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Regency fiction at its finest: Review of Dawn at Emberwilde by Sarah E. Ladd

June 29, 2016

When it comes to Regency era fiction writers, Sarah Ladd is one of my favorites, and though I missed the first in her new Treasures of Surrey series, I couldn’t put this second book down.

In Dawn at Emberwilde, Isabel’s transition from ordinary obscurity to familial life of privilege showcases Ladd’s storytelling abilities and had me turning page after page to find out what would happen to her as two potential suitors took notice. (Disclaimer: I received a free copy of the book in exchange for my review.)

Sometimes with historical romance, I wonder if there are any new ways left to tell the same kinds of stories, but Dawn at Emberwilde has a fresh feel to it, despite some common themes. I didn’t once feel like I’d read this story somewhere before with just slightly different characters. That’s a skill I appreciate from authors. And Isabel is as lovely a character internally as she is described externally. Charged with the care of her younger half-sister, she instructs:

We must be kind, even when the world is not. (p. 16)

She is not thrilled with their new circumstances towards the book’s beginnings but she reacts with the kind of grace that demonstrates her true nature. Not everything goes as Isabel has planned for her life, and she learns some things about her past that unsettle her. But in the end, she finds what she has always been longing for. Book two stands alone as far as I can tell, so I don’t feel like I missed anything by not reading book one (except another excellent story). Ladd is a must-read author in my mind.

T-shirts, long-suffering and the good news of hope

June 28, 2016

“Hey! Go, Cubs!”

It was the refrain of a recent trip to Philadelphia. We were in town to see a baseball game but decided to take in the history of the city beforehand. The four of us, clad in our Cubs garb, walked the streets where our country was born.

I wondered whether we should show our fan pride all day in the opponent’s city. Would it be dangerous to be such obvious fans of the other team?

We had barely set foot in the historical district when a uniformed officer began yelling at us. At first, we thought we had done something wrong, but as we approached him and tuned our ears, we realized he was joking with us about our attire.

Walking up to the security screening for Independence Hall, my husband began to empty his pockets.

The uniformed officer there said, “You know it doesn’t really matter what you do, none of you are getting in here.” We held our breaths for a moment, then he cracked a wide grin and we chatted baseball.

It went on this way all day. We approached fellow Cubs fans and talked about our team and our plans for seeing the game. We had dozens of conversations with strangers, people we would never meet again. Even a Red Sox fan stopped to talk to us, wishing our team the best of luck because he knows how it has felt to be so long without a title worthy team.

There is solidarity in suffering, even if it is something as simple as baseball.

Sometimes when you leave your homeland, you wonder if you’ll ever see a friendly face again, but we had nothing to fear by wearing our Cubs shirts in Philly. We were not at all alone in our fandom. Chicago Cubs fans travel well. We met a family who had driven to Philly from Iowa to catch a game. Dedication.

At the ballpark, we rode an elevator full of Phillies’ fans and we walked out unscathed. A Phillies fan in the row behind us gave our daughter a baseball he got from the Cubs’ bullpen. We could recount dozens of stories and conversations like these.

On the drive back to Lancaster, we talked about these happenings. How in the past, we would lament with other Cubs’ fans during the season, and how this year, our joy is uncontainable, even with strangers.

“Go, Cubs!” we yelled in the streets of Philadelphia. And with two outs in the bottom of the ninth inning, we stood in the stands of our not-home stadium and cheered, believing that our team could turn things around. This is not the way I was raised as a Cubs fan. Hope is an unfamiliar feeling.

—

Sometimes the world around us can make us lose hope. We lament and suffer with others who are walking similar paths, experiencing various levels of suffering. Sometimes there is good news for someone else. Sometimes the good news is ours.

And sometimes we spread the good news when we recognize the suffering in someone else. Sometimes we have to tell the world what team we’re on, even if it’s something we wouldn’t choose like Team Cancer or Team Broken Relationship so we can discover others who are on the same team.

