Burning the Misplaced Pieces of the Past

Not long after Mark and I were engaged, I began to think about our love story, the one we would tell our children. We would share details that make all epic stories come to life: how we met as singing waiters our junior year of college, and how he compelled me to take his drink orders because it was against his moral code - a code I challenged him to find a cogent and systematic thought process to use for his defense. We would also share how he voluntarily bused my tables prior to driving me back to my dorm each weekend night in his white Honda Civic and how we carried take-home containers of chocolate truffe mousse to my room to share. We would even - maybe - confess how he stayed right up to (and even past some nights) the dormitory's visitation hours.

From courtship through engagement, the story of our early romance would convey to our yet unconceived children how our love surpassed all other stories of romance that might have been written for each of us had we not dared to take a chance on dating a type of person we never expected to meet.

I also wanted to safeguard our story from mythology - illusions about our romance or romances we had abandoned along with the romancers who had abandoned us. I wanted our children to know only of our misgivings and mistakes. Our love had not bloomed without rainy days. We had even endured a storm only weeks prior to our engagement. But bloom, it did, even surviving harsh seasons. The hardiest perennials do. Our children would need to know that.

They would need to know that the first bloom appeared about 29 years ago, back when I worried about notes, other love letters written by other suitors, being found by future children. Those scraps of paper outlined stories that should never be told, I believed. Not if Mark and I were to commit ourselves only to each other. We were collaborators of an epic saga, a saga that would birth beautiful children who would know only of the love that bore them.

Therefore, the other love notes had to be burned. No misplaced pieces of our separate pasts should supplant our storyline.

Our tale of love had begun to weave its way from the Chalet Room at Carver's Restaurant, and it deserved a clear path to the lively retirement abode we would choose for our most golden and final years. Our children should never doubt the wisdom we had exercised in our early 20s when we chose to travel a complex but unified path together. "Wisdom" and "early 20s." Could there be such a combination? If so, we needed to affirm it. Protect it. We needed to burn the notes.

Still, what if the relationship that our children would see in the future didn't live as vividly for them as any colorful tales they might freely concoct? Perhaps not having other notes would not matter. Even if evidence did not exist, vividly imagined details could be invented - by them, if not us. What if some mythological storyline - crafted even without the aid of rejected love notes - could unseat our real life story anyway?

Until our children could write the toughest chapters of their own hearts' tales, they could comprehend love. Not really. 

Love - sustaining love - is nurtured through careers and children and broken dreams and dream vacations and experimental vocations and heartaches and midlife crises and ordinary days of non-crises and retirement and, well, things I cannot know of either - not yet anyway. My great love story is far from over, and while I have witnessed other great loves, their endings have not been well documented - not as well as their beginnings. Perhaps endings are so intensely personal, so poignant and full, they cannot be wholly shared. Or maybe the greatest love stories have no endings because they do not end. What a merciful thought.

That is why those other notes - puzzle pieces of unseasoned passion - had to be burned; they were burned, turned into ash that matched the relationships that bore them. Our children cannot resurrect them. Neither can we.

Mark destroyed his on a day and in a manner of his choosing before I had a chance to add mine to his pile. Fitting perhaps, for we had collected them separately; separately they turned into ash.  I am grateful their embers flamed the fire that has warmed us for nearly three decades. Those relationships mattered too.

Today I took out the collection of love letters that survived those years - Mark's cards and hand-written pages to me during our courtship. I read one. Then one more. Still another. I read in search of me and the man I chose to marry. Can we really be found in the words of those love epistles? They are now as mysterious to me as they will be to our children one day when they find them. Hidden in plain sight.

I don't need to read them to recall who I married. According to those love letters, that man does not exist anymore anyway.

Anytime I need to recall the story of my life's great love, I will simply walk into my kitchen at dinner time. He will be standing near the stove, either cooking the evening meal for our family or insisting on helping me do the same. And when our family meal has ended, he'll help me bus our table - plates and glasses into the dishwater, pots and pans washed in the sink. There will be no need for him to drive me home. We will already be there. Our sons have seen that part of our story many times. That might be all they really need to know.    

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Note: The poem that sparked my thinking is "His Elderly Father as a Young Man" by Leo Dangel. I would post it here for you to enjoy as well but do want to commit copyright infringement. I encourage you to find it in Home from the Field, © Spoon River Poetry Press, 1997.

Donut Days and Deep Roots

Tonight I discovered something about myself that should have been pretty obvious: The fact that our family has donuts for breakfast each Saturday is more than a treat for me. It’s an emotionally comforting ritual with deep roots.

In college, during Mark’s and my stint as singing waiters, Saturday mornings were our time to rehearse the music for our weekend dinner shows. Larry Kussatz, the owner of Carver’s Restaurant and our music director, would always have fresh pots of coffee and platters of donuts ready for us at 9 a.m. We each had our favorite selections – donuts and songs – and we each counted on this weekly ritual, just as we counted on each other to fill in the melody or harmony of our particular vocal part.

As Mark and I reconnected tonight with Pamela Cross Samuels, one of a select few who knows what it felt like to be a Carver’s Singer, I found myself grateful for the comfort my Saturday donut continues to bring me each week. I also found myself hoping that Pam has something similar to comfort her at the end of weeks when she might feel at bit overwhelmed at times.

In the years since we entertained diners at Carver’s (Craig Bennett being such a patron), we’ve all experienced some fairly daunting life detours. The most dramatic part of Mark’s and my detour story is connected to Stross’ birth, as recounted in Involuntary Joy. Yet Pam’s and Craig’s lives have also been defined by moments that are equally as book-worthy.

For instance, HIV has detoured Craig’s life plans while leukemia has detoured Pam’s. Her diagnosis came six months after losing her mother to cancer and seven years after becoming a single mother. Yet it’s clear that Pam refuses to have her life defined by chronic myelogenous leukemia (CML), single-parenthood or life without her mother.

As we lingered tonight – laughing over who we were back then and how we lived out our more naïve existences – we affirmed the rhythm of life and the transcendent power of love. We helped transport each other to happier times, silently acknowledging a fierce, if unspoken, love for one another along with an inability to fully recognize that love for what it is.

Tonight we affirmed there is nothing that can diminish the power of life itself. Not physical and intellectual disabilities, not HIV, not singleness, not single parenthood, not the loss of a parent, not the loss of a job - not even chronic myelogenous leukemia.

And certainly, if we ever experience a week when we begin to feel diminished or overwhelmed, we can count on the revival that Saturday morning donuts and a fresh pot of coffee might bring. Emotional comfort with deep roots. “What would I do without my music? What would I do without my song? What would I do without my music, to pick me up when everything seems wrong?”

Love to you, Pam. Thanks for the memories. And, thanks to you, too, Craig! Let’s do it again. Soon. Life’s way too short. (Don’t we know it!)

The Man is a Genius - I Have Proof

I realize that wives can sound biased in conversations regarding their husbands. Too many accolades can come off as too much ... uh ... too much ... well, let's just leave it at "too much."

