didn't know what our team name was, but I was pretty sure it wasn't Wildcats. I was sitting in the opposing parent section. And I was in a beer commercial with Mustache Dad and a selection of mom's with an usually high ratio of long red hair.

"HEY WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF? NICE KICK! QUIT STANDING AROUND AND LOOKING AT THE BALL! BE A LEADER!"

I considered moving, but I was already cozied in and besides, where would I go? I didn't know which way was my people. All I could do was pull out a scrap paper from my purse (a crumpled envelope with my rumpled wages for 2010, which I was supposed to give to our tax man) and start scribbling down all the things that Mustache Dad was screaming into my ears. They say that no one is safe when there's a writer around.

"DON'T BACK OFF! NICE JOB! OUTSIDE! KICK THE BALL! GET IT OUT OF THERE! GET OUT OF YOUR CLUMP, GIRLS!"

The one percent of the time that Bob has joined me at soccer games, he is tempted to be like Mustache Dad, feeling that urge to coach from the parent section. Coaching is a vocation that comes from deep within, apparently. I just can't take it. I tell Bob he absolutely cannot yell instructions from the side. It makes me feel bad for the real coaches. Or maybe I'm just a prude. The ref did tell Mustache Dad to cool it, but there was some kind of explanation that I didn't catch wind of to the effect that Mustache Dad continued with his high decibel drill sergeant act for the entire game.

At half time two of the red headed mothers kindly befriended me. "Hi! Are you Amber's mom?!"

When they looked at my confused face, they knew what I was going to say before I said it. I knew that at that point, they didn't care who's mom I was. I thought it best just to say a polite, "Oh, no, I'm from the, um, other side."

"Oh," they said, with dropped faces. "Well, it's nice to see you anyway!"

"Your soccer field is really pretty," I said.

"It's rustic," they said. "Thanks."

"I love the cornfields," I said.

They could not have known that I was reading Shirley Jackson's memoir, Life Among the Savages which chronicles the maddening minutia of being a mother, wife, and citizen of a small town. The more I read it, the more I am convinced it forms the basis of her chilling short story, "The Lottery." (Which by now you surely believe I'm obsessed with.) And after being haunted by that tale since sixth grade, I now wonder if the protagonist--that poor woman who got stoned to death by her neighbors--was actually her, the author, Shirley Jackson. Because sometimes you feel like everything and everyone is coming after you, even when you're just trying to get your kids dressed and breakfast on the table and your daughter to school and your son to piano lessons and yourself to work and your deadlines met and your coffee cup to not leak all over the inside of your car. Maybe she wasn't making a sweeping social statement, but instead just conveying the experience of an extremely overwhelmed and harried mother. Maybe she's just telling the story of a woman who can't get any peace and quiet.

"WOW, WHAT AN AWESOME KICK! DID YOU SEE THAT KICK? GREAT KICK! NOW GIRLS, QUIT YOUR CLUMPING! THEY'RE NOT SEEING HOW THEY'RE CLUMPING."

It got to 87 degrees on Sunday. (Back to 30 degrees on Monday.) And so Amanda and I stopped for ice cream on the way home from Waukee. I forgot the score.

Thanks so much for coming over to the Charmer Blog and I would like to especially thank my friend Marty for making my day by asking for The Snake Charmer's Wife. And while I'm on tributes, I'll offer one up for my husband too, who listens to me drone on and on about this and that frustration. I'm starting to think that God is just plain and simple gratitude.

With love, T

A Giant Man. Remembering The Rev. Robert Nervig.




l to r: Pastors Robert Nervig, Bob,
Rachel Thorson Mithelman, Harry Mueller at Bob's ordination, 2007

"I had a dream about you."

That's what Pastor Robert Nervig said about 25 years ago to Bob (my Bob), who was then a happy bachelor making a good living fitting and fabricating prosthetic limbs and orthopedic braces. Enjoying a peaceful life in Brooklyn, where he was raised.

"I had a dream that you would be the youth director here at church." The church, Trinity Lutheran, was situated on 45th Street in the Sunset Park neighborhood of Brooklyn, New York. A community positively teeming with thousands of residents, and hundreds of kids with not much to do and no space to do it.

