Climbing Mountains

Every Wednesday morning I climb a mountain in Bugambilias, a community on the southwest side of Guadalajara, Mexico. Actually, technically, I drive up the mountain. There are people who climb it by foot, and others who ride their bikes up the winding road, but most of us drive it, struggling our way up and around the sharp curves with more or less success. This morning I passed a woman pulled to the side of the road with the hood of her black SUV lifted. My minivan always smells a little hot by the time it has puffed and chugged its way to my destination: "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can!"

It is my favorite drive of the week.

The morning begins with dropping the kids at school, usually avoiding the initial snarl of rush-hour traffic. Once I've dropped them off and head back to the main road that takes me to the highway that goes south to the mountain, the cars have packed in, and I'm lucky if I can drive the quarter-mile to the highway in ten minutes. But at last, I ease out of the crush and drive with little hindrance toward Bugambilias. The road passes by industrial areas, a squatter hut in a field of cows and horses, a long plateau, and old neighborhoods and local stores. Buses hog the sides of the roads, overloaded trucks trundle by, motorcycles zip through narrow pass ways between larger vehicles.

Finally I turn right into Bugambilias and my soul expands and breathes. Here, the road is quiet and open. The boulevard flanks a central berm lined with various palms and bougainvillea bushes. Each bush shines with blooms of fuchsia, violet or crimson, little flames casting light even on misty mornings like today. The palms stand stately and prickly, and farther on are some impossibly tall cypress, spaced to catch and draw the eye toward the mountain behind. Gracious homes line the road, closed behind ornate iron gates, their walls painted in tasteful creams, pastel oranges, and deep terra cotta.

I drive around a glorieta (a round-about) and am at the foot of the mountain where the manicured public gardens give way to wild grass and sheered rock. Now for the drive. I take it slowly, partly because my minivan has no "umph" or "hutzpah" as my mom would say. But it's also because to my right is a sharp drop-off down the mountainside. The road is always dry, but I'll take no chances. The view, though, is worth it, particularly when there is little haze and the sunlight dances across the city in the valley below. Mountains rise up across the valley and I always look for the skeletal structure of a conference center under construction that clings to the side of one of those mountains like a giant cicada shell, graceful and ugly at the same time.

At last the steep road levels enough to wrap around another glorieta. A mall rises to the right, and communities close in again. We've been to the top of that mall which boasts three restaurants that look out over the valley. The food was delicious, but I'm not looking for that food on Wednesday mornings. My eyes are now bent toward my goal and a different kind of food. I aim for a home of creamy plaster and accents of terra cotta and cobalt blue, and for a group of women who are gathering there to pray and chat and dig deep into the Bible's wisdom literature for a couple hours. Our hostess has a smile that goes much deeper than her kind eyes and mouth. We are joined for these hours, hanging lightly above the world in the rarified air of the mountain.

Things That Make You Go "Hmmm"

"Americans tend to be problem solvers," said a veteran-professor during our orientation with Global Scholars in July. Danny has been in Nigeria for about 25 years, and he knows what he's talking about.    If something can be done more efficiently, Americans will figure out how to do it. This can lead to marvelous inventions such as a single-handled faucet to control water temperature. It can also lead to some serious head-scratching when we come up against the methods employed in other cultures.

So it is in Guadalajara.

One of the first things we noticed here were insanely high or steep curbs. Our apartment, for instance, has a parking garage under our portion of the building, but we use the one in the section next door because there is no way to get into ours. Why not? Well, the curb is high, and the ramp into the garage is so steep that you would need a monster truck to cross the curb without scraping off the bottom of your car.

"It wouldn't be difficult to shave that down," Kraig the engineer commented. Will it ever happen? Probably not. And we certainly won't complain about this because it means we can send the kids down there to play without concern of cars rolling in, or cars getting bopped by our kids or their balls.

Another head-scratcher is the sink in our utility room:

Look at it closely. The faucet runs into the right section of the sink...which is lower than the left section. "So?" you ask. Well, do you see that drain in the left section? That's the only drain in the sink.... And this isn't a fluke. Apartment 1, where we spent our first month, has the same kind of sink. I know it is used as is, too, because one of the apartment staff who cleans the floors always fills the lower portion with water...which we then have to bail out. I'd like to ask why the sinks are made this way, but I'm going to need to learn more Spanish before I can ask the question without sounding like I'm complaining that the sink water is left in there.

And then there is the field next door. The grass and weeds have grown long and lush over the past couple months of the rainy season. 

Whoever oversees this field determined it was time to cut the grass, which was far too long and thick for riding mowers or push mowers. So last Wednesday a handful of workers were sent out to chop it down...with weed whippers. 

As Kraig says, "To a person with a hammer, everything is a nail." Or, in this case, "To a person with a gas-powered weed whipper, everything is a weed to be trimmed." 

This, apparently, is the standard procedure for cutting grass. 

It is very loud. It is very slow.

By Saturday the field looked like this:

Every day the workers started into their whirring at about 10 or 11, and they didn't stop until about 7. To say the least, unless we closed all of the windows and the door wall on that side of the apartment, I was a frazzled wreck by the time they wrapped things up for the night.

On Sunday, I was sure they'd take the day off. But this was not to be.

They finally finished yesterday. At least I think so. I know I heard a weed whipper for a little while today, so maybe they have some final touches to do. 

The first day Kraig looked at them flailing away at the tough grass and said, "You know, a machete would make a lot more sense." He told us about two workers going out to clear an airstrip in Central African Republic where he lived as a kid. "They had long blades, like straight scythes," he said, "and they just moved down the strip, swish-swish-swish, and in two days they had finished it. It was quiet, and a lot more energy efficient."

Apparently the Africans are better problems solvers than the Mexicans in this case. Or they just hadn't been given gasoline and a weed whipper. 

Rawr-rawr-rawr-rawr-rawr-rawr-rawr-rawr......

I'm just praying they won't have to cut it again for a long, long time.

Of course, while we may have solutions, we also have to make sure we don't push our weight around to try to solve everything. Such is the joy and balance of living in a new culture.

To give credit where credit is due, though, the drop-off and pick-up for the kids' school is the most stream-lined machine I have ever seen. Much better than weed whippers.

Communication Skills

I do not know Spanish.

I can boast of lots of language exposure, and I know a lot about how languages work and how they affect culture, but I am not fluent in any language.