We give each other hope when we go public with our sufferings. Maybe we don’t literally wear a T-shirt that says, “I’m battling cancer,” but maybe we tell one person, or a room full of people, about the struggle. And we learn that they have struggled, too. They have been where we are.

If we’ve suffered long, hope can be an unfamiliar feeling. But maybe knowing we’re not the only ones will give us the strength and courage to face the final innings, whatever they bring, with a sense that we could get through this and it might turn out okay.

—

The Cubs lost that game. And they’ve lost a few games since then. But hope is a funny thing. A little can go a long way. And once you’ve had a taste of it, you want a little more.

These 3 words could have ruined my night

June 25, 2016

It took a stern-but-playful command from my chiropractor to get me out of the house yesterday. It had been almost a week without the kids and I wasn’t really spending my days doing “me” things, at least not relaxing “me” things.

So because I had birthday money to spend, I went shopping, which is not exactly relaxing, but sometimes buying new clothes can be fun. I hit the clearance racks at a department store in search of shirts that are neither T-shirts nor fancy. Honestly, when it comes to clothes I would happily wear the same thing every day unless someone else was going to make the decisions for me. Getting dressed in the morning sucks up so much emotional energy for me. Again, why was I shopping?

When I’m not in a hurry (i.e. when the kids aren’t with me), I’m more likely to take some fashion risks and just try a bunch of stuff on whether I think I’ll like it or not. That’s how I ended up with two dresses in my hands, along with shirts and a pair of jeans. I don’t mind dresses, but rarely do I feel confident enough in myself to buy a new one.

I tried them both on and one was definitely a better fit than the other but since I had no in-person backup with me, I shared a couple of photos with an online tribe of sisters who overwhelmingly helped me pick the right one.

Here’s what it looked like on me when my husband and I went out later that night:

Phil and I had a date planned and though I told him I wasn’t wearing a dress, I changed my mind after buying this pretty garment. ($13. I love a good deal.) We had theater tickets for a local production of Footloose, and because it was our city’s Fourth of July celebration, a whole street was lined with food trucks, which is what we planned to eat for dinner.

After finally making it downtown through numerous road closures, we were pushing it a little bit for time. We set out for the food trucks. The streets were crowded. People walking. Sitting on the curb or steps of businesses. Listening to music. Eating. It’s a lot for my senses to take in.

Which is why I’m surprised I even heard these three words at all. But I did.

We approached a corner and were getting ready to cross when I caught the words, “All dressed up,” uttered in not-the-nicest of tones. I so badly wanted to turn and look at the person who said them, but we were on a mission and I wanted to let it go.

I think she was talking about me, but maybe she wasn’t. I immediately felt shame for what I was wearing. And I wanted to go back to her and defend my decision to put on a dress. But it wouldn’t have helped anything, and I probably just would have been more upset about the whole thing.

See, I understand where these words come from. I’ve uttered them or similar things myself. It’s insecurity. Making someone else feel bad about themselves because I feel bad about myself. It’s horrible. I hate being the receiver of comments that are meant to tear down and too often I’m dishing it out, if not in public then in private.

It took a lot for me to put that dress on last night, and I’m not just taking about maneuvering my arms so I could reach the zipper. I rarely feel fabulous in a dress, but my sister-tribe on Facebook assured me I was. Even if they hadn’t, my husband appreciated my outfit. (Not that I solely dress for him. I don’t.) Last night I felt like a new woman. Dare I say, sexy?

I almost hate using that word because it has such negative connotation. It’s difficult in our society for a woman to feel confident and beautiful and sexy in what she’s wearing and not be labeled as something I don’t even want to type here. (Fill in the blank with your own least favorite derogatory word.)

Those three words truly could have ruined my night, even though I didn’t know the woman who said them. Hearing them made me so thankful for the women who continued to affirm me. Honestly, the three-word comment is one reason I might not have picked out the dress in the first place. But I’ve come a long way, and I still have a long way to go.