"Why would I give up a good job to be your youth director?" asked my Bob, who rather liked his quiet, bachelor life, and lucrative paycheck.

"Because I think you'd be good at it," said Pastor Bob Nervig with a gleam in his eye. "And just think of the possibilities. . ."

And many of you know the rest of the story. Pastor Bob and my Bob still keep (kept) in touch with the rascally kids who joined their youth group in that era, who are now lovely adults serving in their own ways as teachers, social workers, doctors, and entrepreneurs. Recently, at age 55, my Bob became an ordained minister and is joyfully serving his first call at St. John's Lutheran in Des Moines, whose people love him back one hundred fold. In some ways it seems so far away from 45th Street Brooklyn. And in other ways, it is a completely natural path for my Bob; yet one that he could not have imagined for himself if for not the dream of a mentor.


Who needs a good salary when you got this?
Seriously, here's the youth group, all grown up,
with Pastor Robert Nervig (making rabbit ears)
 at Bob's ordination in 2007.
Photo courtesy of Emily and Janeen, front row left and middle.

Pastor Bob Nervig imagined possibilities with not only my Bob, but so many other people. You can read the numerous tributes with your own eyes on his Caring Bridge site. "You changed my life" is a common theme. And now so many of us don't know quite what to make of the fact that he died today at about noontime. Apparently, peacefully and with many family members around him. Bob was blessed to see him twice in the past two weeks.

I can't even begin to say in this blog post what Pastor Robert Nervig has meant for my dear in-laws, the Speirs Family, indeed who are my in-laws because of the influence of Pastor Robert Nervig who one day, about 18 years ago, suggested that "Robbie" (my Bob's Brooklyn identity) take in a continuing education conference in the Black Hills of South Dakota (where I happen to be working at the time, and the rest of that is history).

It so it is a melancholy day here today. We think about the influence of one giant man on our lives, and in so many others. And we are so deeply grateful.

Is there really a God? Maybe, maybe not, but if you knew Pastor Robert Nervig, you would be certain that there is a God, and that God is generous, now and forever.

With love, T

But Who Will Clean Up the Projectile Vomit?

"Mom, I barfed."

I was happily sleeping, comfy in bed, middle of the night, when my 11-year-old son came to me with this news.

Admittedly, this is an abrupt change from the Egyptian revolution at the Snake Charmer's Wife. By the way, I thank all of you for your comments and support and prayers for my dear friend Heba and her family. And I thank Heba for the first hand account. I hope we can continue to foster this kind of global understanding at The Snake Charmer's Wife through personal accounts of real people.

Heba, habibi, my dear, if you're there -- thank you. From all of us -- thank you. I'll post your writing whenever you want. Just send it to me. You have a fan base here in the U.S.A. :-)

You may know that Heba and I became friends and Luther Seminary, where our whole families intertwined for several glorious years. I'm thrilled that I've been invited to write a chapter about family housing at Luther Seminary. That's my next project and I'll chat more about that later. But what you saw from Heba here on this blog, is just a sampling of the amazing friendships we made with people from all around the world at student housing.

But back to the barf.

That's Aidan's word. Barf. I prefer vomit or even throwing-up. But if I may be so bold as to offer advise to people who are seeking a partner in life, let me offer this wisdom: seek to partner with someone who will clean up the barf.

"Can you go tell Dad?" is how I responded to my sick son. I am still asleep and I so do not want to get out of bed and into the cold night air of upchucked food. (Our old house has a little heating issue, but that's for another dispatch.)

"Sure," my son said. I rolled over, snuggling into the flannel sheets. He told Bob, who was still up (nocturnal DNA), and who tackled that projectile vomitous carpet with the voracity of an athlete. If you are going to choose a spouse, choose someone who will scrub a 4 X 6 section of beige rug, splayed of brown colored stomache bile, like he really cares. Like he cares so much that he doesn't make you feel guilty for not taking this on. For sleeping through it. For not even mentioning it until two days later when you remember to say:

"By the way, thanks for cleaning up the vomit."

He's so intense about it that he doesn't even say you're welcome. Instead he tells you about all the strategies for getting up the stain, for getting out the smell. Like basketball plays. Or football maneuvers. Or baseball spring training. Projectile puke, surrender!