And now we are living in a country where Spanish is key to survival. Sure, there are plenty of people who know English, but even then there are times when things are easily misunderstood because of the way language works, assumptions that are made, and there are unfamiliar cultural procedures. If I use Google translate to figure out how to say, "Can you show me an example of this?" I may be using words or turns of phrase that are not used here, and I certainly won't follow the whole response given. 

We realized this full-force as we entered the education system for the kids. Not only was their registration a full-onslaught of sticker-shock (How much does a uniform cost?), but since it was all in Spanish I had to go through things line-by-line to try to translate. I ordered the uniforms and books online, then got the school supply list printed so we could start our collection.

When it came to the school supplies, I tried to be thorough. One evening new American friends came for dinner, and I had Jeannie sit down and go through the list with me. She's a teacher here, so has more experience with the system, plus she knows Spanish. I learned a few vital details from her, such as when the instructions say "label all items with the child's full name" it means all--every pen, every crayon, every eraser. And when they say "child's full name" this means first name, middle name, last name, mother's maiden name. Do that with "Warnemuende" a few times....

After these delightful discoveries, I still needed to clarify a few items on the list. Each child needed multiple notebooks (a particular style, which, we discovered, costs about three times as much as your typical spiral notebook) and these notebooks needed to be covered with certain colors of paper. We now have a lovely collection of colored paper that I plan to use for gifts down the road. Oh, and don't forget clear contact paper, too.... Anyway, armed with my questions which I'd figured out how to ask in Spanish (I hoped) I went into the office at the school. The staff is very helpful, and some know more English than others. We played a fun game of "find that item" so they could show me examples of different things. Once this was accomplished, the kids and I started our hunt at stores in the area. Supplies were bought and stashed in the cupboard, waiting their colored covers and name tags.

Well, the other week we were told our school order had arrived, so I went into the office to get them. The uniforms were delayed, I found, but we did have books...a few piles (How will they get through these texts? I don't know. That's a story for down the road). And we also had--Ta Da!--school supplies!!! 

There, neatly organized and fully labeled in two beautiful boxes were all of Clare and Evie's school materials: the notebooks, the rulers, the pens, the pencils.... Everything was there, covered and labeled. Apparently these items were included in the list of books that I had ordered online, but the staff had only noticed this the previous day. There was much apologizing that they had just caught this, and Jon still needed his items, but there it was. It was done. 

To say the least, it was one of those moments where I had the choice to laugh or cry, and thankfully God helped me take the laughter route. I kept thinking how much money we'd spent--Yikes!--and the fact that Kraig's paycheck was still nonexistent, and that I'd heard it was often hard to return items here. But still, laughter was the response despite the frustration. It was so obviously a miscommunication involving language, assumptions and culture. Evie kept asking why this all had happened--she was almost in tears, poor girl--but we managed to see the bright side. We'd learned a lot of Spanish vocabulary and we'd learned the area better as we'd traipsed to different stores.

We headed home with our supplies in hand and I pulled all of our purchased stuff out of the closet, thanking God that I'd only covered one of Clare's notebooks and nothing had been labeled. We sorted out a few things we needed to keep for home or had already opened, then I pulled out receipts and bagged the returns. While home, my sister-in-law called and we got to chat for a good long while and she let me vent (and laugh). As we wrapped up, she said, "Hey, let's pray about this now," and she took our situation straight to God to handle. Smart woman . We said goodbye, and the kids and I headed back to the three stores to do returns.

And we did it! Each store took our items back with no questions, and handed me cash refunds so we didn't even have to deal with in-store credit. We also were able to knock off a couple more of Jon's needed items and we got a bunch of groceries. Thanks to my sister-in-law's encouragement and prayer, there was no question in my mind that God had helped us in the process. 

This won't be the last time this happens, I know. Stay tuned for more cultural faux-pauxs.

One Year

One year ago today I wrote a blog post about the death of my friend Joann, and death in general.

I haven't written a blog post since.

It's not just because Joann died, or that the death of others has occurred in the past year (which it has) and more people have gotten cancer and other horrible diseases (because they have). I haven't succumbed to any great depression or given up on God--far from it.

It's actually more because so much life has happened in the past year that for one, there hasn't been much time to write posts for the world to see ('cause you know the world is watching :) ). The other reason is that we have been on the path of a huge family transition which meant a major job-change for Kraig and we didn't want to make that known to his employers too early ('cause, of course they're all reading my blog. Oh. Wait.).

But now life has shifted and things are falling into new routines, and I've had some posts running around in my head that need to come out. But I thought I should write some sort of transition post before jumping into this whole new world.

We are in Guadalajara, Mexico, and least for one year, and who knows what all will happen.

Life is happening whether we are ready for it or not.

Dry Lawns and Promises

I mowed the lawn today. It's that time of year when everything is slowing down; it's drier and the grass isn't shooting up every week. I get to the end of a row and turn, and second-guess. Did I mow that line already? Or is it the line left from a week ago? And so I mow it again, just in case, and by the time I decide the yard is finished, I am hot and sweaty, longing for refreshment...and I am not satisfied that I really succeeded in mowing the lawn.

Today I feel like death is becoming that way to me. I've seen it before. It's happened before. I'm tired of it; tired of the grief, tired of the pain, the ramifications. I am resigned. It is the same line mowed over and over, and it doesn't seem to benefit anyone or anything. There is no refreshment. I am apathetic. It is old and dry.

But then I think of Job who suffered death and grief beyond anything I can imagine, and I hear his words, "Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him," and I know I believe it. The words from a new song by Andy Gullahorn repeat over and over in my mind:

They say God listens to our prayers,
When you're suffering, He holds you.
I don't feel Him anywhere,
That doesn't make it any less true.

 I listened to those words earlier this week, and while I was hit by the stark truth I wondered, "How do I prove that to people? How do I say, 'Yes, this is the God I believe in, and I do not doubt Him'?"

My friend Joann died yesterday morning after a brief battle with cancer, a form of leukemia. Hers was a hopeful case, despite the shock of it to her and all of us who called her friend. The doctors caught it early, she started chemo and responded well. On top of that, her two brothers were a 100% match for a bone marrow transplant. Despite the hiccups, really, everything looked toward a healthy, hopeful recovery. We rejoiced with her, we prayed with her. We prayed for her husband and young son, for her extended family. She and her husband encouraged us with their trust in God's hand, no matter what.

