a mystery to me

My mind is full of cancer these days.  My inbox is full of messages from others who have the same cancer I do, and I actually look forward to reading them.  I sometimes go off by myself to read them in private, because they are not for everyone in my family, they are only pertinent to me and they may contain a message, a chip of information, that could save my life.  You never know. I am disappointed if a day goes by without finding at least one message with the adress ACCOI - Adenoid Cystic Carcinoma Organization International.  If people knew this they would think I was obsessed with my cancer.  Which I might be.

I am not especially anxious these days - I have moved through the initial terror of the diagnosis, the stark realization that I will actually die, perhaps much sooner than I had expected - or not expected, to be more precise.  I am far beyond the days when I hated pressing the elevator button for the 7th floor of the outpatient building because I believed that was tantamount to announcing loudly, "I have head and neck cancer."  I don't hide my patient ID card in the back of my wallet anymore so I won't accidentally see it when I am looking for something else and be reminded of the insidious tumor growing just beneath my unsuspecting eye.  I am in a different place now. 

Now I read about Adenoid Cystic Carcinoma every chance I get.  I take my Ipad everywhere with me and look up a scholarly article or two while the pasta is cooking, or I reread (again) the FAQ's on the ACCRF site during the commercials.  Although I am no longer spooked by my hospital ID card, I notice I am careful to bookmark those articles which say hopeful things and avoid returning to the ones that use terms like "dismal outcome" and "relentless course."  I prefer the ones which emphasize the prognosticatory value of histologic grade, (mine is not so bad) rather than the ones that discuss outcome based upon tumor stage (mine is not so good.)  For someone who does not believe in the power of positive thinking, I go pretty far out of my way not to encounter negative information. 

And I am not sure why I am always reading about, thinking about, having to ration how much I talk about this disease.  What exactly is its hold on me?  Why does my obsession with it seem almost like a fascination, an infatuation sometimes?  I am not sure. Perhaps it is just because it was such a huge part of the past year's experience, because it is now part of who I am.  Perhaps it is because it has the quality of a public secret -  everyone knows about it, but no one  really shares the experience with me.  Secrets always have a certain power.  Maybe I can't forget it because not one day has gone by in 10 months that I have not touched the place near my eye and felt something alien there. Would I miss it if it were gone?

I don't know.  Maybe I am like a grieving person - not able to forget the source of my grief until enough time has gone by.  Maybe I am actually more anxious than I think I am and I am constantly trying to assuage my fears.  Maybe I am just intensely curious - I have always read immoderately about any new subject which has captured my attention.  Two years ago I bought every adoption book on the market, devoured them and then let them gather dust on the shelf.   So perhaps it's nothing more than a new interest.  Who can say?  Not me.

I read in Romans chapter 4 the other day about the faith of our father Abraham who is remarkable, and remarked upon, as much for what he did not do as for what he did.  What he did was believe God - Romans 4:3 asserts positively that Abraham believed God and it was counted to him for righteousness.  But Paul goes on to consider Abraham's thoughts and actions in more detail, carefully dissecting his belief, showing it to be a far more complex action than it may seem at first.

Few if any human choices work in only one direction.  One "yes" often implies many "no"'s.  Choosing one course means not choosing at least one other course. Any positive choice is also a negation of alternative choices.  That is why so many events in life seem bittersweet, and also why choosing can be so difficult. Choosing to forgive necessarily means choosing not to think about the wrongs we have suffered, not to wish evil upon those who have hurt us.  Choosing to love often means not having things our own way, not tallying offenses.  The apostle Paul's poetic definition of love in I Corinthians 13 contains as many  negative descriptors as positive ones. So it is with Abraham. What he did was believe God, what he did not do was grow weak in faith, consider his own body, stagger at the promises of God.

This dissection of Abraham's belief appeals to me - probably because I have a natural affinity for contrariety- but also because it touches upon the purely physical, earthly realities which provided the context for his faith.  God's promises were not supported by any secondary causes, they were in direct contradiction to what Abraham knew to be true about his body.  He was too old, he was not getting any younger, there were no technologies available to circumvent the problems of old age and impotence.  So he ignored what was right in front of him, he declined to consider it, he did not dwell upon it, he did not consider it an impediment.

