Here’s what I envisioned some months before my Mom’s passing. Today we celebrate the two year anniversary of her going home.

Something stirred next to her. It sounded like the beating of wings. She opened her eyes. Piercing light seeped into the room. It seemed as if the sun itself had entered the four walls. Every nook and cranny was filled with vivid, glittering hues of alabaster and gold. So radiant and intense was the light, she had to shut her eyes as quickly as she had opened them.

Seconds later, she looked again. The light was still there. Only this time she could see figures standing in the illuminated splendor. At first they appeared just around the perimeter of her bed, but upon further inspection she could see row after row of faces. The living room walls had expanded to accommodate the multitude of bodies. In the intermingling of faces she spied many she recognized—Bill, Lisa, David & the kids, Ale, Bob & Francine, Dijana, Francesca, Claudia & Domenico, John, Marna, Francisco, Greg & Shana, Frank, Gary & Jeanne, Sam, Beth & Steve. Behind her family and friends were other faces. Some looked strangely familiar while others were complete unknowns.

Angels, she concluded. My guardian angels. Each one stepping forth at just the right moment. Each one helping when needed. Each one bringing peace and blessing. Her eyes filled with grateful tears.

She stretched out her arms to touch those she loved so dearly. As she reached forward, she opened her mouth to try and speak. Before one finger met its mark or before one word reached her lips, a great gust of wind roared though the room. A loud clap of thunder immediately followed and then there was the sound of trumpets. Instantly the faces started fading into the light. She felt a pulling and tugging away—into the vast brightness that surrounded her.

The four walls were completely gone now. There was only bright, blinding light. The sea of brilliance appeared to stretch on forever in all directions. It was all she could see. There was nothing else. Swallowed up in the splendor, she soaked in its warmth and comfort.

She realized she was standing. She looked at her feet. They were bare. She looked at her arms. They, too, were bare and a golden-brown color. She touched her face and her hair. It seemed as if she had the body of her youth, only different and better. She threw her head back and began to laugh. She extended her arms wide, threw her head back, and started twirling around and around.

Then she heard it. A small whisper in her ear. She stopped. She stood still. There it was again. Her name. So softly and tenderly was it spoken that she had to strain to hear the letters and the sounds. It was a name like no other she had heard before, but innately she recognized it as her’s. It was beautiful.

She turned. The scene before her took her breath away.

In the distance an enormous spans of charcoal granite burst forth. It was rugged with jagged, unfinished edges. Over the top if it bubbled clear, aqua-blue water. As the water tumbled toward the pool at the bottom, it tossed tiny crystals into the air. Splashed away from expanse of churning water, the mini prisms picked up and reflected a rainbow of hues.

The ground was a lush, emerald color. It looked like moss-carpet covered in delicate violet-like flowers. The tiny blossoms in the most brilliant hues she had never seen. Trees fanned out over the meadow.

Giant carmel-colored mane. Sitting regal, head upright, back legs tucked under him. In the crook

That’s when she saw Him. The Lamb. The precious Son of God.

He was moving toward her with a smile on His face. She stood still. He continued to come. His smile grew. As He reached her reached out to her with open arms. She felt His warm embrace, “Welcome home, my beloved daughter,” she heard Him say. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

The grinding of the gears could be heard above the roar of the jet engines as the wheels unfolded from the belly of the plane.

“We will be landing momentarily in Amsterdam. Local time is 8:32 am. Please make sure your tray….”

I turned a deaf ear to the stewardess’s words and looked out the window. Red roofs, green fields, and the circular patterns of the city below dotted the ground below. I smiled. Homecoming. My home away from home. Even though it’s been 25 years since I lived in the Netherlands as an exchange student, I still feel a connection to the land and the people—especially “my” people—the ones we were about to see.

We gathered our belongings and exited the plane. We walked though the security check and headed toward the main part of the terminal. As we moved through the double doors, I started scanning the sea of faces looking for Ons Ma (our Ma) and Ons Pa (our Pa), affectionately known as, and shortened to, Sma and Spa.

The people waiting had call kinds of accouterments and expressions. Some of them were looking anxiously toward the entering travelers while others were beaming from ear to ear. Some were holding large bouquets of flowers or signs with exiting passengers names on them while others were empty-handed. But all were scanning—just like me.

After the first glance over I realized Sma and Spa were not there. Weird. They are usually so punctual and regimented. It was unlike them not to be there. I decided to call them.

I pulled my phone out of my purse and dialed Spa’s cell number. Ring, ring. Then a voice came on. “I’m sorry the number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service. Please hang up and try your number again.” Huh? I redialed. Ring, ring. Same voice. Same message. Now what?