And then a few weeks after the transplant, her husband sent out word that Joann was sick. And then we got the word that the cancer had returned and it was acute. Then a coma...then death. No miracle of healing. No grand stories. The same old, same old specter swept in and dried the field. One more notch on the death belt.

I'm writing this out of grief. I'm not angry or bitter. I'm tired, yes. I feel like I'm going over the same row that I've already mowed. I wish Joann's story had the ending of another young mom I heard about last week who had had stage 4 cancer, but has recently received a clean bill of health. The doctors can't find any trace of cancer in her body. I know that God can do that. I've believed it for Joann. I wonder if I needed to hear about this other mom last week so that I could remember God's sovereignty and omnipotence. Joann didn't die because He's not capable of miracles and of healing.

So why did she die? I don't know. But I know I trust God and that His promises are true:

"I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die," Jesus said to Martha after her brother Lazarus died. (John 11:25 & 26)

"Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you." (Deuteronomy 31:6)

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light. (Matthew 11:28-30)

"I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." (John 16:33)

"For everything that was written in the past was written to teach us, so that through endurance and the encouragement of the Scriptures we might have hope." (Romans 15:4)

As I've been writing this, I've glanced out my window at our vegetable garden. While the lawn may be dry and slow-growing at this point of the summer, the garden is lush with fruit. Ruby tomatoes weigh down emerald branches, waiting for me to reach out, pluck them and enjoy the burst of tangy sweetness. They will refresh my body as God's promises refresh my spirit.

In the midst of suffering, there is always hope. I know that if God's promises were only true when they played out the way I think they should, or when I feel them, they wouldn't be promises, and God wouldn't be God. I will trust Him and enjoy the fruit that He has for me.

Parables and Seeking Truth

This morning I read Jesus' parable of the sower and the seed in the book of Mark, chapter 4, followed by the final chapter of Through a Screen Darkly, by Jeffrey Overstreet, and some thoughts converged. Always a little dangerous, I know, especially because these converging thoughts led me back to a conversation from my student-teaching days, which is now about twenty years ago. Time flies and all that.

Anyway, it wasn't the parable itself that hit me this morning, it was the context surrounding it. After Jesus told the story, his disciples pulled him aside and said, "Um, so what do you mean?" I love that, because it's such a human response, and so often my response. "Would you mind giving that to me line by line? I didn't catch it." In Jesus' response I can imagine him shaking his head a little sadly, maybe even in frustration. At one point he says, "But if you can't understand this story, how will you understand all the others I am going to tell?"

Immediately before that, he says something that seems absolutely insane.

"You are permitted to understand the secret about the Kingdom of God. But I am using these stories to conceal everything about it from outsiders, so that the Scriptures might be fulfilled:

'They see what I do, but they don't perceive its meaning. They hear my words, but they don't understand. So they will not turn from their sins and be forgiven.'" (Mark 4:11&12, NLT)

He used the stories to conceal things from outsiders so that Scripture could be fulfilled? What kind of loving God would do something like that? Why wouldn't He desire people to turn from their sins and be forgiven? Why wouldn't He make things so clear that even a child could get it?

I've gone over these verses many times over the years, I've heard good sermons preached about them, and even though I get them on one level, I find I have to think through them all over again when I return to them. I have to go back to who I know God to be based on all of Scripture: He is loving. He does not desire any to perish. He provided the one and only way for us to be rescued from self-destruction: Jesus. The problem is mostly that Jesus himself is an enigma, a stumbling block. And God is, too.

So Jesus told stories. And really, that was the best way to make his truth so clear that a child could get it. How many times have my kids truly understood things because they heard a story rather than a lecture? It's just that as adults we tend to hear a story and scoff, "Well, that's just a tale. Let me give you reality."

In his final chapter of Through a Screen Darkly, Jeffrey Overstreet hones in on a point he's made throughout his book: that the art of cinema is one that can lead us to the truth that is in Christ and in God. If we will see it, though, we have to actively engage it rather than letting it wash over us. Sure there is a place for pure entertainment, but much of movie-making is an art, and Truth (with a capital T) can be found in some of the strangest places. He writes how he is encouraged to see more Christians engaging this art with thoughtful intention, and as a result, engaging our culture more effectively.

Overstreet talks about a Christian arts festival he attended that showed films from Flickerings 2003, a venue for short films by Christians with strict limitations. Some of the restrictions included "Refrain from the use of popular religious symbols, including the cross. No church scenes. No conclusions that involve a conversion to Christianity," etc.

By these rules, Flickerings' founder coaxed Christian artists away from the simplistic, didactic, sentimental and condescending qualities often found in contemporary Christian art and entertainment, nudging them toward the language of metaphor. This unsettled some artists. they worried that viewers wouldn't "get their message." It's true--some didn't get their message, but some did. And some got more than the filmmakers had ever meant to convey. (p. 328)

 And I thought of the disciples asking Jesus for a translation, and Jesus telling stories so only those truly seeking him would "get it" (and even then we have to ask a lot of questions--which builds our relationship with him...I wonder if that's on purpose). And I remembered teaching the Medieval morality play Everyman to a group of Christian high school seniors. We delved into the story Everyman portrayed--a good-works-saves-you story, and we talked about the culture of that time where the majority of people couldn't read the Bible for themselves so had to rely on these defective plays for biblical understanding. One of my students asked, "But if this is all they had, how could they learn the truth?" It's a question that has resonated with me ever since, because I see so many things in our world that don't present the truth. I mean, most Christians don't present the truth, whether through words or conduct. We are certainly a faulty picture of Christ.

But God is actively at work, and His Truth is inescapable for any seeking it, no matter how badly the tale is told. And as believers, we need to let Him tell the tale through us, which may mean that our own lives will be strange stories that will either draw or repel others. I wonder, too, in this day and age where the written word is undervalued and visual media is the primary source of information and entertainment, if movies are the modern parables and morality tales.

The Truth is there for those who seek it.

"He who has an ear, let him hear."

Seeing Things Darkly, Seeing Things Clearly

There's nothing like seeing random thoughts, memories, experiences, and a movie collide. It happened to me yesterday. I'm not sure what I expected would happen, but apparently that's what did. I'm still sorting it all out.