Having chosen to affirm God's trustworthiness and deny everything he knew from experience, he then did not stagger at the promises. I love that image. Staggering implies weakness, exhaustion, infirmity, sometimes intoxicxation.  The sheer improbablity of God's promise might have caused Abraham to hesitate, to teeter, to topple, to totter.  He might have lurched, careened, dithered or pitched right off the path. He did not reel, he did not sway, he did not vacillate, he did not waver.  He proceeded calmly and firmly in his belief that God was able to do what He had promised, all evidence to the contrary. By an act of the will his step was unshakable and true; he did not stagger.

In my own faith journey I have spent a lot of time staggering about.  I have bumped up against or stumbled over phenomena which appear to be obstacles to the promises of God.  I have stopped to consider at length the kind of  things which Abraham refused to consider - my human weakness, the frailty of my flesh, my tiredness, my diseases. I have often not known whether I actually believed God or not.

Belief has always been something rather nebulous to me.  I am never sure where I fall on the belief/unbelief scale.  Do I believe? Do I really believe? (Clap your hands if you believe in fairies!) Some days I feel buoyed up by belief, while other days I feel faithless and despairing.  I just don't know what belief looks like, what it feels like.  So it is helpful to me to have a few "do nots" to check off.  I know if I am spending time and energy considering the reasons why God's promises might fail.  I know if I am filling my mind with human probabilities rather than divine prognoses.  I can pull myself up short and say, "Whatever you do, don't do that," and hope that by not doing the things Abraham did not do, I may end up doing what he did do - believing God.

     We live across the road from a fairytale house, a little gnome home. Unlike our austere, upright colonial which has scarcely changed its expression since 1796, this house grew up over centuries, with several discrete rooflines and an assortment of windows. The original brick house was built in 1792 by the owner of the mill powered by the waterfall in the sideyard. Once a straight white rectangle, the primary structure has settled comfortably into the ground; its shingled roof mimics the uneven foundation line where house meets earth. It is hard to imagine the windows were ever square; they sit at crazy angles now, their twenty-four small panes framed by mustard colored shutters, each hanging at its own tilt. A narrow, sheltered red door flanked by rusty lanterns is never opened. Instead, a deep, shaded alcove closer to the barn serves as the front door, its granite steps lined with rangey potted plants, statuary in various stages of deterioration. A weathered old fireplace mantle leans against a corner; a tufted old gray cat crouches on the top step, waiting to be admitted.

     This morning the squat chimney in the center of the oldest roof was puffing pale gray smoke into the pale grey morning sky. Frosty skeletons rose behind the house - white birches, tall firs, a weepy willow. A clapboard section of the cottage with a bulging bay window sits uncomfortably between between the original bricks and the attached barn. Its straight roof and flat-topped gable are awkwardly out of place between the undulating roof lines of the older house and white barn  whose rippling roof is half covered with creeping green moss, amplifying the impression that the house simply arose out of the ground. Its wide sliding door has a smaller, hinged door cut into it, curved at the top like a picture from Hansel and Gretel. Another iron- hinged door and two uneven windows punctuate the  clapboards. The barn leans slightly to the right as if falling into the yard which drops away toward the brook. A rickety fence follows the slope of the hillside in stairstep fashion, petering away into the hoary, white, leaf-naked woods.

This afternoon we went snowshoeing behind the fairy house, in the fairy woods.  We awakened to snow this morning, which immediately called to mind both Jack Frost and Robert Frost, poet of the northern New England landscape.  The snow fell softly all day until we ventured out at mid-afternoon.  The light was already purple, hinting at the early nightfall which would soon envelop the woods. We walked past the heavily laden, giant pines, tramped our way through leafless, fragile bushes, stepped awkwardly over fallen trees and slid gingerly down hills before we leapt over small brooks, still running  black and noisy in the midst of the snow.  We picked our way through the wreck of an old barn, its beams frosted with snow, and stopped to watch the spray of a waterfall rushing over a frozen bank.  We peered down into an abandoned empty well and scrambled past a rusty old swingset thrown away a child's lifetime ago. Even that cheap, rusty piece of detritus looked mysterious and evocative under its snowy drape.