But today I believe I found proof that my husband is a genius. At a minimum, I found proof that he is the kind of professional who stays abreast of the latest developments in his field - digital technology - and that he knows when to believe what is being touted in a trade journal and when to leave well enough alone.

Ok, I hear you, students who lived through the Jaz Drive era in the multimedia lab. He missed on that. But so did a lot of others. Therefore, I am very willing to cut him some slack.

Even with that Jaz Drive decision on his record, Mark still is a genius. I found the proof in a newspaper article titled "Cosmic Communications" from the Sunday, July 28, 1996, Mason City Globe Gazette. It was part of their 2001 North Iowa Economic Odyssey series. The article was written only a year or so after the Internet began to become part of daily life, and the reporter interviewed Mark along with other individuals regarded as local technology experts.

Please check out Mark's quote in the prediction box. While another individual shares the quote (not sure how that works), Mark's solitary genius is apparent in another portion of the article where he is credited with predicting that within five years, "company-wide 'intranets' will become more widely available for corporation insiders to use with a back door to their server on the Internet." Not bad. Actually pretty incredible.

I dare you to read Mark's "prediction" in the quote box and not wonder if he harbored some latent prototype designs that could have been cousins to today's Blackberry or iPhone. Most likely the iPhone or iPad, as he has always been a fan of Apple Computers. Always. Our first computing system was an Apple IIe. Now our youngest is using his confirmation money to purchase an iPad - with his father's blessing.

Really, check it out:

In the future, people will not only work at home with their personal computers, but probably will begin doing more computing with their television set.

There may be one unit capable of providing entertainment and completing work.

People will have the option of choosing with their remote control whether they want to just watch television or balance their checkbook or complete a homework assignment at the same time.

In time, the television, telephone and computer will all be melded together in one unit.

When I finished reading that today, I almost thought Mark might have possessed the ability - 14 years ago - to foresee how Stross would head into the bathroom to do his daily, every-four-hour cares, armed with his iPod and its storehouse of downloaded music, movies and television shows or his ongoing, interactive Facebook conversations and weather updates.

Our sons know their father's technological tendencies. In fact, they possess some of the same. So do many of Mark's former students. In the past 17 years, as Mark has learned, they have too; and those whose minds move like Mark's typically moved on to a career where technology motivates.

So, think what you will. Just know that when I read Mark's pull quote in this article today, I filled with pride. My husband is a genius.

Of course I knew that. But now I have proof.

The last ones dancing

Now that I have a Flip camera, it seems I have a difficult time not capturing certain moments of life as I see them unfolding. And so many things seem to unfold in the intense moments just before a bride walks down the aisle. Same for the intimate moments of the ceremony itself and the instantaneous moments that occur once the celebrating truly begins.

Our family attended the wedding of a former student near the end of August. I caught some of it on video; the bride gave me her blessing to share it with you. If you choose to watch it, you still won't be able to see what I saw. For, like other married persons, I experience weddings as a time of personal reflection. This day was no different. Well, other than the fact that on the way to the wedding, Mark and I argued in the car - loudly. Yes, we exposed our children to the nonsense of a marital fight. I would use the word "disagreement," but who would I be kidding? When a husband and a wife argue, it is a fight with words. Someone wants to win.

Am I ashamed our sons were captive to such? Yes. Does that mean Mark and I will never do such a thing again? I hope so. But odds are against it. We love intensely; we fight intensely. We make up reluctantly, but intentionally. We try to be sure our sons get to see the "it's all better" part too.

Of course I cannot remember what was so important to be right about. After all, winning is about being right. Right? It was something totally stupid, I am sure. I have a feeling if I ask either of our sons, they could tell me. But I won't ask. Who wants to dredge then reexamine stupidity? Not I.

What I do remember from that day is realizing that Mark and I are extremely different from the blushing bride and bursting-with-pride groom we were in 1986. On the Friday of Memorial Day weekend that year, we stood arm-in-arm, listening to the officiant of our wedding, Rev. Larry Trachte, declare that May 30 was "a day marked with joy." Then, as newlyweds during Mark's seminary years, we became Mark and Joy. I'd even say that the experiences of that time period turned us into Mark&Joy - a symbiotic couple whose relationship further deepened and solidified after a miscarriage and the birth of our first child only a few years later.

Nearly 25 years since we said our own "I dos" (I believe we actually said "I will"), it remains difficult to know where one of us ends and other other begins. That isn't necessarily good.

During the summer of 2000, we treated ourselves to some marriage counseling sessions and discovered how intensely entwined our relationship had become. We had not lost our individual identities, but we had to admit that Stross had caused Mark&Joy to become exponentially more important than either Mark or Joy.

That is still true today. In fact, I can't imagine it not being true, and I'm not sure if that is necessarily good, either. But it is, what it is, as they say.

Here is what I do know. When Mark takes a hit, I get bruised; and when I get cut, Mark bleeds. What's more, if someone dares to bare his or her teeth our direction, it is not clear which one of us will have the most difficult time not biting back.

On the day of this wedding, once we had time for tempers to cool - courtesy of a wedding aura - Mark and I welcomed the opportunity to come together at the invitation of the dj: "All married couples, come join the bride and groom for a special anniversary dance." And had we not willingly walked to the dance floor together, our sons would have insisted.

What occurred next, however, brought even more perspective. The dj kept announcing criteria for which couples could remain on the dance floor: "Everyone except the bride and groom who has been married X number of years or less, please have a seat." Finally, four announcements of time increments later, guess which couple was almost the last one dancing? Mark&Joy. According to the bride's estimate, we outlasted everyone but the groom's parents.

This silly dancing game reminded us that long marriages are, indeed, rare. And that, at nearly 25 years, our marriage might be as rare as we have always believed it to be.

When we vowed to spend our lives with one another one quarter of a century ago, we had no ability to comprehend how different we would be from the young man and young woman who stood facing each other, hand-in-hand that day. If that tall, handsome, smiley, Southern Baptist man came to find me today, I'm not sure I'd know what to do. I'm confident Mark would have the same difficulty if he found himself face to face with the dark-eyed, daintier, dimpled darling I used to be.

I wish I could have done a better job capturing all the moments that have shaped who we have become. But I would have needed a Flip camera capable of capturing faith. No piece of film, no byte of data can ever make that come to be. Memory even fails. But that doesn't matter, I will never forget what I have. It is exactly what I hoped for nearly 25 years ago: a life partner who continues to stand beside me no matter what life threatens to throw our way. And his faith in us and our future remains as fierce as it was so many years ago.

For a guy who grew up not going to dances, he's sure an incredible dancer. And I'm incredibly blessed to be the one who gets to dance with him. I sure hope we aren't taking it for granted that - as on the night of that wedding - we are becoming some of the last ones still dancing together.

"For I know the plans I have for you ... plans to prosper, and not to harm; plans for hope and a future."