I'm reading Jeffrey Overstreet's Through a Screen Darkly: Looking Closer at Beauty, Truth and Evil in the Movies. Even better, I'm reading it as part of an online discussion group with whom I've read some other fabulous books this past year such as The Mind of the Maker which I reviewed last summer. Add to this fun, the author is contributing to the discussion, which makes for intriguing interactions. Overstreet wrote movie reviews for Christianity Today for a number of years, and his work still involves movie criticism, but he's also a gifted author and has written a terrific fantasy series, The Aurelia Thread.

So to say the least, the book is amazing. I have never been a connoisseur of movies; Kraig and I typically watch videos that require little brain engagement--something we can watch at night after the kids are in bed and we're doing some jobs that require hands and not brains (folding laundry, anyone?). But I do like to dissect things--I've always enjoyed literary criticism, or art, and dissecting movies is no different. Also, even though my movie viewing is fairly lightweight, I am always evaluating what I see and holding it up against the grid of what I believe. This book helps challenge that and is forcing me to think more.

It has also piqued my interest to see movies I would never have thought to watch, and why, yesterday, I clicked on a YouTube link to watch the 2004 documentary, Born Into Brothels. You just never know what kind of dangerous territory you may enter when you read, "Jennie knew, as I and so many others have discovered, that Zana Briski's documentary is bursting with joyful surprises and unforgettable characters. She knew that the darkness of the context only makes the lights flare out all the brighter, making this a veritable Fourth of July extravaganza." (p. 188)

The "unforgettable characters" of this film are the children of prostitutes in the Calcutta red light district. Briski, a photographer, went there in order to record and spread the word of the dire straights people live in in this part of the world. What she hadn't counted on was the curiosity of the children, and she ended up handing out cameras to these kids and teaching them photography. In the process, she saw their world through their eyes, and she recorded it for all the world to see. Overstreet writes, "Even sinful behavior, seen through the lens of a child, can tune the delicate intruments of our hearts so we see things the way they should be. By giving us beauty with the ugliness, joy with the pain, laughter with the groans, these revelations give us a vision more complete and more affecting than any slideshow of poverty and pain half a world away" (p. 189).

The beauty is inescapable. The eyes of these children are dark liquid pools that sparkle to life as they grin. When they are solemn, you feel the weight of their lives. They have wisdom beyond their years and certainly beyond their academic education. And yet it was like they were my Indian neighbors' children who play with my kids. This girl and boy are the children of affluent, educated parents who can travel back to India to see family every couple years. Yet they are as spiritually needy as the children born into brothels, and they have the same beauty as any creation of God. I was humbled, as I thought of how, more often than not, I'm annoyed by these two kids who tend to push my patience, show up at inconvenient times, and get into fights with my kids even as they long to play with them and be friends.

These children of the brothels were like the brother and sister I've been taking to VBS last week and this who live in the apartment complex within a mile of our home. It's a low-income complex that I've known only by reputation for eighteen years until I drove into it for the first time last week. I've gotten to know some of these kids and their parents through my daughter's school, but only at school, not at their homes. In the past couple weeks, I've had to evaluate my attitude. When I drove there after seeing this film yesterday, my mind kept superimposing images of chaotic Calcutta over the neat, quiet townhouses in that complex. What stories were the silent rows hiding inside? It made me wonder if the places were really that different...and if they were really that different from my own white-collar neighborhood. No, I don't live in a city of millions packed in tight quarters, much less even have remote experience with brothels, but isn't my hometown as lost as Calcutta? Aren't the children at my kids' school and in our neighborhood made in the image of God as much as the children that Zana Briski connected with? What am I doing to touch their lives? Am I doing all that I can to seek the beauty in them and help them connect to the Giver of True Beauty?

I am awash with this storm of thoughts and am still trying to process this. It was all so familiar, perhaps in part because there were cultural bits in the film that reminded me so much of my childhood in the Philippines. And I think it was also familiar because it was such a true picture of humanity. The joy in the film made the sorrow that much more poignant and real. So much more something that must be opposed.

I'm praying that I will be faithful to what God wants me to do to take part in this battle.

The Return of Brown Bear

 I didn't expect to have a sequel to our story, much less such a happy ending. But God has a way of surprising us with joy, particularly when it fosters our children's faith in Him.

Yesterday morning I got a call from the secretary at Clare's school.

"You were the ones who lost the bear, right?" Ms. D asked. "Have you found him?"

I told her we hadn't.

"Well, I think we may have him. When I came in this morning, there was a bear on my desk. Is your bear tan with eyes you can barely see?"

"Um, kind of. Maybe it's him! We'll come check!"

I tried to keep the kids and me grounded as we got ready to go to the school. "It may not be him," I warned. "After all, he's not really tan, more caramel." (And it's an elementary school where kids often bring their stuffed friends, and it has been a week-and-a-half...) But there was a chance! Evie and Jon discussed the pros and cons.

Eventually Jon and I arrived at the office; he dashed to the door while I followed with bated breath. We stepped inside...and there was Brown Bear, looking fit as ever, and waiting patiently for a little boy to swoop him up in a death-grip hug.

Where Brown Bear has hidden this past week is a mystery. Jon informed me that Brown Bear had come down in a space ship to Clare's school, but I haven't seen the space ship. Maybe it's hidden by an improbability field.

"Where was he while he was gone?" I asked Jon.

"At a fwend's house," Jon said.

So there you have it.

But can I just say, it's hard to find something sweeter than this:

A Boy and His Bear

Last Monday our family experienced one of those tragedies that every mother prays will never happen: the loss of a lovey. Jon's dearly-loved teddy, Brown Bear, went missing, and we have not been able to find him.


Brown Bear joined our family about ten years ago when he was given to Keren after one of her hospital visits. He was a soft, cuddly creature with a royal blue shirt from Kohl's Kids to Children's Hospital of Detroit. Over the years he sat on shelves, adorned beds, and got stuffed away in bins. Then last year, somehow, magically, like the Velveteen Rabbit, he became Jon's favorite and was dubbed "Brown Bear."

Brown Bear and Jon have had many adventures, and this is not the first time Brown Bear has performed a disappearing act. Typically, though, we've known exactly where he was and he was brought home post-haste. He's spent a day at Jon's buddy Michael's house. He's done two overnights at Grammy and Poppa's (partying with the stuffed friends there, I told Jon). His latest shenanigans involved staying at Jon's cousins' up north...though thankfully Grandma and Grandpa were returning a day later than us and could bring him home. So yes, Brown Bear is a little sneaky. But this time he pulled a trick that none of us can solve.