Though we tramped about for an hour, we were never very far from home, and when we turned toward our neighbor's cottage we caught a glimpse of our own house across the road.The scene could have been a hundred years old or more - two ancient, white houses with candles visible in the windows.  If you ignored the cars in the drive, you could imagine yourself coming home for dinner in 1930, 1900, 1850, or even 1800.  The woods, the road, the houses, the waterfall would all be there. The snow is timeless, too.

I remember a  morning when I sent Lily and Rachel out to the car to look for Lily's bright pink parka. We had spent the whole day in the car the previous day - the eye doctor in the morning, the pizza restaurant for lunch, back to Rachel's school in the afternoon for a presentation about music lessons. Lily was carsick on the trip to the doctor so she got to ride in the front seat, an unusual treat for her. It was a long day and I was not surprised that all our belongings had not made it into the house when we got home.

So that morning we unearthed Rachel's schoolbus yellow jacket from the pile of coats in the breezeway, but Lily's fuschia coat was nowhere to be found.  I sent the girls out to check the car. I was pretty sure the jacket would be there. Grabbing my own coat, I scrabbled through the key basket looking for the right key ring, dropped my phone in my purse and headed out the door, careful to slam it hard so the dog could not push it open while we were away. Juggling purse, keys and coffee cup as I slipped behind the wheel,  I asked the girls chattering excitedly in the backseat if they had found the coat. No, they said, but they found Lily's leftover pizza from yesterday's lunch! They were both very interested in the pizza; the box was opened and the four leftover pieces were dangerously close to landing on the backseat in all their greasy glory. But, Rachel said, with real regret in her voice, "No, Mom, the coat is not here. I don't know where it is."

The glaringly pink coat, was, of course, right in front of her on the front passenger seat. The pizza box, however, had been on the dashboard, so they had had to climb directly over the coat to get to  it. How, I asked myself, and them, could they have missed it? It was in plain view. But of course, I know how they missed it. Because I have missed the obvious myself when I was distracted by something that caught my eye or my imagination, something that looked more interesting and fulfilling than the mundane task at hand. I can not only walk into a room and forget what I am looking for, I can walk through my life and forget why I am there. If I don't remind myself every day what is really important I lose my focus all over again.

I woke up this morning again trying to remember what was really important in my life, in anyone's life. I had fallen out of this habit for a while- a cancer diagnosis and then seven weeks of treatment had actually pushed that big question out of the way for awhile.  I knew what I needed to do every day when I woke up.  I did not need to evaluate my choices or compare my life to anyone else's.  Everything was crystal clear for awhile.  But now I am back to my everyday life, to the housework and shopping and childcare.  The crisis is over for now, at least, and I lie in bed as the room grows lighter and wonder if I have done anything in my entire life that is of lasting worth.  I wonder how to salvage the hours of the day ahead so that I will have something to show for the time I've spent when I climb back in bed tonight. I recall the orthodox formulas I have memorized over a lifetime - "The chief end of man is to glorify God and to enjoy Him forever"  "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and all your strength and all your mind."  "He has showed thee, O man, what is good and what the Lord requires of you - to do justice and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God."  But I still wonder every morning what it means to love God, how to do that in the next 12 hours, the next 12 years.  The older I get, the more mundane my life appears. I will probably never publish a book, never do some great humanitarian work, never run a marathon, never have that second career that will make up for the lack of a first career! Every morning I feel like I need to figure out again how to love God and walk humbly with Him in the midst of cleaning the house, doing the endless laundry, taking the dogs for walks and occasionally writing a paragraph or two.  I don't know why I have to grapple with the same questions over and over, why they never stay answered.  Maybe the answers are part of the daily bread that I must receive anew from God's hand every morning. Or maybe I just have a really bad memory for important details.