Dear God, search us and know our hearts; test us and know our thoughts. See if there are any wicked ways in us, and lead us in the way everlasting. And, dear God, please keep us close. Allow us to keep feeling your heart while we dance for we wish to remain with you through it all - until the last ones dancing.
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Stross Goes to Scout Camp: The Complete Series

There are about 800 copies of Involuntary Joy in circulation. Those of you who have read it know that it tells the story of my first five years of motherhood. But it is not only a mommy memoir. It recounts how Mark and I met and how we forged the earliest years of our marriage. It also shares what happened to us individually as we navigated the perfect storm that Stross' birth set in motion, and how we learned to grieve things that we couldn't fully understand we had lost. Perhaps it also shows how we - somehow - have managed to stay together.

My motivation for writing Involuntary Joy was simply to tell a story that life had not yet allowed us to share. I sensed there were countless other families in the same situation - wanting people to know what had happened to our lives because of a child with extraordinary needs. I was simply willing to bare it all. To write things that people sometimes fear to say aloud.

It struck me that I did that again this week by sharing my day-by-day account of what it took for us to get Stross through Boy Scout Camp. These blogs have come the closest to me writing the sequel to Involuntary Joy that I sometimes get asked about. And unlike a book, you get the videos too, so you can see and hear Stross for yourself.

Maybe there will be a real sequel to Involuntary Joy one day. I don't know. I guess I would first have to know that people would really want to read it. But please know this. I am deeply thankful to those of you who traveled our Boy Scout experience with us. You dared to share in our vulnerabilities, and I trust that you - in some way - felt it worth your time.

I believe it is too easy to look, smile, and then either say or think something like: "I don't know how you do it." Or, "God never gives you more than you can handle, does he?" Or, "I admire you. I sure couldn't do what you do." Or even, "Such a blessing. God knew what he was doing when he gave Stross to you."

When I mentally prepare my response, I always - always - resist the urge to rebuff. I know that the person who is sharing the statement intends it as a compliment. I know that. I do. But it always feels like Mark's and my experiences have been lessened in someway - edited to a manageable Hallmark After School Special.

What I hope to accomplish whenever I write about Stross is to invite others to really share the stuff of our lives. It's my way of saying:

• Do you really want to know how I do it?

• Have you ever taken the time to really consider what you would do, the choices you would make, how you would live your life differently because many things you took for granted are no more?

• Do you want to know what I think about your notion of a providential God?

• What is your idea of a blessing? Let's compare notes and allow me to show you how far down the rabbit hole goes.

So, thank you, again, for taking the time to share in our lives this past week as we lived through the range of emotions and experiences of Boy Scout Camp. I am strengthened by your companionship on our family's journey.

When I get the chance to speak to students, educators or medical professionals, I try to explain what it means to live as if life is ready to swirl into a perfect storm. It may seem cliche, but it remains the best metaphor I have for sharing the turmoil of life with a child who has disabilities. Finances, marriage, employment, friends & family, faith - it all regularly gets thrown into turmoil around some issue that places your child in the eye of the storm.

If you know of a family who is also moving through life amid a perfect storm, please share this series with them. It might renew their hope in the future as it has for me. Or it might, simply, let them know they are not alone. And, if you are able to share with them any new insights it has provided you about how they might be moving through life, your words will come as a valued gift. Remember to use these words: "Is that how you might feel too? I guess I haven't known."

I don't know when I'll have such a series to share again, but I will continue to regularly post about our everyday lives. I look forward to "seeing" you whenever you come.


Stross Goes to Scout Camp: Day 1

Stross Goes to Scout Camp: Day 2

Stross Goes to Scout Camp: Day 3

Stross Goes to Scout Camp: Day 4

Stross Goes to Scout Camp: Day 5

Stross Goes to Scout Camp: Day 6
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Stross Goes to Scout Camp: Day 6 (in a series)

Boy Scout Camp – Day #6
Nighttime, Friday, July 23, 2010

Today I got to see and experience a little bit of what camp was like for Stross and Mark this week. But only a little bit.

I am fully aware that everything that has happened for Stross this week absolutely could not have happened without Mark. My contributions pale in comparison, as do those of the Scout leaders and camp counselors. Sure, we could say it took us all working together. But, really, without Mark, nothing else could have happened as easily or with the focus on what really mattered: making Stross’ dream of attending a real Boy Scout Camp come true.

Mark and Stross were up at 6:20 a.m. and on the road back to camp by 7 a.m. Mark slept soundly last night even after taking two fairly lengthy afternoon naps. He was beyond tired yesterday, but his time of respite had him rejuvenated enough to head out the door in plenty of time for Stross to get to his first session. In fact, those at camp worked with Stross today to help him catch up on what he missed yesterday, so by the time Skye and I arrived at camp, courtesy of a ride from my sister, Jill, Stross had everything punched on his card: a rewarding accomplishment. But, again, it didn’t happen easily and not without a great deal of support for Stross’ brand of independence.

A day is coming – sooner than Mark and I care to admit – when we will need to broaden our circle of support even wider, entrusting others to help us keep making Stross’ dreams come true. Soon we will need to do what all parents do – facilitate launching both of our sons into situations that will allow them to be as independent as possible, according to their respective abilities. Where Stross is concerned, that means expanding our team of respite nurses and supported community living supervisors to also include an organization with resources – personnel and medical – beyond what we can provide for him. And we will have to do it, because we cannot always be here to keep doing these things for him.

I am not sure if those of you who are reading this fully connect with what you have been experiencing. Lurking under all of the anxiety-ridden and problem-solving experiences, and even infused in the joyful and peace-filled moments of accomplishment, there is an undercurrent of mortality. Mark and I faced our deaths this week.

Who will do this for Stross when we are not here? Who will help make his dreams come true?

We don’t have answers to those questions yet. We have ideas. We have some contingency plans. But we don’t have sufficient answers to our life’s most important questions. I wonder if parents with children who have disabilities ever feel that they do. I also wonder if they too hope to outlive their child for their child’s sake.

We are not worried about Skye’s future.

We are deathly afraid about Stross’.

During the span of his two decades of life, we have lived conflicting dynamics. We know how much things cost, and we know the types of things insurers label over-and-above. We know what we want Stross to have according to our definition of quality of life. We know there are people who believe that if you cannot afford healthcare, you should figure out how to live without it – or not live, I guess. We also know there are people who fight extremely hard to fashion laws regarding situations they have never personally faced.

There were many who fought hard against the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) 20 years ago for economic and principled reasons, yet we cannot imagine what our son’s life would be like today without the provisions of that law, even as poorly enforced or followed as it sometimes is. Same for the door-opening education legislation passed in the 1970s known as the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA) and others like it. People fought against those laws before they were enacted too – again for economic and principled reasons. And, again, I cannot imagine what Stross’ life would have been like without them.

Separate might seem easier for some who live in our shared society, but separate is not equal. And those who cannot navigate life normally need a way in.

Could Stross have gone to a camp for special needs kids this summer? Sure. Would it have been painful for us? Yes, but in fully different ways – and one very significant way: It would not have fulfilled his dream.

For now, for as long as we possibly are able, we can help do that for our son. We will stand by and with Stross for as long as he needs us, even after we launch him into a version of supported independence that we cannot fully fathom today. We will know when the time is right. We will know when the organization or system we’ve put in place is right. If we cannot determine that, we will not have done right by him.