When we realized Monday night that Brown Bear had gone missing, I wasn't too concerned. I thought through our events of the afternoon (which, unfortunately, involved at least two outings) and tried to remember when I'd last seen our plush friend. Maybe he'd been left at Clare's school playground when we picked her up? Maybe he'd snuck into Mrs. Donna's house when we went for Clare's piano lesson? My mind was a blank. Jon, thankfully, went to bed without a problem and barely asked after his friend.

Tuesday brought no answers and I tried not to worry...and not to mention the missing bear to Jon who whiled his day away without concern. Wednesday went well, too, but no Brown Bear. It wasn't until Wednesday night that I think Jon realized something was wrong, and as I tucked him in, he started to cry for his bear. It was devastating. It didn't help that I was pretty sad about it, too. I mean, this was Brown Bear we were talking about! He'd been in the family for a decade and was one of those little things that linked Keren and Jon. He was Jon's close companion who cuddled so adorably under Jon's arm and flew so fantastically when thrown in the air. I wanted to burst into tears along with my boy, but knew I had to be strong and help him find something positive in the midst of sadness.

"I think, Jon," I said, "that Brown Bear has gone on another adventure, and this time it's a really big

one. Maybe--" I thought of Jon's favorite naptime audio stories of Winnie-the-Pooh, "Maybe Brown Bear thought that he would be like Winnie-the-Pooh and go on an expotition to the North Pole. Or maybe he's on an expotition to somewhere else exciting since Pooh has already found that."

More tears, but Clare and Ev got in on it adding their ideas as to Brown Bear's adventures. Jon eventually eased off into dreamland and I drew a ragged breath of relief. It was helpful, though, to imagine Brown Bear off on adventures, and I thought maybe I'd start writing some little letters from Brown Bear to Jon. Ideas started percolating.

I was a bit concerned the next day because every time Jon brought up Brown Bear his sisters supplied wild possibilities. Ev called out, "Jon! I got a letter from Brown Bear and he's gone away forever!" Great. Real helpful, Dear. And hey, that letter idea was mine! Clare posed the thought that perhaps he'd been stolen. Another joyful consideration. But little by little, Jon was drawn into the play and soon had Brown Bear shooting off in a space ship. Brown Bear has since joined up with Winnie-the-Pooh and is exploring the 100 Acre Wood, along with other places. The sweetest thing was what I discovered by Jon's head when I went to wake him from his nap that day. During rest time, Evie had created a little book that Brown Bear had "written" to Jon to tell him where he was and how he was doing and how he remembered his time with Jon.

So it would seem that Brown Bear has left our home to adventure out into the wide, wide world. I am thankful for imaginations and love surrounding my little ones here at home so that they can embrace his adventures that salves sore hearts. I will admit, mine still has a bit of an ache. But then I picture Brown Bear headed off to Pooh's house for some honey and sweetened condensed milk, and I can't help but smile.

Ev's Letter from Brown Bear

Three Things I Have Loved, Four Things I've Adored

Valentine’s Day has come and gone again with varying emotions… Does exhaustion count as an emotion? I’ve felt that way about Valentine’s Day at times over the past few years as my kids bring home a class list of all the valentines they need to write out, and Mom gets to help her dear ones put all of these together and make sure they get to the right place at the right time. Romance? Candlelight dinners with hubby? Not so much. Despite this, I will say there is a lot of love going around, and as crazy as school valentines get, I am thankful for a time to focus on the ones I love.

I am also thankful—so thankful—for the One who loves me most, often in spite of me. I had this paraphrase from Proverbs running through my head the other day: “Three things I have loved, four things I have adored…” In the past month, I ran into three popular ideas that are actually kind of skewed, and was reminded of four truths that I love.

The first idea was “God never promised us a rose garden.” When I heard it, something rang wrong. It’s such a common phrase, and there’s a lot of truth in looking at life realistically and knowing it won’t all be fragrant and beautiful. Yet this time I thought, “But God has promised us a rose garden!” He’s promised us His peace, His love, and in the future, perfect happiness with Him. What’s more rosy than that? The thing is, roses have thorns, and we will experience pain, trials, stretching and suffering along with the beauty as we walk through this life. In fact, the roses are all the more beautiful because of the thorns. They are a vital part of that rose garden God has given us. I love Him for that.

Second, how often have you heard the phrase, “God won’t give you more than you can handle”? It’s always bugged me, but I couldn’t put a finger on why.Then a facebook friend shared a note posted by a woman she knew who had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s at age 38. “Contrary to popular opinion,” the woman with Parkinson’s wrote, “I think that God quite often lets us face more than we can handle, so that when we do get through the hardship, we can say, 'Not me. I didn't do this; it was God.'” That’s it! I love that it’s not about me. It’s about letting God work so people can see His glory and come to know Him.

The third idea seems to dovetail with the other two: I read a blog post called, “The Myth of God’s Unconditional Love.” It was a catchy title, and the content was engaging, but I realized as I read that the theology was off, the author never clearly defined what God’s love was, and his examples lacked context. But I have known ones who believe that we might take one awful misstep and Christ will say, “Sorry. I said I died for you, but that’s one thing too much. You’re out.” I have a problem with this idea. Yes, God is just and sin must be judged. I would never argue that. But that was the whole purpose of Christ’s death—that we can be forgiven because the sin-price was paid. Yes, there will be consequences for sin, even for those who have accepted Christ, but we are held in His hand, sealed with His Spirit, and have the promise that once we are born into His family, He will bring us to maturity. This I love. This I can live for.

And the final thing I love? That even though I feel like the older I get, the less I seem to know, God knows me completely, and loves me. To quote a friend who blogged about this recently: “Jesus knows me, this I love.”

Happy Valentine’s Day! May the truth of these loves go with you in the year to come.

When All Else Fails, Use the Driveway for Sledding

…Though, to tell the truth, nothing actually failed. I was just too lazy to take the kids to a real sledding hill today.

“You should take the kids sledding,” Kraig said as he headed to work this morning, bravely facing a morning commute that would involve snowy roads with an underlying layer of ice that had closed schools for the day.

“Maybe…” I said noncommittally.