All that to say, thank you to the ladies who helped me walk in confidence. I hope I can be more like you in how I affirm and encourage other women. Because let’s face it, there are a lot of voices out there telling us things about ourselves that aren’t true.

Isn’t it time we tell each other some true things?

There is room enough for all of us to celebrate each other’s strengths without pointing out each other’s weaknesses. A woman who looks fabulous in a two-piece swimsuit doesn’t take anything away from me, even though I’m not yet comfortable in one. A woman who is following her dreams and succeeding takes nothing away from me and my dreams, even though they are not yet succeeding the way I want them to. A woman who is friendly and compassionate and easy with people takes nothing away from me, even though I am slow to approach new people and it takes me time to make new friends.

Whatever she has in abundance does not mean I lack or am lesser.

I’m going to wear the dress again. And again. No matter what anyone else says or thinks.

Because it’s less about the dress and more about how I feel on the inside.

Years ago, I wouldn’t have thought to try a dress that might make me noticeable. I wanted to hide because I didn’t like who I was, didn’t really know who I was. And now, I like the person I’m becoming, and I’m okay with getting noticed, even if it’s for the wrong reasons.

Has anything like this ever happened to you? How did you handle it?

I’m happy to report that I had a fabulous evening in my “hot dress.” And I’m looking forward to wearing it again.

Earth turns and turning the earth

June 23, 2016

A month ago we turned the earth in our backyard, a carefully mapped out plot of ground that would transform from grass to garden.

My husband gripped the tiller’s handles and passed over the patch once, twice, three times, turning up as many rocks as dirt. Our son gleefully collected all the rocks in a bucket, and with every bit of dirt turned up, a dream began to take shape.

We could almost taste the cucumbers, see the bright red tomatoes hanging from the vines. A once-ordinary piece of land would become something extraordinary.

Now maybe a garden is nothing extraordinary to you. We come from a land where farms stretch as far as your eyes can see, where backyard gardens aren’t unheard of. Even where we live now, the land yields a bountiful harvest. Gardening, I thought, was nothing to write home about.

—

This summer marks three years since we moved into the farmhouse. We only inhabit the first floor, and there’s no “farm” left. We are surrounded on all sides by houses and businesses. Only my imagination can conjure up images of what it used to be.

It is a partial dream, this rental home. The L-shaped porch is the envy of every new visitor and the only real reason I even considered looking at this property in the first place. We have license to care for the property as if it is our own, though it will always be someone else’s and eventually, someday, we will leave.

Maybe these are all reasons to not turn up the soil and plant a garden. We can’t take it with us, after all. Why should we bother settling in and planting when it will all be someone else’s?

I think of the words often attributed to Martin Luther about if the world were to end tomorrow, he would plant a tree today. And the ones from a prophet who spoke to those in captivity:

Build houses and settle down; plant gardens and eat what they produce. … Also, seek the peace and prosperity of the city to which I have carried you into exile. Pray to the Lord for it, because if it prospers, you too will prosper.“

I have never been one to settle down easily. Though I long for a place to truly call “home,” I find that my heart, my mind, my feet begin to itch for wandering if I stay too long in one place. Too often I think that a new location will lead to a new me. If only we had our own house. If only we lived in a neighborhood. Then we could do the things we dream of.

—

The last house we lived in, we stayed for five years. I was sure our stay would be a year or two at most. When I got my first job out of college, I thought maybe I’d stay for a few months. I was there for seven years. For whatever reason, my spirit wants to go, to move on, to find the next thing, yet God gives me reason to stay.

The earth turns on its axis and takes its turns around the sun. Days and years pass, each one different than I expected. I am still longing for a home of our own, a place we can plant ourselves and begin doing the work we believe God has called us to do.

But I’m beginning to see that the work is always in front of us, no matter the patch of earth we might inhabit.

—

As we turned the soil, we drew attention. Our neighbors to the southwest offered us advice about putting a fence around the garden to keep the rabbits out. They watched as we toiled.