Dad started getting antsy. “You mean you didn’t arrange a place to meet AND you don’t have the correct number?” I looked at him, “I didn’t think about it,” I replied. “What do you mean you didn’t think about it?” Feeling a little defensive I shot back, “Well…do you have their number?” I knew he didn’t but it was the best I could do. “Now what are we going to do?” he asked. “We are going to plan B” I said. “Maybe they are waiting by the front door entrance to the airport,” I suggested. We started walking.

I spied an information counter and told Dad to wait. I left him standing alone in the middle of the airport with all our carry on luggage while I went to ask for suggestions. I spoke to the young man in broken Dutch and he smiled and answered me in English.

As I turned to check on Dad, I heard the familiar high pitched “toch”. There is no real meaning for that sound/word. It’s not really even a word, but it is a distinct sound that is characteristically Sma. When I hear it I am reminded of a mother hen clucking loudly for her little ones. Sma uses her “toch” on a regular basis, and depending on the tone, and connotation, you know exactly what she means.

From across the airport I immediately spied her. She was stretched out as far she could go—raised on tippy toes, tilted to the right, with her right arm extended high above her head, hand flapping at the very top. The smile extended across width of her face, and when she saw that she had caught my attention she picked up her pace and left Spa in her wake.

My heart melted.

I love, and adore, this Dutch mother of mine. And, with age, I’ve grown to chuckle more easily, and even enjoy, her funny sounds, her hovering over, and around, you, her mother hen characteristics, her I-know-better-than-you wisdom, her regimented routine, her common no-nonsense ways, her simplicity, and her beauty. I understand it/her now than I am not a wild-child, self-centered girl of eighteen. There were times she drove me crazy. There were times I was ungrateful and rebellious. There were times when I was downright a pain in the you-know-what, but this woman, this wonderful woman, continued to love me anyway. And, still does.

She has been there for me as a rebellious teenager and a twenty-something getting married. She has been there for me as a new mom with my first, second, and third babies. She has been there for me through the illness and death of my own mother. She has been become a grandma to my kids, a confident for me, as well as a great example of what it means to love with reckless abandon and your whole heart.

She grabbed, hugged, and kissed me. By the time I was smothered in Sma-love, Spa caught up to her. More hugs and kisses from this quiet, gentle man—the steady rock, and tower of support, behind the mother hen. Spa in his soft-strength reminds me of my own dear father-in-law.

Spa would be lost without Sma, but she too would be lost without him. They are the yin and yang of married couples. Not in the dark and light sense or opposite factor, but more like interconnectedness and the interdependence on one another. It is impossible to imagine Sma without Spa, or Spa without Sma. They are one unit.

After the greetings and questions about our flight, we participated in the other thing Sma is good at—hospitality and food. She immediately directed us to a café where we could get food and coffee. She picked out yummies to share and gathered all the necessary items to make our table efficient and cozy.

We visited for two hours and then headed back toward the security check point to make our connecting flight to Berlin. The first leg of our journey was over, and now we had seen Sma and Spa. Through my tears I waved goodbye. They promised to come visit and I promised to stay longer next time.

As we went through security I could see Sma, with Spa at her side, standing and waving the whole time. She kept her fervently hand-flapping and neck-craining up until we moved through the final doors toward our gate on to the next thread—the wedding.

We tucked our bags in the overhead compartment and took our seats. Row 15, seat J. That was my seat. An aisle seat. I watched as people continued boarding. Old and young shuffled down the two aisles—one aisle on either side of the four middle seats in the center of the plane. Each person juggling as much paraphernalia as the airline would allow. Small rolling suitcases, soft duffle bags, backpacks, advertising-laden shopping bags stuffed to the brim, oversized purses, baby car seats. The gear, and the people, kept coming.

“Hello and welcome aboard KLM, flight number 6032, from Seattle to Amsterdam. As we prepare for departure, please securely fasten your seatbelt. Make sure the tray in front of you is closed and your seat is in the upright position. All electronic devices at this time must be turned off. Please pull out the safety card in front of you while our cabin crew demonstrates what to do in the unlikely event of an emergency.”

At age 43, sitting in a metal cigar tube with 251 other people, traveling thirty thousand plus feet above the earth, for over nine hours has lost the adventure it once held for me while still in my youth. I pulled out the safety card and began to study it. I located all the emergency exits and cinched down my seatbelt. Dad pulled out his iPhone to turn it off but I grabbed from him. “What are you doing?” “Smile,” I said and snapped our picture—leg one of our second European adventure together.