It’s not that I haven’t taken the kids sledding before, or that they wouldn’t have behaved well. That wasn’t my concern. We’ve had wonderful outings; just a couple weeks ago we bundled up to meet friends on a lovely, snowy day, and had the snow hill all to ourselves. I was glad we’d made the effort that day. In fact, this year we’ve gotten out more than any other year, taking advantage of real snow. Last year we barely had one snowfall. There was just enough to slide down our driveway.

But there it is. We can sled down our driveway, and today that’s all I wanted to do. It’s not a huge slant, and it makes for a slow slide, but it works when push comes to shove (and trust me, you usually have to do both to get things moving). So when the day flew by with a fairly quiet morning at home, followed by lunch with Grandma and Grandpa, then a dental appointment for Clare, it made sense to enjoy the great outdoors from the comfort of our own driveway. I don’t regret it, and as you can see, the kids didn’t either. Added to the fun was a visit with neighbors we rarely see due to vastly different schedules. Imaginations took flight, sleds slid and slushed, cheeks grew rosy and laughter rippled.

The Warnemuende sledding hill had opened for business.

The Wonder is in the Details

“This is crazy!” I laughed to a friend as we walked out of the school after dropping off our kids. The snow swirled around us and nipped at our faces; faces that had practically basked in unseasonable warmth the day before.

“I like to look at the snowflake,” Kunie said, holding her white-speckled gloves up before her.

Her words stopped me, and for a minute we checked out the individual flakes, each perfect and unique in its beauty.

When we arrived home, Jon wanted to shovel the driveway. As he plowed his way through the mounting drifts he exclaimed, “Snow is be-yew-tiful! Ice is be-yew-tiful!”

And if you really think about it, he is right. Sure it might be a pain to drive in, and its cold is bitter to the bones, but it’s a marvelous creation. I was reminded of a portion of Notes from the Tilt-a-Whirl, by N. D. Wilson, where the author describes a snowstorm. “How many snowflakes are there in one storm?” he poses. “And yet God knows every single one of them. Every detail. In fact, He created each one.” To God, a snowstorm is a chance to wax eloquent. He doesn’t just say, “Snow!” and let the bounty fall. It’s more like, “Snowflake, snowflake, snowflake, snowflake!” Each one is special, and each gives Him joy.

How much more joy does each of us give Him? Think of the detail that goes into each of our bodies and minds, into the frames of our husbands and kids, of our friends and family. If we really take the time to contemplate that, it might be harder to get caught in the doldrums of hum-ho everyday life. Or worse, get angry and frustrated at those amazing creations. (Believe me, I’m not preaching at you in this. I’m part of the audience!)

Now if I can just remember this truth when I’m helping the kids get ten-zillion Valentines ready for their classmates in a couple weeks :) ….

A Life Worth Living

Now the word of the Lord came to me saying,

"Before I formed you in the womb I knew you,

And before you were born I consecrated you;

I have appointed you a prophet to the nations."

~Jeremiah 1:4, 5 (NASB)

For You formed my inward parts;

You wove me in my mother's womb...

Your eyes have seen my unformed substance;

And in Your book were all written

The days that were ordained for me,

When as yet there was not one of them."

~Psalm 139:13 & 16 (NASB)

On September 27, 2002, I became a mom to our firstborn, Keren Elyse. But on the day of her tenth birthday last fall, our celebration was one of remembrance, because it was Keren's fourth birthday in Heaven. Today marks the fourth anniversary of the day she left us. We aren't celebrating, and it's hard sometimes to know how best to handle this day. 

I am not swamped with grief today. Kraig said yesterday that the tears were close to the surface for him this weekend, and that was true for me, too. But for me, that's not debilitating grief. It's poignant, but I am thankful for it, because it means I haven't forgotten our girl. No, the grief I hate is the dead depression that hits me now and then without warning. It's bound to hit at some point in January, and this year it came right after a wonderful, but also highly stressful, Christmas. I can blame some of that on the post-Christmas blues, but it was definitely more than that. I think it was that realization that January was here...again...and I'd have to get through the 28th, along with many other days of remembrance that mark this cold, bleak month. I know God is in control of these days, and that there is beauty amidst the grief, mainly because I know that He understands our suffering and walks through it with us. He lets me pound my fists on His chest and ask, "How long? When can we be done with this broken world?" He closes me in His arms and weeps with me, and I am comforted.

For some reason this year it has hit me more forcefully than usual how close the day of Keren's death is to the date of Roe vs. Wade. It seems fitting to remember how precious her life was, and how much she taught us about what "quality of life" truly means in light of that day that now marks more than 50,000,000 deaths to children who never got a chance for life. I know Kraig and I are counter-cultural. Why in the world would we have wanted a child who could do nothing for herself? Who would never contribute to society, and if anything be a drain on that society? Why would we want to give up our dreams and goals to give her life? But we did. Because it was the only right thing to do. If we believed God and took Him at His word, then there was no gray. Our choice was black and white. Each life, no matter how long it exists, is one formed by God and set into place with purpose. It is not for us to end it.

Keren had six years, four months and a day. That was longer than we'd been led to expect, and shorter than we had hoped. But they were the exact number of days that God had ordained, and her life had and has eternal effect. For one thing, she taught us that even those who will never be independent can teach us much about unconditional love. She forced us, simply by being, to look beyond our own dreams and let God guide us--and we have lived with that principle since. Her death has helped us understand others' grieving in loss, and so we can encourage each other and lift each other up as a result. Sometimes I wonder if I'm able to relate well enough to others because for the most part my life has charged on and I don't burst into tears every time I hear of another death. God is stretching our family and growing us in new ways, teaching us new things. But then I talk with a friend who has lost someone close, and I realize that I can relate and in my own way grieve with her. I am still learning how all that works--that strange dance of grief and joy.

So how do I remember Keren today? With this post, for what it's worth. It is a word cast out into the world to affirm life, to affirm Christ and His work, and to affirm my trust that God has His hand on each day of my life and of the lives of those around me.

Treasures for the Senses and Soul

 Last summer Kraig and I got to take our kids to one of our favorite places on earth, Michigan's Upper Peninsula Pictured Rocks Lakeshore. It was a glorious week, to say the least. But one thing that added to the joy was we were able to connect with Mike and Suzanne who live in that neck of the woods. Suzanne and I had "met" in The Rabbit Room, and were both headed to the Room's conference, Hutchmoot, at the end of September.