In the process of turning up the grass for the dirt below, our spade broke. Our gardening tools are limited at best, and as we dug and raked, another neighbor stopped by.

Three years, remember, we’ve lived here, and this man, I believe, runs the business behind our house. We have waved in passing, but I have never approached for conversation because that’s not what I do. It takes me months, years sometimes, to work up the nerve to talk to strangers, even if they are neighbors. It’s not because I’m stuck-up. I’m just terrified of making conversation, of being awkward in my attempts at friendship.

So it shocked me when this man crossed the parking lot behind our house and offered an array of gardening tools for us to use. We could keep them as long as we needed to. He told me his name, gave me his business card so we could call if we needed anything. We thanked him.

When the soil was ready, we shopped for plants and spent another evening putting them in the ground. Our neighbor to the northwest noticed and brought over a tomato plant, offering it to us to put in our garden. I don’t know if she doesn’t like tomatoes or didn’t have room in her garden or even if she has a garden or not. This neighbor we at least talk to and know her name. She enjoys our kids and makes conversation with all of us. We hadn’t planned on another tomato plant, but we made room.

That same day, I think, some kids showed up from the apartment building nearby. One of the girls is a classmate of our daughter. We had no idea she lived there. They saw us outside and wondered what we were doing. They helped us water the plants and unroll the fencing. One of the girls said that she had a small plant she brought home from school.

“What are you going to do with it?” I asked.

She shrugged.

“Would you like to plant it here and come visit it and see how it’s doing?”

Her eyes widened and she ran home to get her little bean plant in a plastic cup. We planted it in the ground and watered it. It now has its own corner of the garden.

When the plants were all in the ground and the fence was all in place, I sat inside the house in awe of what had happened.

We planted a garden. No big deal. But for some reason it sparked something in our neighbors. We didn’t set out to plant a community garden but somehow planting a garden has fostered a sense of community.

We can’t wait to share the bounty of the garden with anyone and everyone.

—

I struggle with wanting to do GREAT BIG THINGS for God. My husband has a degree from seminary. He manages a cafe. I’m a professional writer with two kids in my care. We have a heart to serve/encourage/minister but are not yet clear on what shape it will take.

Maybe we make it more complicated than we need to.

Maybe we just need to plant a garden. Show up. Stay. Invite people into something seemingly ordinary.

I don’t know what God is going to do with this garden. It’s growing without much intervention, and the communal feel of it has worn off a bit in the meantime.

So, we actively wait for the fruit of our labors.

Maybe there is something holy in all of this staying and waiting.

A true story of true love: Review of Hope Heals by Katherine and Jay Wolf

June 22, 2016

Katherine and Jay Wolf have the kind of story you wouldn’t wish on anybody, but through the unthinkable, they have found–and clung to–hope.

They were just 26, with a 6-month-old in the house, married only a few years when Katherine suffered a massive brain stem stroke. Her odds of surviving surgery were low, but survive, she did, and though it would be a long road of recovery and loss and acceptance of how life would be, her story is nothing short of miraculous.

In Hope Heals: A True Story of Overwhelming Loss and an Overcoming Love, the Wolfs share openly about the dreams that died with the stroke and about the hard days of learning to do basic skills again. Particularly moving is Katherine’s desperation to eat food again and the work it took for her to pass a swallowing test, as well as her realization that she couldn’t feed her baby or take care of him. (Disclaimer: I received a free copy of the book from the publisher in exchange for my review.)

Theirs is no sugar-coated hope. It is gritty and gut-wrenching. They have wrestled with God about the course of their lives and found that He is still good and their suffering is not meaningless.

Katherine writes:

When we share our stories in real and messy ways, we give people permission to do the same, and in the sharing, we release some of the things that keep us trapped in our own isolated hotel rooms. We remember we are not alone. And that brings hope. (p.195)

Grab a box of tissues before you pick up this book, but whatever you do, read it and discover that hope can be found in what seems like the most hopeless of circumstances.