People, let me tell you, that is the kind of domestic partner you want. If it's too late, I'm so sorry, Maybe you can draw some comfort in the fact that there is one lucky woman in Des Moines, Iowa, who never has to clean up her children's body emissions. Be happy for my joy.

Thanks for coming over to the Charmer Blog.

With love, Terri

Guest Post: Heba's Reflections on the Revolution

The Snake Charmer's Wife's favorite photo
from the revolution, courtesy of the Atlantic Magazine.
A protestor kissing an anti-protester police. 

I asked (begged) Heba to send me her reflections on the revolution and I'm so honored that she did. We would both be mighty grateful if you posted your comments of support. Thanks so much for coming over to the Charmer Blog.

...

"Do you think it's time to leave the country dear?" I asked Magdi anxiously.

"Honey, If I was out of the country, I would come back to be in Egypt during this difficult time" answered Magdi thoughtfully. I couldn't say a word. Magdi, to those who do not know him well, is very Egyptian.

"Take the kids with you tonight so they do their share in protecting the neighborhood and the country." I didn't realize how very Egyptian I am too until we were going through all this.

It is so hard to describe how my feelings were. There is alot in our lives we take for granted, one of them feeling secured. The horror we went through assured to us that our security is not in the government, the police, our properties or wealth because all this can change within a day and night. It is in GOD the only one who can protect us.

We all learnt valuable lessons. This revolution brought out the best in the Egyptian people. We never realized how much we love our country, or how civilized we all can be. The Muslim-Christian relationship was rediscovered again we learnt that there is a better way. We are stronger than what we think and can do better than what the old regime was trying to convince us with.

Before Jan. 25th I used to chat with those youth on Facebook. I realized how aware they were, but no one imagine the scenario of this revolution, not even the youth themselves. Mobarak was always late and his words were always provocative to everyone. On Tuesday Feb. 2nd everyone thought that his promise that neither him nor his son will run for elections again andthat he will reform the regime should be enough and finally we have a little hope, But Wednesday morning was the last straw when the young men and ladies were beaten to death for no obvious reason. Everyone was confused. This took the whole matter to a different detour, and the rest of the event you probably know.

I went to "Tahrir" square on Wednesday the 9th and saw a huge spectrum of people. It was so wonderful to see such diverse people gathered together for one cause, Bread – Dignity and Freedom. Some were cleaning, some were singing, some were looking after protestors needs, some were treating the injured ones, some were throwing jokes, but many were shouting protesting sentences. I joined the last group under the big flag circling the square.

On Friday Feb.11th Mobarak stepped down (most probably the military forced him to do so) celebration filled the whole country streets, songs, dancing, and fireworks. We have never seen Egypt celebrating in such way not even when the national football team wins one of the world cup matches.

This revolution was very healthy because it clears up many things, but this needs another blog my dear friends

We see Egypt now with new eyes. Even the air smells different.

Love to all,

Heba

"The spirit intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words to express."

Once I heard a pastor preach that if you don't know how to pray it's Ok, because we all have things we're good at and things we're not. I always remember that because I do not consider myself good at praying. To be perfectly honest, I don't believe in it. I just plain don't see how human pleas can advise an almighty God of the universe. Plus, the outcomes seem so random.

And yet I am calling on you to pray.

Don't call on me to make sense, I'm just doing what my friend asked. Heba asked me to ask you to all pray. To enlist your prayer chains. To organize your prayer groups. To make your conversation with God, with Jesus, with the Holy Ghost. To call upon the spirits. To generate the positive energy. To caste out the demons.

In recent weeks, I have been saying the Lord's Prayer a lot. Over and over. The repetition relaxes me. The hope reassures me. And if it does unleash some kind of a supernatural power for good, well that would be a bonus. Maybe I'm just tired and I don't know how else to resolve my daily thinking but to repeat a mantra.

It's actually ironic that I hold such doubts about prayer because I'm basically writing a book about it and the surprising ways I have utilized it. My book, that I attempt to write a half hour a day. (Not lately, though.) We were seriously living on a prayer when Bob was sick (I keep bringing that up lately) and even though it was a true blue miracle he survived, how can I say it was due to prayer given all the people who do not survive tragedy? I can not. But I can say this -- prayer always made me feel better. It made me feel better when I was alone with an evil presence. And it made me feel better when neighbors came and prayed on our behalf.