The plane started rolling backward away from the extended loading bridge. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. My second flight of the day and I was no more at ease than I had been three and a half hours earlier. The backward momentum stopped and the plane started moving forward. Slowly inching its way down the runway toward the waiting line of other airplanes about to embark through the heavens to untold adventures and stories about to happen.

We slowly moved through the queue until it was our turn to take the departure tarmac. The engines road and the plane began to rumble and vibrate. As the plane picked up speed, the velocity pushed me into the back of my chair. I said a quick prayer and felt the weightless feeling as the tons of metal lifted off the ground and began to effortlessly move forward through the blue sky and sunshine.

I heard a voice behind me to the left. It sounded like rough gravel being crunched on by steel-toe work boots. Low. Raspy. Raw. Very uncouth. I turned to see who it belonged to. He had a mowhawky sort of do with geometric prints tattooed at the base of his neck. He wore a white wife-beater that exposed all the other colorful tattoos that decorated both his arms. He was asking about beer.

The two seats next to Mohawky-guy were empty but the fourth seat, near the other aisle, held a Christopher Walken doppelgänger. He wore a suit, but that did not disguise his pasty skin, light eyes, silver hair stacked a mile high, too large glasses—and overall creepy appearance. Maybe I’ve just seen too many movies with Walken as some kind of loser you want to avoid at all costs, and unfortunately, for me or for him depending on your perspective, I did not embrace seeing Walken’s twin sitting just a few seats away from me. I could just imagine he and Mohawky-guy getting into after a couple of drinks.

The man in front of me took out his neck-pillow while the woman next to him started reading. Dad begins rummaging around for the earphones the stewardess gave us earlier. He plugs them in and picks up the remote attached to his chair. In a few moments he’s cussing in frustration as he can’t figure out how to navigate the on-flight entertainment screen in front of him. I (try) to patiently walk him through how it works, and pretty soon Buddy Guy is blaring from the ear buds.

The stewardesses start pushing food cards up and down the aisles. “Would you care for a beverage?” our stewardess asks as she smiles down at me. She appears to be kind and good at her job. “Water and coffee with cream,” I reply. “I’ll have some orange juice, please.” shouts the Buddy Guy listener next to me. She hands us our drinks and continues on.

Mowhawky-guy asks for another beer. The stewardess obliges. “Great,” I think. “We’re going to have a crass, drunk, rudie sitting next to us.”The plane continues to climb toward the heavens. I close my eyes again and take another deep breath. The rhythmic motion and low rumbling of the giant aircraft puts me to sleep.

The food carts are rolling by again. I wake up to the smell of some kind of tasty TV dinner-like thing. My stomach rumbles. “Chicken, beef, or vegetarian?” the KLM hostess asks. Dad leans over and tries to say in a whisper, “What did she say?” It comes out more like a loud bellow since he can’t hear himself over the music. I pull the plugs out of his ears. “You’re yelling.” I say. “Ooops” he grins his boy-like grin.

We eat an rest. We watch a movie. And, then we eat and rest. I suddenly realize I’m stiff.

Dad and I get up and make our way to the back of the plane to stretch. I kick my foot out a few times, reach toward the roof of the plane, roll my ankles around, and then grab an already-poured water sitting in the tray on the back counter. We don’t move back to our seats, but instead strike up conversations with the other loiters hanging out by the bucks in the sky (a la toilette).

First there is a group of women, running buddies, from a Seattle running club. They are all heading to Spain to participate in the Madrid marathon. There are 16 women in total partaking. They stretch and move along with us, but slowly, one by one, they take their seats.

A young woman takes their place. She’s on her way to Turkey to meet her brother, who is currently living and working for a software company in Kuwait. She and her brother have a two week hiking trip planned around the county side and then are spending a few days scouring the outdoor markets in Istanbul. Last year she met her brother in Egypt for another site-seeing vacation.

Next comes a steward. He joins two of his coworkers in the back and they start taking pictures of themselves with his phone. They talk about their schedules while he morphs their photos with an app on his phone. He shows the women and they all laugh. I ask him if he’s staying one night in Amsterdam and then heading back. He tells me that he’s on his fourth back to back trip and then he has five weeks off. “What do you mean by back to back?” I ask. He laughs and says, “I’ve been from Seattle to Tokyo and back. Then I left the next day from Seattle to Amsterdam and back. Then it was back to Asia—Hong Kong and back to Seattle, and now I’m on the last of four shifts aka Amsterdam and back.” The other KLM stewardess shake their head saying he is crazy. He smiles, “At least I’ll have five weeks off after this.”

We head back up the aisle to our seats. Mohawky-guy is awake again after stretching out in the fetal position across the two empty seats between him and the Walken look alike for the last couple of hours. I sit down and the gravel voice behind me crunches again.