Hope & the end of the world: Review of The Alliance by Jolina Petersheim

June 8, 2016

Two words I never thought I’d put together in a book review: Amish and apocalypse. But here we are with The Alliance by Jolina Petersheim. I should note that the Plain community in this novel is Old Order Mennonite, not Amish, though the two have similarities. And it really is set when the world, as we know it, ends. (Disclaimer: I received a free copy of the book through the Tyndale Blog Network in exchange for my review.)

When a small plane crashes in Leora Ebersole’s Plain community in Montana, it’s clear that something major has happened in the world. The pilot, Moses Hughes, reveals that an epic power outage is the reason for the stranded Englischers and the lack of electricity. As the Old Order Mennonite community becomes a refuge, the two groups must decide if they can work together to stay alive while navigating their differing beliefs about pacifism and protection.

This is not a “Walking Dead” kind of apocalyptic story, but it does raise challenging questions about how far a person is willing to deviate from their beliefs in order to save those they love. My only disappointment is that I didn’t know there is a second, forthcoming book, in this series. So, the end is not exactly the end. I’m eager to learn more about the lives of Leora and Moses as the end of the world as they know it intensifies.

Petersheim is a gifted wordsmith, and her tone throughout the novel is one of hope despite circumstances. The Alliance is such a rare read. I don’t know of another book of its kind. I don’t usually read apocalyptic novels, but this one I can wholeheartedly recommend.

I don’t know what I was thinking when I got married

May 26, 2016

Nine years ago, I walked the aisle toward you, a bright-eyed bride with a heart full of hope. Is this not the way of most brides on their wedding day? I knew not what the future would bring, but I knew you were my future.

To be honest, I don’t remember much about that day. I know the cake almost toppled, and we still laugh about how long it took us to light the unity candle. I’ll try not to read too much into that. It was a swirl of nervousness and joy and expectation, surrounded by the people we loved most. It is still the best party I’ve ever been to.

We don’t have a lot of pictures to remember the day, so maybe we’ll have to break out the wedding video to jog our memories. Or not. There is part of me that doesn’t want to see the girl immersed in the dream, unaware of what would come. Would I stop her if I could? It’s a question I try not to dwell on.

Maybe I thought the worst was already behind us. We had faced a yearlong separation with your deployment to Iraq, and both of us had suffered minor illnesses that tested our “sickness and health” vow, so I thought. I knew that I loved you before you knew you loved me, and I was sure that God had brought us together and that He would be the glue that held us. Surely for all our ups and downs in our three years prior, it was bound to only get better, right?

I wonder if the long-ago-brides in the pews that day smiled knowingly at our vows. Marriage is a mixture, a both-and experience. Better AND worse. Sickness AND health. Richer AND poorer. Life AND death. These are not the kinds of things you think about on your wedding day. Only the better, the health, the richer, the life.

But the other things met us not long into our journey. Worse and sickness and poorer and a death of sorts, and I will admit, at times I have felt cheated by the promises of marriage, the promises of God. This wasn’t what I asked for. This wasn’t my dream. In the depths of the valleys, I have wondered if I’ve been duped, tricked into something that will only make me miserable for life.

Yet misery is not what I feel when I look at our nine years of marriage. There are times when I thought I would not make it through, times when I was sure we would not make it through. And there other times I can’t believe how lucky I am to be a part of your life, and to have you in mine. I watch these two kids we created with all their expressive uniqueness, and we smile over their heads as if we’re sharing a secret. And we are.

—

I remember the first time you caught my eye this way. We sat together as two of our friends took tentative steps toward a relationship, a pairing that seemed as unlikely to happen as ours did. We made eye contact. We smiled. We tried to hold in our laughter. You told me we had to stop doing that because we were likely to burst out laughing in front of our friends, and you didn’t want to stop looking at me. I remember a look of intensity in your eyes. I wanted to explain it away as friendship because I was sure I would be let down.

Even weeks, or maybe it was months, later, when you put your arm around me during the movie, I stayed awake that night wondering if it had only been a dream. If when I woke in the morning, you would have changed your mind.