It was going to be both of our first conference, and while we were excited, we were nervous about the unknown aspects of the adventure. After all, we only knew everyone digitally. How helpful it was to meet each other in person ahead of time, knowing that there would be at least one familiar face when we got to Nashville. In fact, God in His perfect timing arranged it so that Suzanne was outside when I arrived at the conference, and so made my entrance that much less stressful! Not only that, but Mike was available to pick my sister up at the airport when her flight was delayed. Thanks to him, I didn't have to miss dinner to go get her (And considering the food at Hutchmoot, it was something I was selfishly not wanting to miss!). Since the conference, we've had to follow each other online again, but the friendship has been formed, and we're looking forward to seeing them once more in person.

This year, The Rabbit Room proprietors hosted a Secret Santa, where names could be entered and then handed out randomly. We could reveal ourselves or not as desired, but the fun was in sending a gift to one perhaps not well-known, but very likely of similar tastes due to the nature of the group. I put together my gift and sent it off with a little fear and trembling, then waited excitedly for what might appear on my doorstep.

And then the box came...and amazingly my Secret Santa lived in Michigan! Not only that, the address was surprisingly close to--wait--Pictured Rocks!? I couldn't believe it! Suzanne realized, too, that her identity wouldn't be hidden, and while she didn't technically give me her name, her gift had the UP written all over it. I love the way God wove the pieces. Check out the gifts on the left. The "stone" soap brings back memories of our families tossing and skipping rocks in and on Lake Superior (you never run out of rocks there). The pottery and bracelet (the latter made of local stones) reflect the colors found in that beautiful part of the world.

It is truly a gift from a friend, one like so many I have met now online and in person through the Rabbit Room. God keeps bringing our lives together, and I can't wait to see what the future holds.

The Magic Life

I spent the last four days in a place of magic. It was a place where song and laughter flowed as freely as spring rain, where words and wit flipped and tripped and eyes sparkled, where food was art that enriched all the senses. It was a place where the Spirit of the Great Magician hovered, warming us with His presence.

It was a place I entered with trepidation. The dark magic of fear and self-focus taunted me with lies: "You won't fit in like you think you will. That anticipation you feel now? It's just headed for a crash." I had to draw the Sword of Truth to fight off this darkness and to remember that I was loved by the Great Magician no matter what I discovered in this place. I knew that most of all I wanted to experience the magic the He had for me, not concoct some mediocre potion of my own dreams. And Truth won, and dark magic was defeated, and joy reigned.

And then it was time to come home.

But the magic did not disappear.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. Why do I think the Great Magician only holds sway in one lovely corner of the world? There is magic wherever I go. There was magic in the conversation I had with a college student on the plane ride home—a fellow Truth-follower who saw with clarity the joy of trusting the Great Magician. There was magic in the simple joy of opening the back of our minivan and seeing the glowing smiles and golden hair of my daughters, in the thrill of my son’s squeal of delight, and in the richness of my husband’s kiss. There was magic when I learned that though my sister’s flight home was delayed she dined with new friends, and didn't sit alone for all of those hours.

This morning I still saw the magic. I could see the Magician’s touch in my response to a cranky son who didn’t know what to do with Mommy now that she had come home. I relished the beauty of our walk to school with the windswept sky that stretched wide over a green field, and I reveled in the brisk air that tickled my nose. The magic of a tractor mower enchanted my son, while my girls and I breathed deep the scent of mown grass. There were friends to greet, and the world was overflowing.

It was harder to find the magic this evening. Tempers flared—including mine—but I was still able to step back and remember. The Great Magician hadn’t left. I could still see His work if I looked. I held out my hand to my kids and asked, “What is this made of?” Distraction, wonder. The Magician was still speaking and we lived and breathed.

I am sure that in the days to come I will have many moments when I forget that I live amidst this good, good magic. I hope that in those moments I will take the time to step back and look and really see.

And if all else fails, my children will remind me that a dinosaur named Henley lives in the creek by the school, the evil giant Chompchucks lurks in our neighborhood, and if I’m not careful, the lava between the sidewalk cracks may explode on me.

After the magic I saw last weekend I wouldn’t be surprised if even this were true.

Problems, Solutions...Or Something New?

Early this summer I picked up a book that I'd seen recommended a number of times: The Mind of the Maker, by Dorothy L. Sayers. I'm an old fan of Sayers' Lord Peter Wimsey mystery novels, but I hadn't forged past those to read her other writings, many that highlight her insights into living for Christ. The Mind of the Maker seemed a good place to start, and when a blog friend of mine started an online discussion of the book within weeks of my venture, it proved to be the perfect summer read. Not to mention, having a group discussion helped me pace it and push on through the heavier bits.

And what a journey it has been! I can definitely say that I loved Sayers' writing as much in this book as I always have in her novels. I wish I could think like her; she lays ideas out, elaborates, focuses in, and zings with her final points. She's a master of logical arguments. Kraig could probably keep pace with her, but for me it's a slow process. But her work is as beautiful as a perfect geometry theorem (and from a non-math-person like me, that's a huge complement). My favorite part of the book was chapter seven, "Maker of All Things--Maker of Ill Things," in which Sayers lays out an argument for why evil exists and the part God plays in it. I won't even attempt to detail it here because I would completely botch her argument, so you'll just have to go read it yourself. There is this point with which she concludes the chapter, though, that goes with what I'm getting to:

"The Fall had taken place and Evil had been called into active existence; the only way to transmute Evil into Good was to redeem it by creation. But, the Evil having been experienced, it could be redeemed only within the medium of experience--that is, by an incarnation in which experience was fully and freely in accordance with the Idea [God]." (p. 107)

So the Creator God gave us Christ, and through Christ, we (and all of His creation) can be redeemed, bought back, rescued.

In the final chapter, Chapter 11, "Problem Picture," Sayers fleshes out this concept of redemption. She targets a cultural tendency that thinks of everything in terms of problems and solutions. Think of how we approach everything: Here is the problem (e.g. "I am sick") and here is the solution ("I will follow such-and-such procedure and I will be cured."). Unfortunately, reality is not that cut and dry. We don't have neat little problems, Sayers points out, like a detective novel that can be solved with all the pieces tied up.