Will prayer assure a peaceful resolution in Egypt? All I can say is that question is not mine to answer. And it is not my call to ask you to pray. I ask because Heba asks. And Heba believes in prayer with all her heart, mind and soul.

Today I actually panicked and took my recent posts offline. I deleted all my facebook references. I asked my editor to remove my post on LivingLutheran.com. I worried that my words would implicate friends. I envisioned myself as fanning the violence. Only after triple checking with Heba that it's OK, did I put it back online. She said that this blog is "a great support." But it's not because of me--it's because of all of you, dear Charmer Readers.Thank you for coming here. Thank you for your prayers. Thank you for promoting peace.

Pray for Egypt.

With love, T

The Spirit Intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words to express. Romans 8:26

The Fantastical and Tonight

I keep thinking about the Egyptian men and boys doing night patrol to protect their neighborhoods. It's about 4:30 a.m. in Cairo as I write this, and I can't wrap my brain around the idea that two boys, Rafi and Wasim (see pics two posts below), are doing night patrol along with their father and other boys and men.

I think about when 4th-grade Wasim first knocked on our door to invite 2nd-grade Amanda to ride bikes together. He was so polite and smiley and elementary-school-handsome, it made us instant believers in the merits of an arranged marriage. It was the first time we let Amanda outside without parental supervision because there is a quality about Wasim that makes you trust him. They rode bikes a lot that summer, the first taste of independence and freedom. The two rode around the perimeter of family housing: through the playground, across the parking lot, up the hill, behind the building, and then circling the same route again. It was almost like their legs peddled in sinc. When I think of the two bike riding together, it plays slow motion in my mind, with a sappy happy soundtrack. It's how you imagine the perfect kind of childhood.

I think about Rafi and Aidan potty training together. Not that it was purposefully together, but we just spent a lot of time together and it happened to be that time of life for both boys. We used words like poo poo, pee pee, poopie or some other brilliant parenting phrase. Rafi's word was kaka. So we also heard that word and in fact, Aidan used all these words interchangebly. But it gets better. Our next door neighbors were from Tanzania and so Swahili was spoken in that household, where Aidan also spent alot of time. Apparently, the Swahili word for brother is--you guessed it--kaka. Aidan thought this was fantastical! How could one word be so naughty yet so nice? And perfectly acceptible to say in front of adults. So Aidan got to work with his bilingual skills, trying out linguistical tricks with his friends such as, "Where is your kaka? Do you have a kaka? Can I see your kaka?" and you get the idea. He considerred himself clever, and to be honest so did I. Still, we instructed him that he could only use words in a way that made sense to the family he was with. "Oh," he said.

If you know me, you know I don't understand how prayer works, why it seems to work sometimes and not other times. I can't help but to ask why would an all powerful God needs human advise to do the right thing. Yet I lean on prayer when I don't know what else to do. Heba and Magdi are full believers in the power of prayer. When Bob's liver failed, they were already back in Cairo, and they told me later that when they heard the news they instantly got down on their knees and prayed for healing.

Tonight, I don't know what else to do. But I do know that I don't like the idea of Wasim and Rafi doing night patrol. I don't like the idea of what could happen tomorrow, given the violence today. And so I pray that Mubarrek would accept a dignified and speedy departure from his position. That this country can start to rebuild. That the forces of goodness will prevail in the short run, the long term, tonight, tomorrow and forever.

And I give thanks for all of you who join me in this call for peace.

With love, T

Heba and Magdi ask. . .

Just heard from Heba and Magdi. . .

First I wanted to thank everyone who has asked about them because today when I got a suprise  phone call (evidently the internet is back on in Egypt) it was wonderful to tell them that "everyone is worried, everyone is praying, everyone is asking about you."

Our connection was not clear at all, but I wanted to convey what I heard from Heba:

They are OK.

The seminary is OK.

They are very worried with how this situation will resolve.

The kids are scared and they're trying to avoid watching too much news.

They are holed up in their apartment and running out of supplies.

Yet they have received deliveries of food and blankets. Heba says she has no idea who is providing these supplies and how they are making deliveries. (>>Please see Heba's clarification in the comments section.)

Magdi and the boys join the men on night patrol to protect the building.