You hadn’t changed your mind then, and every day for the last nine years, you haven’t changed your mind yet. I admit this is still a fear I have sometimes. When the house is a mess and the kids are out of control and I’m crying over nothing and everything. Will I wake up one day to discover it was all only a dream?

No bride imagines on the day of her wedding that her groom might change his mind, does she?

—

This is more a reflection of my insecurity than your actions. This is the child inside of me who was rejected and fears rejection and still sometimes thinks she isn’t good enough for anyone to like, much less love. These are things I will talk about in therapy because they are not yours to fix or alter. I have been afraid to show you my wounds and scars, afraid they would scare you away. I am not perfect, but sometimes I still want to be perfect, unflawed. You love me through these things, and even though it’s not always easy, I know my pain is safe with you. You understand me like no other.

I read this in a book the other day, and I thought of us:

I remember … feeling such a connection to his brokenness that I wondered if the two of us, together, could become one perfect whole. Is this, then, what draws people to each other? Not the combination of perfect selves, but the mirrored fragments we see reflected?

I once thought I was attracted to your strength. To your presence. To the life you brought to every gathering. Those are still the things that draw me, but it’s deeper than that now. I almost cannot explain you, but every day, even the bad ones, I find I’d rather choose you than not.

—

Maybe these are not the most romantic words I can write on an anniversary, but real is all I have. I can’t sugarcoat our union or set up false expectations for anyone else. I no longer feel the need to stand up and object to any marriage I attend, nor do I feel like I must fully open the eyes of the soon-to-be wed. We all find out soon enough that marriage is hard. And good. Both-and.

If anything these last nine years have shown me that marriage is a vessel for holy work.

Before the worst had happened

It is the worse that has made us better.

And after

It is the sickness that drives us to health.

It is the poorer that has shown us true riches.

It is the death that has brought us life.

Nine years still seems like such a short time. And maybe I thought, all those years ago, that by now we’d have it all figured out. That our marriage would hit its stride right about now and we’d be coasting for the next 40 years.

Maybe we’ll coast, but maybe marriage is more like a roller coaster. Ups, downs, twists, turns. Sometimes we’ll be dizzy with the thrill and other times want to puke over the side of the car. Maybe we’ll rest at the top of a peak before hurtling toward the earth. Maybe those are the moments we’ll hold on tight to each other, screaming to whomever can hear.

And maybe every now and then we’ll pull into the platform. The ride will end, for now, and we’ll have a chance to rest. We’ll laugh at the crazy ride we just experienced and pray to God nothing like that ever happens again.

Except that it might. And we’ll do it all again.

I don’t know what I was thinking when I got married, but I know that if I tried to tell that hopeful bride all the things I know now, she wouldn’t be able to hear it. Maybe that’s the way it should be.

Brad Paisley says if love was a plane, nobody’d get on.

Maybe no one needs to know all the things they’re going to face together when they get married. Maybe they just need to know that others have been there, it’s normal to feel like that, and they will get through it.

That’s what I hope the look on my face will convey to the soon-to-be wed, to the young brides walking the aisle to meet their grooms.

It’s what I hope our every-day marriage life speaks.

Not happily ever after.

More like gradually getting better.

I know, it’s a Hallmark card in the making.

I guess there’s no way to end except to say, “Happy anniversary, my love.”

What I find outside the circle

May 20, 2016

I walked to the end of the block and back today, no great feat, maybe a half-mile in total but probably less. I guess you could call it a “block.” I live outside the city where blocks are a little less defined. I followed the sidewalk until it ended and then returned to my house. The sun was shining for the second day in a row, a rarity this spring, and in just a few short days, the kids will be home all the time. Summer is near. Work is piling up, but I needed this time, a few moments where my body was moving and my mind was free to wander, to feel the sunshine on my face.