I hope you have time to sit back and enjoy the 9:58 minutes of this Family Night video. Will you be able to see what happened this week through Stross’ eyes? I can, and I love the privilege of seeing life through him. I love how he continues to usher in moment after moment of involuntary joy. It’s a lot of pain. It’s a lot of work. But I cannot imagine what my life would be like today without him.

Thanks for traveling this journey with us.


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Next: Stross Goes to Scout Camp: The Complete Series

Stross Goes to Scout Camp: Day 5 (in a series)

Boy Scout Camp – Day #5
Evening, Thursday, July 22, 2010

Before I could even think about checking in with Mark and Stross (what did parents do before cell phones?), I got a text from Stross: I am coming home

Coming home? This warranted a call to Mark. Yes, they were coming home after breakfast. It had stormed all night and the weather forecast said it was going to rain all day. That doesn’t work well for transporting the wheelchair from place to place, even when covered with a tarp in the back of the Gator. Also, getting back into their tent, the place Mark had determined as the best location to manage Stross’ medical cares, was messy in those rainy conditions. So, they were coming home for the day and night.


The weather was a bit of bad timing, in a way, for Mark and Stross finally seemed to have hit their stride yesterday. They had found a pattern of being, a way of existing at camp that was working. Stross had even conquered making a camp gadget, a project that would help him earn his way toward some badge or level that he wanted to attain.

But now weather was bringing them home. Them and the camp gadget. (Yes, that is the gadget in the photos.)

This video shows what happened after they pulled into the drive almost exactly at noon today. God, I was happy to see them. I knew Mark needed a good night’s sleep – heck, a good afternoon’s sleep too. And I knew it would be good to hear, in Stross’ words, all that he had been doing. His enthusiasm would be the affirmation I needed, reassuring me that all of this has been worth it.

And, as you’ll see and hear from Stross, the week is not over simply because they have to spend a dry Thursday night in their comfortable beds. No, the plan is to get back to camp early tomorrow. He is not going to miss Friday – especially Family Night and all that means.





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Next: Stross Goes to Scout Camp: Day 6 (in a series)

Stross Goes to Scout Camp: Day 4 (in a series)

Boy Scout Camp – Day #4
10 p.m., Wednesday, July 21, 2010

The weather brought most of the state rain last night, so I began today checking in with Mark via text: Did you get sleep? His response: Yes, rain was quite soothing. I feel rested … a couple heavy moments, but nothing drastic.

I sure hope they are taking photos and remembering things to share when they get home. I haven’t really had time to learn details about all that Stross (with Mark) has been doing. I know he swam the perimeter of the pool; I know he earned his Totin’ Chip card granting him the right to carry and use wood tools; I know he has been learning to tie some knots; and I know he did something with a canoe, because when I texted Mark yesterday afternoon with a How r u today? I got back a one-word response: canoe. All those things sound so very Boy Scout; therefore, I am certain Stross is deliriously happy.

You see, Stross is a bit like Walter Mitty, the main character of a James Thurber story who escapes his dull-drum life by living amazing fantasies through his imagination. The difference with Stross is that he takes on a fantasy life that might be within his reach, if only. Or he lives in a fantasy life long enough to find parallels to his own. Fortunately for him, he experienced high school in the era of High School Musical. It is how he looked forward to and navigated things like prom. Then, whenever there actually was a musical being performed in high school, Stross tracked down a recording of whatever had been selected that year – Wizard of Oz, Oliver, Les Miserables, and Oklahoma – and then watched or listened to it over and over and over. By opening night, he knew nearly every lyric of every song and likely enjoyed performing on stage as a member of the chorus more than any other student in the cast.

Boy Scout Camp is proving to be no different. In the weeks – actually months – prior to camp, Stross began re-watching all the Disney movies about camp plus a few others. In fact, in the week just prior to camp, having exhausted all others, he watched Troop Beverly Hills (1989) starring Shelly Long multiple times. Somehow sensing that might not be regarded as something “cool” for a 19-year-old male to do, he watched it secretly using only his iPod. But I knew. And Mark knew. And Skye knew. We all know Stross pretty well.

I am thrilled that Stross is living his own cinema spectacular this week, but I wonder how close to his fantasy the week is turning out to be.

I am also grateful that this week has afforded me some Skye time. He has forever grown up in the muted darkness of Stross’ long and sometimes oppressive shadow. I could write a great deal about that. But not today.

Today, I’ll write that Skye and I walked downtown for a pancake breakfast at a local diner, something he usually does with Mark. And we truly enjoyed our time together. Makes me wish I hadn’t pulled away from our walk home to accomplish an errand. That side-trip resulted in an impromptu meeting. (Well, impromptu on my part. I am pretty sure the person who asked to talk with me had an agenda in mind.) That piece of spontaneity has pretty much ruined the balance of my day. Just when I was coming to a sense of peace about Scout camp, and just before Stross' call to tell me about the 5-mile hike he took today.

Me: “Wonderful, did you use the Gator or your wheelchair?”
Stross: “I walked.”
Me: Oh ... (thinking … “What?” … I’ll investigate that when he gets home.)

I would have loved to have fully enjoyed the call – to have listened longer to his news about smelling chocolate in the air of Waverly (courtesy of the Nestle/Carnation plant) and his plans for lunch at McDonalds (the reward at the end of his hike which, ironically, might be better for his diet than the lactose-laden fare of camp); for he sounded positively buoyant, even after expending 5-miles worth of energy on an early morning hike.

Unfortunately, his call came in the middle of that caught-me-by-surprise meeting. So I ended up apologizing, taking the call, and then answering, listening and experiencing the emotions of the moment in front of the other person. I had not wanted to taint the purity of the moments I would have with Stross on the phone, but I had not wanted to miss his call, either.

I guess it wasn’t all bad, for Stross’ joy – ever so briefly – offset the angst I was experiencing because of the meeting. The kind of angst that – if plotted on a pleasure continuum – would exist at the polar opposite of the pleasure I heard in Stross’ voice.

And you know what? Stross read my voice as well as I read his. For within minutes I got a text from Mark: Are u ok? Stross said you sounded like you might have been crying.

What an incredible son. What an incredible husband.

My text back: Long story. I’ll call soon to fill you in. Please don’t worry.

Mark might be experiencing a sense of peace today too; I don't want to be what ruins that even at a distance. But physical distance simply cannot dissolve emotional presence, can it? At least not during this week of Boy Scout Camp. At least not in our family.

Two short hours later our doorbell rang. It was a floral delivery person with a beautiful bouquet of yellow roses, burgundy mums, white Stargazer lilies, and some exotic green foliage I had never seen before. It seems there “ain’t no wilderness hike long enough, to keep them from getting to me, Babe!”

I am blessed, indeed.

Now, if the thunderstorms forecast for tonight would only dissipate – along with my lingering, frustrated anger leftover from that meeting today. But that’s not the way life works, is it? Storms thunder, rain pours, lightning strikes, and the best you hope for is a safe place to ride it out.