“So…where are you going?” he asks. I turn and tell him an abbreviated version of our story—my host parents and four “sisters” to visit, three countries, one wedding, and two brand new babies to meet and fall in love with. He tells me he works for UPS and is on his way to vacation in Amsterdam. It’s his seventh trip there. He’s from Fresno and says it’s the (expletive) arm pit of America. He hates it there so he works hard all year so he can save his money and travel. He’s been all over Europe, but loves Amsterdam. He has favorite “hot-spots” he regularly visits. I ask him if he’s learned any Dutch in all his travels, but he says most of the other people he’s run into are also there on vacation like him.

We continue talking. Mohawky-guy is nice. I like him. He’s really no different that anyone else. He’s living one day at a time. The best he can. He is taking the joy out of what comes his direction and making the most of all his experiences.

I take out my journal and scribble the first words that come to mind:

• Tapestry.
• Colored threads woven together.
• Lives intersected.

The service is over. The grief-impaired people stay silent. Pew by pew, the mourners are beginning to be dismissed. The rows at the front of the church are let out first. The people stand, turn, and exit the wood-benched area they have been sitting in. They quietly shuffle toward the two sets of double doors at the back of the church—side by side, shoulder to shoulder, body to body. They do not utter a word.

A bottleneck develops at the doorway. The bereaved are forced to slow down. The same two sets of doors that were a clog at the beginning of the service have now become a people dam.  The anguished quietly wait for one another to move through obstruction.

As the masses crawl past me at a snail’s pace, I watch their tear-stained, sullen faces. No smiles, only deep sadness. More people move by. More profound sorrow. It’s almost unbearable. Being acutely in the scene being played out before me, I think back to my own Mother’s funeral. To the difficult heartbreak. To the cruelty of death. To the bad-dream quality of it. The unplanned for. The unthinkable. The unwanted,  But, yet, the inevitable—for us all.

I refocus on the people milling past. Drawn. Tight. Anxious. My mind screams, “People wake up! This will be you too someday! You are going to die! You are going to experience the unplanned for, the unthinkable, the unwanted! You are en route to the inevitable! You will be the one that people mourn over, grieve over, anguish over! What are you doing with your lives? Did you not just hear what the priest said? There is hope!”

Face after face. Story after story. Life after life. I see someone’s sister. Someone’s son. Someone’s mother. Someone’s uncle. Someone’s wife. Someone’s child. Someone’s daughter. Someone’s friend. Someone’s lover. Someone’s dentist. Someone’s waitress. Someone’s contractor. Someone’s insurance agent. Someone’s teacher. Someone’s doctor. Someone. Anyone. Everyone. All headed toward the unplanned for, the unthinkable, the unwanted. All moving toward the inevitable.

I want to run, grab each one of these mourners by the shoulders, shake them and yell, “Wake up! Wake up! This is not it! There is more!”

“There is hope, people! There is promise, people! There is joy, people! There is freedom from the inevitable! Did you not hear the priest’s words? Did they not resonate with you at all? Do you want hope? Do you want joy? Do you want freedom? Did you hear his words, people? Cling to them! Trust them! Believe them! He did—the one you mourn for. He did. HE DID! And, he is alive! Free from grief and sorrow. Free from life encumbered. Free from pain and suffering. Free because he trusted. Free because he believed. He is free! Alive, and free, in Christ Jesus. Hallelujah! And, praise God he did!”

“Wake up, sleepyhead! Make yourself uncomfortable! Force yourself to think about the inevitable! Do it! Do you want hope? Do you want promise? Do you want joy?”

“Do you want freedom from the inevitable?”

—What do you believe?

It was about five minutes before four. I walked through the double doors and stood in the antechamber. Someone motioned me toward the guest book. I signed it and started to move forward to go into the sanctuary, but there was a bottleneck of tall guys in the doorway. Trying to peer over their shoulders to see what the hold up was, is when I saw it.

The casket.

The sight of it made me want to vomit. It was simple and beautiful, yet ugly and offensive all wrapped into one horrendous package. A large oak box with a medium-colored stain that allowed the straight lines in grain of the wood to still be visible. It sat on a metal gurney with wheels, and was surrounded by dear friends and family profoundly grieving, mourning its precious contents.

The priest stepped forward. He stood at the foot of the casket facing the door and all the tall guys. He was saying something I could not quite hear. He took out a wooden septer that had been dipped in holy water and splashed it onto the oak. A few of the tall guys at the front began to unwrap a white cloth. They  tenderly, and respectfully, draped the pall over the coffin. More words softly spoken by the priest, and then the entire procession started moving forward—the burial box on its gurney with wheels; the tall guys surrounding and pushing it.