Months ago, even a short walk like this one was out of reach, at least in my mind. I spent most of the first part of this year recovering from muscle spasms in my back, and fear shadowed every activity I wanted to do. Take a walk by myself? What if my back seized while I was out? Who would I call? Who would help me? How would I make it home?

I limited my world to the places where I felt the safest: home, the chiropractor’s office, church, the van. Public places were terrifying unless I was accompanied by my husband, and sometimes even my children being along gave me a sense of security. They are old enough, at least, to tell someone else how to help me.

Trying new things or going new places is difficult for me, even when I’m healthy, so adding an element of injury and possible re-injury, had me hunkering down in safety.

And then I stepped outside the circle of my own making.

Rodion Kutsaev via Unsplash

—

I’ve been volunteering with a local refugee organization for about a month now, and every time, it’s something different. The people are different, or the needs are different. And sometimes what I signed up to do changes when I get there.

A few weeks ago, I agreed to provide transportation for a few members of a family. I was to meet them at a clinic in the city–a place I’ve never been to–and take them downtown for lab work. I showed up to the church where the clinic is, and I sat in the waiting room as was suggested by the volunteer behind the desk. A half-hour passed as I watched people pick up their kids from the day care facility and as I listened to others in the waiting room talk about their lives. I heard all about a dog, and I was offered some sour candies. It was a completely uncomfortable place for me to be, but for the love of this family I was picking up, I was all for it.

When 30 minutes had passed with no sign of them, the woman behind the desk said I should go on up and check on them. When I got to the clinic, I learned that they’d already been picked up by someone else. I had been early to pick them up, so I thought, but it turned out I was too late. Part of me wanted to be annoyed that I had left my house for nothing, but another part of me was glad that so many people wanted to help this family.

Sometimes when you step outside the circle, things don’t go as planned. Inside the circle, there’s a predictability, a limit on the variables. Outside the circle, the possibilities are almost endless, and for someone who does not like the unexpected, it’s almost too much to handle.

But it didn’t end in disaster. I made some new “friends” I might see again. I lost a little bit of anxiety about dropping off or picking up at this clinic. I saw a new part of the city I don’t frequent. A week later, I showed up to volunteer again to find that the class had been moved. By the time I arrived downtown where the field trip portion was taking place, the class was over. But I had driven into the city and parked and walked, all by myself, without Google’s directions guiding me. I’m getting the hang of this city stuff.

I want things to go just as planned when I step outside the circle, and when they don’t, I want to retreat back into it. But I love this work, so I keep showing up. This week, I got to help my new friends again. It was their last class in the series, and I didn’t want my relationship with them to end, so I gave one of the girls my phone number. It was another step outside another circle because the phone and I are not friends, and I worried they might call me a lot, but really, so what if they did?

The next day I got a request from her for a messaging app, another move that causes me anxiety. But I downloaded it and we had our first chat this week. It’s a way to keep in touch, but I need to take another step outside of the circle. I need to initiate seeing them outside of these classes, maybe even stopping by their house.

One thing at a time.

—

Spring has been drearier than I would like. Cloudy days and rainy ones have outnumbered the sun, and the temperature at times has dipped to March-like numbers rather than May. Life inside my house feels a bit overwhelming at times. The school year is wrapping up, which means my kids are amped all.the.time and the last 20 minutes before they leave for school each morning hits every last sane nerve I have.

So one morning, even though the weather wasn’t ideal, I sat outside on the porch with my coffee and a book, just to quiet my mind for a bit before I dove into my work projects. I love the porch, but when I have work to do or it’s cold outside, I’d much rather be inside. I love the feel of the sun on my face and the freedom I feel when I’m outside of the walls, but most of the time, tasks win the fight for attention. I don’t sit still well.

I saw no less than six different types of birds that morning, including a pretty yellow thing I’d never seen before. Dozens of birds flit from tree to tree across neighboring yards, and some, I can identify by song. The house finches are back. They have reclaimed the nest in the hanging fern, and five eggs await hatching. The mama and daddy bird are very vocal right now. They are constantly chirping in the vicinity of the nest. I don’t speak bird language but I wonder if the time is almost come. If I sit still enough, I can see the mama perch on the side of the pot as she checks on the nest. I can hear her song in the nearby tree. She is never far away. Occasionally, our porch activity will startle her out of the nest. I always feel bad about this, but sometimes it can’t be helped. We are trying our best to co-exist without harm.