Just one more text to Mark before I go to bed: Don’t mess with lightning. Get to the van when u c or hear it.

Mark’s response: K, I love u.

I know.

Next: Stross Goes to Scout Camp: Day 5 (in a series) 

Stross Goes to Scout Camp: Day 2 (in a series)

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Boy Scout Camp – Morning Day #2
8:30 a.m., Monday, July 19, 2010

Evidently I can sleep 7 hours fairly well. I made myself stay in bed for another hour or two – just because.

I got a morning text from Mark. A response to my question about how things went last night.

Good night. We have owls at our campsite. They began swacking at each other at 3 a.m. Scared me to death. Stross slept straight through. We got up at 6 a.m., had pancakes. We are now learning how to tie knots.

I bet the pancakes are buttermilk. I hope the Lactaid works better at camp than it does at home when Stross sneaks a taste of buttermilk pancakes.

And did you notice? Mark used the term “scared to death” again. That makes me scared a bit too.

My response text: Sounds like scout camp to me.

And what about our scout? Stross, who has watched the entire civil war series Blue and the Gray many times and never missed greeting any military recruiter who visited his high school, had to be positively jubilant about waking up to the camp’s sound of reveille.

Go get, ‘em, Stross!


Boy Scout Camp – Night Day #2
9:30 p.m., Monday, July 19, 2010

There is a brand of grief that grabs you by the throat as if to say: “Not so fast. Your life will never be the same. Have you forgotten?”

I heard it in Mark’s voice tonight when he called at about 8:15 p.m. to … well … to hear my voice mostly, I think. He felt alone, and for the duration of our call, we had each other, and we were in that place again. A place we only get to through and because of Stross.

There was a practical reason for his call from Scout Camp. He thought he had left the extra boxes of Lactaid and extra boxes of ostomy wafers at home. He had. But I had noticed he had left them before they pulled out of the garage. Without Mark knowing, I had grabbed a purple canvas bag and tucked the stray supplies in there along with extra urine collection cups he had left out and two extra bottles of irrigation saline I wanted him to have – just in case.

And now here it was – only the second evening of their week away from home – and he needed the extras. While we were on the phone, he went back to our van and found them in the purple bag where I had put them. Mark must not have thought they were anything for camp since he didn’t remember putting that bag in the car.

On his way to the van, Mark told me he was “trying not to panic.” That if he could just find the extra supplies he needed, he thought that he (actually they – he and Stross) could make it through the rest of the week. But we both understand that the two-day pace they are setting with medical supplies needs to stop. Humidity, rain, water activities, and special dietary needs (lactose intolerance) are not kind to an ostomy. It won’t matter how many extra supplies you have. At some point, you won’t have extra skin, and at some point, you may begin to entertain extra germs. By then, the only way to fix the problem is to eliminate the conditions that are causing the problem. In this case: Boy Scout Camp. And that would break Stross' heart.

(Note: An ostomy is an opening for passage of stool created by affixing the end of the colon in the wall of a person’s abdomen, near his or her waistline. Stross has had one since the day of his birth because he was born with no anal opening. We have kept it rather than having doctors create an anus because it helps manage his incontinence.)

I wish I could be there to help, even if Mark would fight against my brand of helping: avoidance. Unlike Mark, I would not hesitate to explain to Stross why something might not be possible – in the kindest of terms. That’s not always how I do it. My other brand of helping finds me at my best while others might perceive that I am acting at my worst, for I can become a fierce accommodation advocate and insist that everyone make an accommodation happen that they might not believe necessary – or possible. In contrast, Mark’s version of accommodation advocacy finds him single-handedly obliterating all obstacles that might be in the way (including people sometimes by his tone of voice). He either makes something happen or goes down trying. He is a rock; he is an island.

Come to think of it, I guess we are more alike as advocates than I realized. I might go down in the process, too. I will just do it by alienating those who perceive me to be steamrolling over them. But, hey, Stross’ happiness is at stake.

Oh, Mark. Oh, me.

Mark cried on the phone tonight; God, I felt helpless. Other than when he spoke his marriage vows to me, the only times I remember seeing Mark cry have been connected to Stross either directly, like tonight, or indirectly, like when he pushes himself to the edge of physical depression by forcing life to be as “not special” as possible. A person can only obliterate obstacles single-handedly for so long before it wears him down. Then he can cry and begin to take on the world again, reassured I’m still by his side. He can’t get rid of me that easy.

We connected on an intangible level tonight, even long distance, like we have done so many times before – Mark grieving in intense portions, proportionate to the difficult physical and emotional demands of Stross’ life at camp, and me grieving in muted response to Mark’s pain. I knew I needed to be his stalwart support even if it meant I would need to call a friend later and pour out my heart in sad frustration mixed with chronic loneliness.

Loneliness. Mark and I know it well. This existence we live as parents others regard as “special,” as in “special needs.” Only the term “special” is such a misnomer, for this brand of special means “set apart,” yes, but not in any good way. Extraordinary? Yes. That one applies if it means “extra ordinary.” Being Stross’ parent means extra work, extra money, extra physical demands, extra stress, extra pain and extra heartache. That’s a lot of extra ordinary stuff. How extraordinary, huh.

Many people – others who do not intimately know this special existence – like to think that the blessings that come from such a special existence outweigh all the extra … crap. And, when you are at your extra best as an extra special parent, it does. It really does. But that level of spiritual awareness is difficult work. Painful work. It’s a working through with fear and trembling, even anger and despair. And you get to God know in a way that is so intimate, you don’t recognize God the way others present God anymore. When they talk about God, you wonder how they can be talking about the same God.

Divinity – in all its messy, dynamic, peace-filled, miraculousness – is real. But God doesn’t hand out passes that allow you to skip to life’s bonus spaces. Extra-ordinary living requires a conscious choice to be your best version of yourself for all the right reasons. It is a constant self-assessment: I am doing this, but for what?

This week, for Mark, it is so Stross can be a Boy Scout. To feel what it is like to do things that a Boy Scout can do – and if not all the things, as many things as possible. Yes, there are camps – special camps – that you can send special children to. And it is a bit easier for the parents there because everything is so specially different that you swallow the grief of your extra-ordinariness in one big pill rather than over and over and over again in small, excruciating doses.

Hmmmmmm…

I have an idea. I have things to do tonight. I think I can help long-distance. First thing, I have to text Mark before he tries to fall asleep. The pain I heard most strongly had little to do with medical supplies. It had to do with Stross, our boy/man, not being like the other scouts and the other scouts not knowing how to talk to or interact with Stross. Yes, that is a “normal” part of boys being boys. But it isn’t normal in our realm of existence. There is no way to accommodate for that. You cannot steamroll children into interacting with your child. You just have to pray that one or more of them – eventually – gets it.

Mark needs printed words that he can look at more than once – whenever he might need them. He needs a text message. Or maybe I need to send one.