I lugged to the back of the church and found a spot in the last pew. I set my purse down with a heavy heart and looked up. This can’t be. It’s not possible. It’s so wrong. Not wanting to believe what I was seeing, I stood watching the procession as it moved forward.  I suddenly noticed her. Following. Small, frail, and hunched over. My friend. My strong, beautiful, jovial, friend now crushed. Proceeding down the center aisle following her husband’s coffin while gently ushering her two young daughters forward into a complete nightmare.

They sat down in the front pew. I could see the backs of their heads. The curly dark hair of the mama and the curly dark hair of her babies in a place where no one should have to go. Her arms securely wrapped around each child—clinging. Clinging to them as a protective mother would, a mama-shield trying to ward off the cruel reality. Clinging to them as a way to soak up their daddy who lay in the casket in front of them. Clinging to them for desperate support in the unthinkable task at hand.

The priest moved to the alter and started reciting words and performing rituals I did not know or understand. His monotone voice seemed to drone on and on in words and language that were foreign to me. A hymn was sung, more words spoken with responses from the congregation.

I looked around the room at the dozens and dozens of people coming to pay their last respects. I found myself zoning out—trying to guess how many people were in the room, trying to think about how my friend was feeling, remembering the tenderness the man in the casket showed me in regards to my own Mother’s death less thank 18 months before.

“Death is cruel. Death is vile. Death is evil. And, death is certainly not what God intended for His creation.”

I began to actively listen again. The priest continued with his eulogy. As he read scripture and continued to speak, he began to  unveil the good news and the Christian hope—even in a situation as loathsome as this one. His message was simple:

The hope, and the good news, is for everyone. 

Trust and believe.

Then he went on to say: It’s not about what you have, or have not, done. It’s not about your good works, or lack of. It’s not about being a nice guy, or at least better than that guy. It’s not about living a “right” life. It’s not about kindness, or loving your neighbor as yourself—although we are called to do that. It’s not about going through the motions of all the right words or all the right actions. It’s not about being a good husband or wife, a good son or daughter, a good father or mother, a good brother or sister, or even a good friend. It’s not about doing all the “correct” things.

It’s simply about trusting. Believing.

It’s about knowing you don’t have all the answers. It’s about opening your hands to a free gift. It’s about saying yes.  It’s about recognizing you are weak, and in need of a Savior. It’s about being honest. It’s about Perfection suffering for you—because He loved you, and still does—even in the state you are in. It’s about substitution. It’s about death. It’s about resurrection. It’s about mercy. It’s about the eternal, the forever, the enduring glory. It’s about Life—your life & His. It’s about Joy. It’s about Peace. It’s about Love.

And,

it’s all about Jesus.

He continued. He told of the husband whose mortal body was lying in the casket at the front of the room. The husband who believed in the saving grace of Jesus Christ. The husband who is alive. Alive in Him. Alive because he trusted. Alive because he believed.

Death has been swallowed up in victory.“Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death is your sting?”The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God! He gives us victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. ~ 1 Corinthians 15:54b-56

That is the good news.

That is the Christian hope.

That is praiseworthy.

Hallelujah!

It’s that time again. Easter. Next week. Sunday, April 8th.

Time when:

We buy baskets, and bunnies, and chocolate eggs. We buy toys and coloring books and crayons. We buy new spring dresses or suits, and have family photos taken. Or, we drag our kids to the mall to have their picture taken with some random dude dressed in a giant rabbit costume. We tell our children a cute, fluffy, bunny is coming into the house, loaded with goodies, and is going to leave them with piles o’ treats while they are sleeping.

On Sunday morning, we indulge on jelly beans and sugary yummies before breakfast. We send our kids out to run around the back yard searching for two, or three, day old colored eggs. We may go to church. And, we often gather our families to share a meal and celebrate. We try to almost-duplicate the Thanksgiving process, but this time we do it when tulips and daffodils are pushing up the earth. We toast wine glasses, and we eat turkey or ham, and green beans, and rolls. We unbutton our pants after overeating, and then later we roll to bed fat and happy.

Yep. We do all kinds of things in the name of Easter, but do we ever really think about what Easter means? What it’s about?

Over the next week I’ll share what I believe, think, and know Easter to be.

***********************

Tell me—what does Easter mean to you?

What is brave?

Hunting a lion? Slaying a dragon? Taking on an adventurous dare?

To me brave is:

• Knowing I am broken and in desperate need of Savior.
• Trusting God.
• Being honest.
• Commit to growing—in God’s ways not my own.
• Realizing I am fallible.
• Loving the unlovable.
• Open to being vulnerable.
• Being a wife & a mother.