I noticed a neighbor walking by, as she does daily. And for the first time I realized that her husband wasn’t with her. In all the time we’ve lived here, when the weather was nice, they would walk by our house, wave and say, “hello,” especially if the children were out. I confess that I don’t know their names, and now I wonder if something has happened to the husband. Did he die this winter? Is he ill? I might work up the nerve to ask.

As I waited for the bus to arrive with the children, I saw another neighbor out weeding her flower beds. I was seconds away from walking over to introduce myself because she is someone else I do not know. I am a slow mover in these things, obviously, and I hesitated because I was afraid I would miss the bus. Or maybe I was just afraid of being weird or awkward.

When I give myself the freedom to step outside my circle, my safe place, I see more. The view from inside my house is limited at best, and when I’m in it, I can convince myself that it is safer in here.

But something in my soul shrinks when my world does, and I feel less alive. Maybe I’m in more danger walking around the city, but I feel more like me when I’m doing it. Maybe I’ll hurt myself on a walk around my neighborhood, but my body wants to move, to be active. It was made for this kind of thing.

Fear draws a circle in the name of security. Love draws me out of the circle in the name of vitality.

It still takes effort for me to step outside, literally or figuratively, but each small step reveals a grain of truth. And with each step I’m a little more alive in my humanity.

Childhood memories: Review of Running on Red Dog Road by Drema Hall Berkheimer

May 18, 2016

An Appalachian childhood in 1940s West Virginia comes to life in Drema Hall Berkheimer’s memoir, Running on Red Dog Road. It’s a delightful and whimsical look at a slice of life few people have firsthand experience with. The author tells stories of Pentecostal church meetings, gypsies and moonshine that seem bigger than belief but are told with such nostalgia and emotion they ring true. (Disclaimer: I received a free copy of the book from the publisher in exchange for my review.)

If you grew up in the mountains or are drawn to them, or if you’re interested in first-hand accounts of life lived differently than your own, then Running on Red Dog Road will be an enjoyable journey. It’s packed full of childlike wonder and mischief that brings a smile to the reader’s face. The details are vivid and engaging.

It’s a good choice for any memoir enthusiast.

The dirt on the Gospel

May 12, 2016

“Would you like to join us? You don’t have to eat alone.”

The man wasn’t a member of our congregation. He was there to speak later in the evening about his experience living in a transitional community. All I could tell about him was that he didn’t know anyone and he was a veteran. He accepted my invitation, and we introduced ourselves, as well as our children, and he told us bits and pieces of his story. He and my husband talked about their military service, and the kids regaled him with nonsense stories.

Later, we learned that he had once tried to kill himself. That he was estranged from his family–a wife and children. That he had ended up homeless after years working an $80,000-a-year job. After he spoke, I approached him to encourage him to keep telling his story because it was so important for people to hear. He remarked that he felt bad for sitting with us at dinner when we didn’t know the whole of his story, as if it would have made a difference in our invitation. (It wouldn’t have.)

I wondered if he’d be rejected before.

—

I recently started watching “Call the Midwife,” the BBC series based on the memoirs of a young midwife who worked in London’s East End (a poor section of the city) in the 1950s. Jenny Lee, the main character, is faced with a number of new experiences. She is unused to the living conditions of her patients. She is visibly disturbed by bugs crawling around in their houses, by the behaviors of the women and men she comes into contact with, and the smells they emit. At one point she cries out to one of the nuns with whom she lives and works, “I didn’t know people lived like this!” The nun replies, “But they do and that is why they are here.”

Christopher Campbell via Unsplash

Read the rest of this post at Putting on the New, where I blog on the 12th of every month.