I don’t think the grief will ever go away for good. So sorry u are in the thick of it – being reminded of all that is different about our lives. I hope u can keep seeing it thru Stross. He’s got it going on. I love u so much it hurts. Sleep well. 

Next: Stross Goes to Scout Camp: Day 3  (in a series) 

Stross Goes to Scout Camp: Day 1 (in a series)

As promised, I am inviting you to join me in an anxious week of Scout Camp, only it is one week after the fact. As such, I'll tell you now that this story will have a happy ending. And you, likely, are probably thinking: "Well, of course it does."

What I hope you discover is that such a thought doesn't come naturally for most parents or guardians of children with disabilities. We simply cannot lay down the anxiety and trust all will be well. We've navigated far too much to believe in such fairytales anymore. That isn't to say we don't believe in fairytales. Far from it. We get to live fairytales in real time and understand the hard work it takes to make dreams come true in the face of formidable odds.

The fairytale you'll get to see played out this week is a complete story with a charming protagonist (Stross), a daunting situation to overcome (navigating Boy Scout camp), evil forces (unhygienic facilities, thunderstorms, heat/humidity and rough trails), supporting characters (Scoutmaster Greg, Sister Jill, Scout Leader Dan) and a wonderfully incredible hero (Mark).

Best of all, you'll see what happens when powerful forces come together to make a young man's dream come true. May you enjoy the journey.

____________________

Boy Scout Camp – Day #1
Sunday, July 18, 2010

Sending Mark and Stross off to Camp Ingawanis - I cannot describe it. Mark’s words were: “I am scared to death.” (In fact, watch the vlog and see for yourself.) I am scared too but likely not as scared as Mark, for I am assured that Mark will be with Stross. Conversely, Mark is not assured to be the only person who knows how to care for Stross at camp this week. Our built in backup system – each other and/or a respite nurse – will be hours away should something happen to him. That’s likely why Mark is scared to death. The burden of this week is fully on him.

I have less to be afraid of because I have faith in Mark. Mark’s capacity to overcome is fierce – especially when powered by unconditional Stross-love. Mark will provide Stross’ accommodation physically when there is a need to lift him or move him from place to place. He will provide Stross’ accommodation educationally when there is a need to interpret instructions that fall outside Stross’ capacity to understand. He will accommodate Stross medically every four hours with no “turn” taken by anyone else (not even Stross) in less than ideal circumstances. (A clean bathroom at camp? Ha!) Mark will also look out for Stross nutritionally (can you say severely lactose intolerant?) for at least three meals a day plus snacks. And (this is a big one) he will provide Stross with emotional and social support when it is obvious things aren’t clicking for the man-boy in the wheelchair who is quite a bit different from the rest.


It was relatively easy for me to wipe my tears and park my worries in our driveway as they pulled out today, for less than one hour after they left, I had to be dressed and ready to perform a musical number in a fine arts fundraiser at our local high school. (A Broadway show-tune is always a wonderful distraction!)

So while Mark and Stross drove to camp, checked in, pitched tent, passed a swimming test and ate supper, I typed my lyrics, curled my hair, stepped into a semi-formal, grabbed my bag, and jumped in the car of the friend who was my ride. Then, hours later – after a sound check, the event, and the fund-raising dinner – I caught a ride home with Mark’s sister, Iris, and her family who coincidentally were attending a volleyball clinic in the gym.

That’s why Stross called at suppertime. He knew we would all be having pizza together. So when the excited call came, we moved the pizza boxes to the side and gathered around our speakerphone. (Stross actually requested that his call be on speakerphone so all of us could ask him questions.)

I tried to catch Stross’ emotion on the vlog. I hope you can hear his jubilation. I’m not sure if you can also hear Mark’s lingering fear in the background. I can.

And when Mark called me even later – without Stross around. I could hear it even more. There are things he isn’t sharing with me. There are words he cannot bring himself to tell me. I have to be careful what I ask. If I ask too well, he might not call back as much as I hope he will. I have to figure out this long distance dance. I want to know things. But I don’t want to alienate my best source of information. What is he telling me, but not telling me? Are things working out well or not? Should I be worried or not? How much encouragement does Mark need? Is over-the-top encouragement going to alienate me?

I’m tired. I need sleep, and I can actually crawl in bed before midnight tonight if I want. Stross isn’t home for midnight cares, and I don’t feel the need to stay awake with Mark as company. I wonder what care schedule they are on now. When do the four-hour segments hit? I wonder if not knowing the new routine will help me not automatically wake up.

For now I know this: Stross is deliriously happy. He’ll sleep well tonight. I just wonder how well 6’ 2” Mark will sleep on his 6’ 5” cot.

And, wow … I wonder if I can sleep 8 hours straight?

I wonder how Mark really is.
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Next: Stross Goes to Scout Camp: Day 2 (in a series)

Yes, we met as singing waiters

Lady Gaga's performance on the Today Show Friday morning made me cry. I'd like to say I was surprised by my reaction. (I mean, Lady Gaga sings and I start to cry?) But now, in my middle years, I'm pretty good at recognizing what is really happening not long after my eyes begin to tear: Lady Gaga's deep joy at performing in New York resonated with me. She was being exactly who she is, in exactly the place she was meant to be. Lady Gaga wasn't working. She was taking people on a joy-filled ride where all was right with the world. And she was thanking them - thanking God, too, I believe - for the blessing that is her life.

I remember that feeling. Not on that scale of course. And I miss that feeling. Probably more often than I care to admit. It's a sensation that makes you wonder if kismet is more destination than destiny (if kismet is even real). And in that moment - a fleeting moment - you believe in kismet and recognize that you may have arrived at a place you didn't even know you were going. And, of course you want to stay in that place ... forever.

The first time I experienced such a moment was performing the leading role in a musical with The Country Road Players. I was 18. But then during my junior year of college, I lived kismet every Friday and Saturday night as a singing waiter at Carver's Restaurant in Waverly, Iowa.

That job is still the best job I have ever had - and not just because it is how I met Mark, my soul mate. (Yes, that young woman in the top photo with really short hair is me, thrilled to be singing next to the tall handsome man with the beautiful smile who could lift the rafters with his voice when he wanted to. I already admitted in Involuntary Joy that I fell in love with his voice first.)

While I loved singing next to Mark the most, I also loved singing with every other member of that wonderful ensemble known as the Carver's Singers. During my time in the group I sang with Jennifer (Jen) Bahlmann, Pamela (Pam) Cross, Elizabeth (Liz) Phillips, Lynette Reynolds, Dan Philippe, Mike McVey, Craig (George) Koeckeritz, Paul Johnson, and Mark Newcom (of course). When we weren't singing together, you might even find us just having fun together, as on the night shown in the photo of the Mardi Gras BASH 1985. That is Paul, Craig, me and Mark. And, what an incredible night that was. It wasn't just fun. It was magical, for that was the night of Mark's and my first kiss.

A photo that shows four members of the group actually shows 50 percent of the Carver's Singers at any given time, for there were only ever eight members in the group - two singing each vocal part. If someone had to leave because of schedule conflicts or life circumstances, they were replaced with another who earned his or her way in by audition. And once you earned your way in, you became a member of this special fraternity forever - even when your performing days were over.