*************************************

Five Minute Friday with The Gypsy Mama

This week’s Topic: BRAVE

“…first position, tendu to the front, flex, point, close. Repeat. On the eighth count grand plié. Tendu to the side, flex, point. Repeat. On the eighth count close back. Grand plié. Tendu to the back…“

I think most little girls, at some point in their life, want to be a ballerina when they grow up. Our tiny tot, Isabelle, by age two, had never even seen a ballet, or owned a ballet book, declared, “I want to dance ballet. I want to be a ballerina.” A determined child already, she kept at it. “Ballet. Ballet. I want to take ballet.” Calmly we assured her, “As soon as you’re a big girl and go potty on the potty chair, you can take ballet.”By her third birthday she was enrolled in a class.

We knew it was going to be a life-long passion at her first recital.

Our chubby-faced cherub, outfitted in her recital costume, walked into the performance building and saw several hundred people standing in line, waiting to get in the auditorium. “What are they doing, Mommy?” she asked. Treading lightly, I stated calmly, “Um…well…um…they are all here to watch the recital.” Thinking in my head, “My three year old is NOT going to get on stage with all these eyes staring at her.” But, her pert reply of, “Oh Mommy, they are all here to see ME!” sent me into gales of laughter. I knew, then and there, not only would she go on stage to perform her piece but we may also need one of those vaudeville hook-type canes to get her off stage.

“You are my Sunshine” started up and she came bopping out with five or six other little girls wearing bright yellow satin leotards under bright yellow sticky-outy tutus. The girls formed a line, placed their hands on their hips, and did a couple of pliés. They chasséd back and forth, and then grabbed hands with one another and danced around in a pretty even circle. Then they disappeared behind a prop. Each little head poked out with a big smile—radiating pure joy and adorableness. One by one they skipped back to their spots on the invisible line in the center of the stage. Only this time, someone was standing in Little Miss Sunshine’s spot. Holding nothing back, she stood in front of her pint-sized peer, her chubby finger wagging in the other girl’s face. A loud whisper could be heard, “You are in the wrong spot. That’s my spot.” Sunshine’s arms moved up to the little girls shoulders and she was properly redirected to the “correct” spot.

The rest of dance finished flawlessly, and the little ones turned to exit off stage. All except…you guessed it…the career ballerina. She continued to look out into the audience, smile, and wave. More waves, more smiles. Finally another loud whisper could be heard from behind the curtain, “Isabelle…” She turned and started skipping off. One final beaming smile and wave and then she disappeared behind the curtain.

“…feet in fifth, coupé, tendu front, close. Pas du cheval to the front, to the side, to the back, close. Coupé, tendu to the back, close. Pas du cheval back, pas du cheval side, pas du cheval front, close in the front…, coupe, tendu, close…”

She would lay belly-side down on the floor intently watching their every move. As the little girls flitted and floated about and she would sit stone-still. Not moving a muscle. Like a statue. Taking it all in—watching, studying, soaking.

The whole family was at our house for her third birthday. Everyone was oohing and ahhing about Isabelle’s upcoming recital. “Go get your costume, Isabelle, and you can show everyone your dance.” Isabelle ran in the other room and came out in rainbow glory, ear to ear grin, and made her way to the center of the room. She got into position. I moved to the stereo. Everyone stopped talking and all attention went to the little one on the floor. Sophia crouched down next to her. Isabelle hissed, “Move. You don’t know this dance.” Isabelle,” I barked back, “Isabelle! Be nice! Sophia can do it with you.”

The music started. The two girls stood up perfectly in sync. Step by step they continued to move. Mirror images waltzing around the living room. Isabelle faltered but Sophia continued dancing. “Wait! Start over!” cried Isabelle. The music continued to play, and Sophia continued to sway. Completely in time, she ended on the music—correctly positioning herself in the final pose. “She can’t do that!” Isabelle wailed. “You better put that little one in lessons,” someone said.

The next fall we enrolled our three year old in ballet. As the teacher called everyone to the center, Soph stood on the side hugging my leg. She wouldn’t budge. No amount of coaxing or cajoling had any effect. “Oh well…it is the first week,” I thought. The next week: the same routine. The teacher called the little girls to “come make a pizza” in the center of the room, but Sophia only clung to me. Week after week we repeated this process. She’d lay on the floor and watch, but never participate. Finally I decided to pull her out. “She’s not ready,” I thought. “Or, maybe she doesn’t really want to do ballet, or maybe she just wants to be the director/choreographer.”