Evidently, Mubarrek is telling people that they must go back to work tomorrow. (I believe Heba is an English teacher and also a host to visitors from outside the country.) She's worried because her commute is through the square and things have turned violent. (Mubarrek has called out his thugs--my words, not hers.) She's trying to decide what to do. Mubarrek says that people who don't report to work will be docked pay.

Heba asks this: She asks if we would all pray. If we could arrange prayer groups and prayer chains. I told her that I would convey this message.

Thanks so much to all. If you'd like to leave a message here that shows your support, I know it would be greatly appreciated.

Peace . Love . Joy . Blessings . Change . Do the right thing . Be kind . Help one another.

Love, T

Heba, Habibi

A couple weeks ago I got lectured on my facebook wall by my friend, Heba. It was after the church bombing in Alexandria, Egypt, and "you usually call to check on me in such times and you did not call!"

She was right. I didn't call. And I almost started facebooking back all my excuses, I'm very busy, I'm really stressed, I'm so sorry. Lame. All I wrote was, I'll call you.

Heba is Egyptian. Raised in Sudan as the daughter of Christian missionaries, she now lives in Cairo as the wife of an Old Testament scholar. But Heba, who graduated from the University of Minnesota with a Masters in Educational Curriculum, is a force all unto herself and I must be careful in the stories I tell lest the revolution be over and she gets back on the internet and reads my words. :-)

These adorable children are the same ages as our children, plus they
used to all play together constantly, hence the intensity of our friendship.
Obviously, the kids are all now teenagers (Wasim has graduated
from high school!), but the rest of us never age.

Heba was the family housing administrator at Luther Seminary and ran that place like she lived there forever. Heba's kids and my kids are the same age so we potty-trained together, we picnicked together, we vacationed together, we cried together and mostly, we laughed together. (photo left: lifted from facebook, taken while in seminary--adorable!)

When they departed Minneapolis, we drove them to the airport and madly helped repack their bags at the baggage check in desk thanks to newly changed poundage limits. Actually, my job was to run after Rafi and Aidan who were playing tag in the terminal. The airline gatekeeper gave Heba and her family the third degree for "having one-way tickets to Egypt." (Um, its called going home.) Bob implored the airline worker that he didn't understand, he was talking to a Doctor of Philosophy and his family. Leave them alone.

Heba has a phone number that connects overseas like a local phone number. And so I was determined to keep my promise to call her, lest I get publicly whip lashed on facebook again. Keep in mind this was all before the popular uprising started last week. Keep in mind that she commented right here on this blog just one day before everything broke loose.

So, a week before the revolution, Heba and I played phone tag and when she finally got through to me I was driving through a snow storm and couldn't pick up. "Call me again same time tomorrow," I facebooked her. And then Mubarrek had to go and shut down the internet so I have no idea how she and the family are doing. It's kind of nerve wracking.

But today I got a sign. The news coverage said today that people of all sectors are showing up to the protests. Teachers, professors, "they're bringing their children," said the coverage, "They're bringing food."  

That's it, they're OK, because that's what Heba would do. She would bring food. She always served food. When we went places we would squish into our minivan, which was one seat short of our two families. This made me crazy as I am a firm believer in one-person, one-seatbelt. No, we gallivanted around the Twin Cities, Cairo-style. I saw bloody accident scenes in my mind's eye. I saw red lights of law enforcement in my mind's rear view mirror. I saw lawsuit papers in my mind's mailbox.

And what did Heba see? Food. She pulled out a tray of Middle Eastern delights and passed it around the van--front seat, middle seat, back seat, another round. I kid you not.

I sat stiff with the assurance that we would crash and die. Everyone else just sat and ate.

"Got any baklava?" Bob asked Heba, as he scarfed down the hummus, pita, feta, cucumbers and what have you, wiping his hands on his jeans.

"Oh Bob, I sure do!" and Heba pulled out a party plate of sticky, sweet, flaky treats.

I offer just this one story of Heba's hospitality.

Apparently, according to the news coverage, people are bringing food to the revolution.

I pray everyone is OK. I pray they are safe. I pray for Egypt, for democracy, for peace, for the people who watch over each other. I pray for change.

Heba, Habibi, if you read this, please call.

With love, T