Musical camaraderie, musical excellence, musical memories to fill our lifetimes.

Carver's Restaurant isn't there anymore. It and the accompanying Friar Tuck's Lounge were turned into a Country Kitchen for a while. Then the building was razed to make way for the Waverly Public Library.

I'm not exactly sure how many years there were five-course dinner shows that featured Carver's Singers. One veteran once said they think there were probably only about 20 musicians who have been part of this unique group. Broadway show tunes, modern jazz standards, medleys of patriotic music or music from the 20s, pop staples - you name it, we could sing it; and in between musical sets, we'd serve delicious gourmet-prepared meals. During my time with the group, we even produced two summer musicals with dinner shows. That summer I took the stage as Agnes in "I Do, I Do" and then directed "The Fantastiks" while performing the role of the mute. (Yes, those of you who know me well: That was one of my most challenging roles.)

After Mark and I married and moved to Texas, we stayed in touch with a few members of the group. Paul was in our wedding, and we hosted he and Kris (then girlfriend, now wife) when they came to Fort Worth the following year. We'd see members of the group at Wartburg College homecomings, and then when we moved to Des Moines in 1989, Kris and Paul had an apartment near ours. So did Craig. So we got to see them off and on then, too. But when Paul and Kris moved to Texas (how ironic), our correspondence waned to things like greeting cards and birth announcements. Until last week.

Last week we reconnected with them during their trip home to Iowa to see family. We got to meet their two sons and to spend time talking while dining. We didn't do any singing, but we sure reconnected with what those days were like and recorded some of it in the vlog. I hope you enjoy listening to we middle-aged (former) singing waiters (and one #1 fan), as we remember some of our glory days. Glory evenings, really, when everything felt right with the world for five-hour stretches that carried us - and those who came as our audience - to places where only music can go.

I wish we could fully carry you back there with us; I wish you could hear what I do when I close my eyes and take myself back to the Chalet Room with its curved brick walkway and stone fireplace. But you probably have your own Camelot, your own time of kismet. And if you don't, I pray you will one day. I know I haven't given up hope of finding my corner of the sky once again.

One day, sometime soon I hope, I'll be somewhere and start to feel tears fill my eyes because I'll be there - in that place - doing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing because of who I am called to be. It likely won't involve music again. Not in a Carver's Singers way. But it will be right - kismet. And I will be blessed to be part of blessing others.

Amen. May it indeed be so.



P.S. - A big thank you to restaurant owner and musical director Larry Kussatz for allowing us to be part of your dream that became a reality.

Singing "Evermore"

Those who know Mark's and my "back story" know that we met as singing waiters. Only a few people witnessed what took place on those weekends as we reluctantly gave in to an infatuation that had the potential of becoming something more. The something more has extended more than a quarter century - 9 months figuring it out, 9 months being engaged, and 24 years marveling at what it means to be married.

Of course we love singing with each other at a wedding (and, yes, we sang at our own wedding). Weddings allow Mark and me to experience the intimacy of music in exponential portions: phrasing together, breathing in sync, knowing when the other might miss a lyric and then finding our way back despite it. During a wedding, we are all about the married couple, trying not to look directly at each other too much, since the attention belongs to the bride and groom. But during the pre-wedding rehearsal, we can just be us and have fun singing together, because - truly - there is nothing else like it in the world.

The song in this vlog (footage begins with actual wedding but the remainder is our pre-wedding warm-up) is one of the very first songs we ever sang together - early in our dating relationship. I don't think we could have comprehended how prophetic the lyrics have been. I simply know that every time we sing Evermore, decades of experiences pass through my mind in a storyline that feels epic.

I always wanted to marry a man I could sing duets with - and not just any kind of duets - romantic ones. So whenever we have an opportunity to sing together, especially for a wedding, I am reminded that I had a dream come true. I know I probably take that for granted too often. But I'm not taking it for granted tonight: I got to marry a man who made my dream come true; and not just one dream, but a few others as well.

Ok, that's probably more schmaltz than you like. But you know what? It's real. And I will be deeply grateful from this time forth and evermore.

Riding the Storm Out - June 17

Our band's rehearsal this week turned into a time of shared survival as we waited out a threatening storm. While our community - and even our physical location in the community - fared well (only severe wind damage with downed power lines and trees), others were not as fortunate.

As you can see from my vlog, every person reacts to threatening weather in a different way. But we knew that already, right? What you won't see here are the vast number of text messages and phone calls that were being made by each one of us to our loved ones. We all needed to be assured and reassured that our children and significant others were safe and acting responsibly.

What you will see in the vlog is how a married couple - namely Mark and me - can act fully opposite of each other during a time like this, and how we likely weren't fighting about it because we didn't want to fight in front of our friends. That is simplistic thinking - totally - as I'm not acknowledging all the other dynamics at work. I believe there is likely a testosterone v. estrogen ratio at work, guiding reactions during a storm, as well. I'll leave you to hypothesize about how the ratio may or may not manifest itself.

Anyway, I know this: If I have to be hunkered down somewhere riding a storm out, and I'm not with my children, I can think of no better place to be than with my husband and a handful of really great friends, and I can think of no better situation for my children to be in that where they were last night. Stross - with a nurse/friend in our basement; Skye - with faculty friends and their son in their basement.

Not gonna lie, wasn't thrilled about the sheet metal roof over my head, but at least the building had a cinder block bathroom. And we could have all fit in it if we had to! Just so you know ...

Since last night my thoughts and prayers have been with families whose lives have been changed forever by the tornadoes and severe storms that blew through. My paternal grandparents had to rebuild their farm after a tornado when my father was 7 years old. My Aunt Lois' and Uncle Chuck's farm has been hit by a tornado - twice. One of my cousins has also had to rebuild a farm after a tornado, and another cousin has in-laws whose quality of physical life has forever been altered because of a tornado. The danger and impact of nature's atmospheric turbulence is all too real sometimes.

When I think of tornadoes - or twisters, as some like to call them - I also think of this line: "It's all fun and games until somebody gets hurt." Indeed.

I pray you are feeling safe and well-cared for today. And, perhaps like me, you have appreciated the reminder that - truly - there is no place like home. No place at all.

UFN - Getting Closer to the Sound

Well, our band, Until Further Notice, (which we lovingly refer to as UFN or 'just a little mixed up fun') had another night of rehearsal recently. We got through the remainder of the songs we think we might be able to have performance ready in time for our local Relay for Life concert.

We're still searching for harmonies that, at times, seem hopelessly lost. Mark and I are pretty confident we're not singing things the way we used to. We just hope the new way we are singing them will eventually sound just as good - or maybe even a bit better.

I was reminded - yet again - of the joy there is in simply letting music and lyrics take you to another place in time. I think that is part of what happens to each one of us when we get together. We connect with a part of our past that resonates with some sort of musical memory - kind of like muscle memory only with music.