The following September Sophia emphatically stated, “I want to take ballet.” The all-knowing, wise, lecturing mother in me started in, “You know…it can’t be like last year. You have to participate if I sign you up.” “I will,” she promised. She did. She has. She is. And, she has never looked back. 

At almost nine, she still loves ballet as much as her older sister. Her smile from the stage is one of unleashed joy. It’s no longer a watched passion. Her feet literally sing ballet—everywhere she goes: she goes dancing.

“…feet in first position…shoulders back, hips under, stomach in, chest out, chin up, knees straight…”

At 43 I’m feeling the mid-life flab. The post-40 body. The old-gal-just-ain’t-what-she-used-to-be syndrome. My break-neck metabolism has turned to molasses, and things are simply not springing back like they did when I was my 20s. Yeah, I know. Duh! I’m not 20 anymore. But in my mind I still feel college age—just a wee bit wiser. The body, however, says differently. “I need exercise,” I tell myself. “Desperately—both for my body, and for my sanity.” A kind of get out my grumpies-routine, and to remind myself I do posses moving parts and working muscles.

My exercise regime of the past 11+ years has consisted of prepping for dinner, running to the table to eat, whipping the dog, corralling kids, sorting laundry, dialing the phone, and pounding keys on the keyboard. Not really the kind of heart pumping, or muscle moving, approach that an older lassie requires to maintain a healthy body and mind.

So…I started a class. Yep. A bona fide class. With other 40+ women (Sorry if some of you gals are younger). Doing what? Ballet, of course. Amnesia, or early onset Alzheimer’s, enabled me to forget that I didn’t/don’t know jack about ballet. I’m not talking Jack, but jack. As in nothing, nada, zippo, zero, zilch. Couldn’t have told you more than five ballet terms six weeks ago, but I’m learning.

So far it’s been a very humbling experience. But, a fun one. And, I’m hooked.

I often stand at the back of class watching these way more experienced women, and I marvel at their beauty and grace. I marvel at being in this new place of learning. I marvel at the fellowship, camaraderie and encouragement I’ve received. I marvel at an exercise method I never even knew existed for people over 15 who are not aspiring to be professional dancers. And, in between giggles about my bull in a china shop approach, I am enjoying ballet.

Recently someone snuck into class and took this video of me. Thought you might enjoy seeing it. And, remember it’s never too late to teach an old dog new tricks—or ballet!

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Special thanks to:

John Grensback — The girls awesome & amazing ballet teacher of 6+ years, mentor, instructor, friend

Megan Murphy — Opportunity provider, cohort, great friend & New York Life agent (yeah…it’s a shameless plug…do you need any insurance?)

Oregon Ballet Academy — Our home away from home

&

Felicia Sanders — Another of Isabelle & Sophia’s wonderful ballet instructors, my patient teacher extraordinaire & my friend

&

Sarah Beth Byrum from All That Dance — Isabelle’s first dance teacher and yellow tutu provider, our neighbor, second mom to my kids, and my dear friend

It’s March. Didn’t quite get in all the “Love Letters” I wanted to in February, but I did accomplish my goal of writing more. The Love Letters will keep coming, and when I post a new one I’ll linky link it back to the February ones so it looks I was really more on the ball than I am. Good plan, eh?

Been under a heap o, self-induced, stress lately. Got a lot on my mind and it’s coming out in the I’ll-wake-up-at-3:00-am-and-never-go-back-to-sleep method. I hate that method. I had it when my Mom was sick (that’s when I did most of her CaringBridge posts).

I’ve tried laying in bed and closing my eyes. I’ve tried breathing and relaxing my body. I’ve praying. I’ve even tried praying myself to sleep, but it doesn’t seem to work very well. I’ve tried reading…well…if you consider checking email and Facebook reading. So now I’m off to try writing. Yep. Writing. Something funny. Something uplifting. Something to get my mind off of whatever else is making my brain spin out of control in little circles like that thingy on the top of our computer screen when I lock it up and it’s stuck trying to load/reload a page.

Okay. So here goes. I’m sitting here.

Yep. Still sitting here.

Just a sittin’ here.

Stiiiilllllll sitting here. Looking around the house, trying to jog the ole brain about a funny story.

Okay. I give up. I can’t think of a blasted story. Not feeling the story-love today. I guess I’ll shamelessly plug a couple of funny blogs I’ve started following. Maybe that’ll take my mind off things, make me sleepy, and…ZZZZZZ

Oops! Where was I? Oh, yeah.