For many people, the fact that the problems of life can't be neatly solved is horrible. What kind of God would make a world that can't be fixed? But the whole point is, that isn't how God works! He doesn't "solve" the "problem" by what we think of as "fixing it". If that were the case, when Adam and Eve admitted to eating the fruit, He would have simply restored Eden to its innocence, knocked Satan out of the picture forever, and that would have been that. Nice idea, but within the construct of His creation it doesn't work. Innocence was lost, Evil was active, and the knowledge of good and evil had entered into the human soul. The only true solution was redemption. A price had to be paid in order to buy us back. All things could only be made new through Christ's sacrifice.

Sayers takes this concept of making things new into our human realm, for her theory is that as God is the Creator, his creation reflects Him; therefore, humans have a desire to create--we have the mind of a maker :) . Humans desire to make something new out of what we have. Obviously we reflect God dimly, particularly because of sin, but the image is there and now and then shines out (more so as we let Christ live through us). So with that perspective, how do we deal with the problems of life? We don't try to "solve" them and restore things to what they were before the problem existed; that's impossible. The person who successfully fights off cancer will never be restored to the same state of health he was in previous to the illness. He will never be that same person mentally or spiritually, either. He has been made new. His life is now a new creation.

"If, therefore, we are to deal with our 'problems' in 'a creative way,' we must deal with them along the artist's lines: not expecting to 'solve' them by a detective trick, but to 'make something of them,' even when they are, strictly speaking, insoluble." (p. 193)

 I realized that this has been how I've looked at problems for a long time. When Keren died, what put my feelings into words for me was Steve Saint's article, "God's Purpose In Our Suffering." I believed God was in control and that Keren's death wasn't some pointless tragedy. But when I read how this man came to see that God had purposed a tragedy in his family's life to bring others to Christ and bring God glory I saw hope. Keren's life and death was not in vain. Even our grief in losing her wasn't pointless. There was no need to try to "solve" our "problem" of grief. God could take it all, would take it all, and make it something more beautiful than I could ever imagine. And in the past three-and-a-half years I've seen flashes of that truth, and I have no doubt I will continue to see it. Kraig and I are still figuring out what all this means for our future.


Our pastor recently started a series on Nehemiah, and has been focusing on how the rebuilding of the wall of Jerusalem is similar to ways our church is trying to rebuild after a number of years of upheaval. Sunday he spoke on chapter four and "Dealing with the Inevitable." In other words, when you are in the midst of doing something big for God, it is inevitable that obstacles will arise. It is easy to get discouraged and sidetracked: "It will never be the way it was! There are too many problems, we can't fix them!" The truth is that of course things won't be the way they were, and that there are problems. But that's not the whole truth. God's truth is that He can use us, and work through us to create something new and mighty and beautiful, and that we will be strengthened through the problems we face, and the world will see His glory.

It hit me this morning that another area where this applies for me is with our mom's group at church, REAL moms, of which I'm the coordinator. In the past number of years we have watched our numbers and resources shrink considerably. There are many factors as to why this is, but I've often fought discouragement concerning this. After all, we were such a great outreach program for the church, and we still have many amazing resources for moms of young kids. Why can't we still be that? What can we do to go back to that? Thankfully I've had a mentor and a team who have encouraged me to see what God is doing now in a new way. Last year, though our group was small, it became a place where women could come and share things that were going on in their lives, things they may not have been comfortable to share in a bigger group. Our team saw that our role was one of equipping and challenging each mom to go out into her own community and live Christ daily. It became a place of discipleship more than evangelism, which is awesome, particularly if each person is then becoming a light in her own neighborhood. I'm excited to see how God will continue to use each of us in the group.

I realized that I've got to act on this perspective of making things "new creations". I'm not going to look for simple 1-2-3 solutions to restore things to how they were. I won't expect to see things wrapped up in a nice little package with a bow on top. No, I will look to see how God is making things new, and I will strive to work in God's creation to make something of what He has given me. And to Him be the glory, forever!
 

Goodbyes

This morning our friends the Heathcocks moved away. It's been coming for the past few months, but today was IT, and they are off to new worlds and new adventures. Those whom they've left behind are thrilled for them, because it's a great move, but today there is a big hole. We've been friends for a long time, and in the past four years we've been neighbors. It's not like we hung out a lot; in fact, usually our schedules were so different that we'd only manage brief greetings at church. But I knew they were there. More than that, I knew we could depend on them, trust them, connect with them on deep levels. There was history. There was faith. There was family. Time together wasn't a requirement.

I know I've said before that I hate change. And I hate goodbyes. Yesterday we said goodbye, and it was the same day we said goodbye to Clare's teacher who will probably be moved to a different school in the fall, and to classmates who may or may not be in Clare's class next year. Too many goodbyes for one day. This morning it hit me like a flood when I walked over to Heathcocks' house and saw the door and garage shut, and listened to the moving truck purring in the driveway. "This chapter is done," it droned. It's not just that this goodbye is hard; it's that truth that this is not the first or the last goodbye in my life. It is a goodbye in an ever-increasing list.

Yesterday morning at breakfast Clare and Ev asked again, rather pragmatically, "Why do the Heathcocks have to move?" They are losing a playmate; the Heathcocks' youngest son fit nicely between our Clare and Ev, and often popped over to play, or the girls would ask to go see "if Matthew was available." Jon was starting to refer to him by name, starting to look up to him as an older brother. He was an extra kid, as fun and frustrating as my own. Despite this loss, my kids aren't heartbroken. In some ways it's because the reality that Matthew will not be available hasn't sunk in. However, it's also because they live in the now and so far change hasn't bothered them much.

We talked about why Heathcocks were moving, and how it was such a great thing for their family. "I don't ever want to move," Clare said. "Yeh," I answered, "but if God wants you to move then it's so much better to go than to stay. You'll only be unhappy if you aren't doing what God wants you to do." And I knew as I spoke that I was reminding myself of this as much as telling my daughter. "If we do what God wants us to do, then He can use us to touch the most people possible so they might come to know Him. And that's the best thing of all, really, isn't it?" Clare nodded, though at almost seven she's not grasping the full weight of all of that. For that matter, I'm still trying to grasp this truth.

And so, today I am saying goodbye with a heavy heart. I know in my head that there will be new hellos tomorrow, and new adventures for our own family. But I can't help but look forward to my Heaven-home when there will be no more goodbyes.