For Mark and I, it's likely that our musical frequencies tune to the days when we met as singing waiters at Carver's Restaurant. On some level, singing equates flirting to us, and mingling our voices in harmony is a bit of an intimate experience. Don't worry. I'll stop there. Or if you'd like to know more, read how I describe those days in Chapter 2 of Involuntary Joy. (Yes, another shameless plug, but it's my blog. I'm entitled.)

As for Dave, he sings melody and plays bass for us, but he began with the guitar. So Dave's musical memories might connect him to times in college when he pulled out a guitar and began playing with roommates or dorm mates or whomever wanted to discover what sounds there were to be made during a late night jam. Even I can envision that kind of night in my mind, and I never managed to learn guitar chords well enough to play. Ah, good times.

What is there to say about Gremmer, our lead guitarist? He is a drummer at heart but taught himself to play the guitar, in part, because we needed him to. That says a lot right there, doesn't it? Have you noticed that he is one of those guys who can't help but smile with his entire face? And on rehearsal nights, Gremmer smiles a lot, and he dances with his guitar a lot too. He's got this sway-and-weave sort of movement that indicates he's "feelin' the groove." That makes us all smile.

And then there is Roger. I don't know you if can tell (you should be able to), but Roger is like, well, a real drummer who used to play in real bands. The kind of bands that had scary names and car loads of female groupies. That stick twirling you see him doing from time to time? He can probably do it in his sleep now. In fact, I think he could drum in his sleep.

I wish you could see and hear our other guitarist, Greg Owen, as well. He and Roger share a rock 'n' roll past. They were in two different bands together. Our band, Until Further Notice, is their third. And while we might not have the hardest and loudest sound of the bands they've been in, we've been together the longest and might have the tightest sound. That counts for a lot.

So here we are again with different songs this week. Still the same crazy fun, however. I hope you enjoy. Oh, and if you missed the excerpts from last week's rehearsal, you can check them out here. (June 3 UFN Rehearsal) Enjoy!

How Does Your Garden Grow?

Those of you who have read Involuntary Joy might understand how my husband's place of employment (which has also been, at times, mine as well) has shaped our lives in the same way a person would. Our arrival on campus – almost exactly 17 years ago – felt a bit like coming home. The "call" to kinship with her DNA was undeniable. And so, we uprooted our lives, trading old dreams for new ones in order to share a future that we believed was full of promise.

Before I write much more, I feel the need to share this: Waldorf College is one of the easiest and, paradoxically, most difficult topics for me to write about. When I've had the opportunity to write copy for marketing or public relations pieces, the words flow easily, for I know Waldorf intimately and honor the wonder of her, cherishing the personal transformations that have occurred on her campus since her beginnings in 1903.

This is not that kind of piece; therefore, my task is exponentially more difficult–as difficult as writing about a family member and wanting it to be "just right." Doubting that is possible, I'll forge ahead anyway.

As the fruit of Lutheran education (Go, Wartburg Knights!), I have lived my adult life in kinship with all sister institutions as if they were members of the family. Because I grew up United Methodist, I never really thought much about my spiritual heritage (I was baptized Lutheran) until I was courted by the admissions staff at Wartburg College. And then, thanks to encouragement from then President Robert Vogel, I soon forsake scholarship packages from other institutions for the chance to become a Wartburg Knight – a decision that had my Lutheran godmother, Aunt Lois, rejoicing. Once transplanted on the Wartburg campus, it was as if a seed had found the soil it needed to grow deep roots and flourish.

You see, I know what it means to "Be Orange." But I also know what it means to "Live Purple."

Waldorf College ... what am I to do with you? You helped bring some of my husband's vocational dreams to life and coaxed me into the classroom. You didn't seem aware that I'd vowed to not follow in my educator parents' footsteps. And, yet, I became an educator in spite of myself – all because you needed someone to teach the knowledge and skills I enjoyed using while employed in a career I loved.

So, year after year, as young men and women found their way to campus to discover their individual callings, my roots stayed watered and even deepened. I felt myself growing with Mark and, in turn, both of us felt strengthened by colleagues who shared a vision for educating "the whole person" in an atmosphere where faith and reason divinely mingled.  

In recent years, the people who are Waldorf College have experienced personal pruning and even transplanting – each event as difficult as the circumstances that are represented by the change. For instance, this summer our family will say good-bye to friends who have lived in this community for 26 years – nine years longer than we have. They came as a couple and have raised four children here. We have been in a Bible study with them for more than a decade and have celebrated our children's confirmations, graduations, and various school accomplishments. We have grieved together. We have been frustrated at life together. We have been awed by life together. Now they are moving on - transplanting their lives to a place where they can continue to be nourished and grow.

It's not as if we have never seen people come and go from this fascinating place. We have. In fact, when we arrived 17 summers ago, we were taken under wing by several elderly couples who had recently retired from Waldorf. The kind of emerita and emeritus (now no longer living) whose names and spirits are infused in the hearts of thousands of alumni. They saw Waldorf through some of her darkest days and believed we had come to help her transition into an expression that would help her withstand unforeseen days to come (i.e., changing from a junior college into a baccalaureate institution).

Their tutelage testified to us in recent years when we needed it most - when our roots felt exposed, and we wondered what remained for us in this place they had built with love. As the ground shifted under us, we wondered: How deep do our roots go? How much nourishment do we require? Are we healthy enough to withstand inclement times? I even found myself wondering if I was more like a hosta or a rose – or if it even mattered.

I still don't really know.

Whenever Mark and I hear of another friend who has decided to uproot – to transplant their life in a place with soil that promises rich nourishment – we look for the sun and stretch to search for water. Are we still able to flourish where we are planted, or are we in denial about the condition of our garden?

This past week we got some unsolicited nourishment from two former students - Melanie Lane, class of '07, (the first vlog) and Justin Hawley, class of '99 (the second vlog). We had a chance encounter with Melanie, who works at Mayo Clinic, in the Rochester subway, just outside our favorite lunch spot. She joined us for lunch, bringing stories and memories full of life and light and love. And when she spontaneously thanked us and shared what we have meant in her life, I cried. I didn't know how much I needed to hear what she said.

Obviously, I didn't ask her repeat what she said for my vlog and I won't type her kind words verbatim here (even I am not that tacky), but I did ask her to repeat a story she shared about her volleyball coaching experience. Waldorf communication alums, you'll see why.



When we got back to Stross' clinic exam room, I posted on Facebook that we had run into Melanie during lunch. That generated a posting with an offer to share dinner from Justin Hawley, another communications alum who has transplanted to Rochester, Minn., where he is flourishing. And, fortunately, we were able to – almost as spontaneously – make that reunion happen as well. Then, during dinner he, too, volunteered extremely kind words about Mark and I in an expression of affirming gratitude.

I've spent a lot of time tending to my garden this week - figuratively, of course. Perhaps Mark has too. We both seem to need reassurance that our lives are still in a place where we can - not just grow - but flourish.

Hey, Waldorf College Communications alumni. If we haven't told you lately, please know that we love you. Your lives continue to nourish ours. We are grateful. Many blessings to you - each and every one.