Nothing gives me a wicked belly laugh like this blog. It can be rude. It can be crude. But, darn, the girl is funny. Amber Dusick’s posts are just the kind of thing Moms need to read when you are having one of those “Ug!-I-can’t-do-this-parenting-thing” kind of a day, or when your having an “Am-I-the-only-one-going-through-this?” kind of a day. You should also read it whe you’re having an “Ug!-I’m-gonna-pull-my-kids-hair-out-or-my-own-out” kind of a day, or when you’re having a “Oh!-these-kids-are-so-stinkin’-cute-wish-I-could-tell-someone-about-it” kind of a day. In other words it’s an everyday, when she posts, blog read. Hubby-dear HATES the title of the blog (Parenting. Illustrated with Crappy Pictures), and isn’t too crazy about it in general, but I find her sense of humor right up my alley. Here’s one of my favorite posts. Check it out. Let me know what you think.

The other blog I want to shamelessly plug is one I just stumbled upon this past week—Bower Power. Within a few short days, this blog has rocketed to the top five and become a fav. This girl has got it all. Wit. Humor. Home decorating and DYI tips and posts. Photography. A cute kid. Sponsors. Bootie. And, she’s a Christian. A Jesus lovin’ girl with some swagger. Yee ha! Katie posted this week about Refinance-ing their home.  The article started out with “It’s Monday – let’s talk about money honey.  moolah.  benjamins.  greenbacks.  dough.  skins.  bones.” Hooked me in. But, as I read I was (pleasantly) surprised by how informative and helpful it was. (—especially if you’re thinking about a refinance) The article topper? The girl is just plain funny. So all in all, good things. Yep. I’m a Bower Power follower now. How about you?

Okay…so…the sun is up. It’s after 7:30 and NOW I’m tired. I think I’ll try and get a little shut-eye before all the monkeys get up. I may have about an hour or so. Then we are off and running. So…TTFN, and nighty nite.

Still semi-dark in our room, the morning light is just beginning to peek through a crack in our chocolate-brown, blackout curtains. My full bladder wakes me up. I lay there for several minutes debating—get up and go to the bathroom, or roll over and try to go back to sleep.

The bladder wins.

I trudge to the bathroom, walk across the cold tile and sit down on the toilet. I hear Mia pound her paw against the back door. Grabbing my bathrobe off the hook on the back of the bathroom door, I head through the living room toward the sliding glass door.

My rubber boots are waiting for me on the floor right next to the door. I step into my boots and grab the leash. Mia jumps up on me while I try to get the door open. As the door slides open, cool air washes over me and takes my breath away as we walk down the steps. Mimi the-rotten-black-sheprador (one of our many nicknames for Mia) quickly finds a fresh patch of grass and does her business. We turn and head back into the house. Leash off the dog and boots off me, I shuffle back toward the bedroom.

As I skirt around the base of the bed, I see Jonathan has eked his way towards Daddy. I crawl around him, and hunker down under the soft, warm blankets and comforter. I grab the little guy to pull him closer to me. His small hand reaches out to touch my hair. He nestles up next to me. I kiss his cheek. He surprises me and quickly kisses mine. He rolls over and I start to scratch his back. He rolls onto his back and I rub his tummy. He falls asleep.

I lay there listening to his breathing. I look at his sweet face—creamy skin, closed eyes with long lashes, dark blond eyebrows with a little scar peeking out of the left one, a tiny button nose, round, rosy, apple cheeks, perfect heart-shaped lips—yes, I’m in love.

I curl up closer to my sleeping boy. I can smell his breath. His hair brushes my arm. I can see the rise and fall of his chest. I rub his leg. It’s still soft and squishy, but not like when he was a baby. In a blink of my eye he has outgrown his baby days, his toddler days, and he is now a bona fide boy.

And, I am truly in love with this boy, this child, this moment—this nano second in time. I do not ever want it to end. I want to breathe it into my core. Into my being and hold it captive. Moments, like these, are fleeting. I know.

I begin to pray, “Lord, thank you for this little boy. Thank you for these snippets of time—when I get to observe, to cuddle, to snuggle, to drink in all that You have for me. Thank you for trusting me and David with this child. I pray, Lord, that You will protect him—mind, body, and soul. And, that he will grow up to be a strong man of God. That he will hear Your voice and recognize it. That he will follow You all the days of his life. That he will recognize his worth and value, not as the world sees it, but as You do—worthwhile, special, unique.  And, that he will know he is deeply and truly loved. I seal this moment in time, Jesus, in Your name. Amen”

I close my eyes and a tear slips out. A happy tear. A blessed tear. A grateful tear. For cozy beds and warm blankets. For little black dogs and rubber boots. For a boy and his life. And, for early morning treasures.

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Celebrate February with Love Letters