<b>Then Samuel took a stone and set it up between Mizpah and Jeshanah, and named it Ebenezer; for he said, "Thus far the LORD has helped us." So the Philistines were subdued and did not again enter the territory of Israel; the hand of the LORD was against the Philistines all the days of Samuel. The towns that the Philistines had taken from Israel were restored to Israel, from Ekron to Gath; and Israel recovered their territory from the hand of the Philistines. There was peace also between Israel and the Amorites. (1 Samuel 7:12-14 NRSV) 

I grew up on the King James Version and the Fundamentalist tradition. In his pastoral prayers my father prayed weekly for shut-ins and backsliders.In Sunday school I learned the story of the importunate widow. I don't think I have ever used that adjective in my life except in this context, but I learned it at a young age. I knew the many-syllabic attributes of God as well as the fruits of the Spirit and the Armor of God which included such items as bucklers and girdles. I don't remember ever giggling about any of it, it was just a normal part of the vocabulary of my faith. I also knew scores of hymns by heart full of phrases such as "Awake my soul to joyful lays," When morning gilds the skies", and "Teach me some melodious sonnet."

One of my favorites was, "Here I raise mine Ebenezer, Hither by thy help I'm come." Though the Old Testament allusion might be lost on many modern hymnsingers, I can't remember a time when I did not know that it referred to an incident recorded in I Samuel 7in which Samuel set up a stone between Mispah and Jeshanah and named it Ebenezer, which literally means "stone of help." When he raised the stone he said, "Thus far the Lord has helped us." So, it shouldn't seem strange to anyone that I named the little black poodle puppy I received for a welcome home gift after I finished radiation treatments, Ebenezer. Thus far the Lord has helped me. We're calling him "Benny," since Ebenezer is kind of hard to yell out the front door, but his proper name will always remind me, at least, of what was happening when he joined our family.

My husband and I have often talked about erecting stones of remembrance around our house, but we have seldom done it. We love how the Old Testament and the Jewish tradition are full of physical reminders - on the doorposts, on the forehead, at the edge of the Red Sea - of what God has done, so that when children ask, "What does this mean?" the elders have an open door to recount the works of a faithful God. We have not made altars in our yard; the only markers we have left are gravestones for pets like the one that reads, "A good bunny who died of a sunny day." But this event - my cancer diagnosis and treatment - seemed big enough to warrant not one remembrance (the puppy's name), but two.

 The day I finished treatment Kevin and I walked down the narrow, old street across from the hospital and stopped for coffee at a small cafe. We had walked this street many times in the last two months, including on the first day we entered Massachusetts General Hospital to hear the recommendations for my treatment. That day we had walked in nervous silence before the appointment, and then baffled confusion afterwards when we were given two very different treatment options from which to choose. I have written about how we agonized over the decision, knowing whichever course we chose came with no guarantee of success. We prayed, asked counsel, and chose the course of radiation, which seemed a feeble weapon against a Stage IV cancer. Now that my treatment was over we revisited the cafe, and while we waited for our lattes, Kevin pulled out a small green ring box and handed it across the table. Inside was a beautiful, understated cigar-band ring. The band itself was brushed silver. Embedded in it were five small diamonds of varying size, scattered unevenly across the center of the ring. Kevin looked up the passage from I Samuel 17 that he had mediatated on the last three months which tells how David came against the giant with five smooth stones, and slew him by the power of God. We knew that 35 proton beam treatments seemed a small weapon to wield against a frightening disease, but we knew that their success depended not upon our doctor, but upon the power of our God. Kevin bought me the ring to remind us both where our true help lies. Then he took his staff in his hand, chose five smooth stones from the stream, put them in the pouch of his shepherd’s bag and, with his sling in his hand, approached the Philistine. Meanwhile, the Philistine, with his shield bearer in front of him, kept coming closer to David. He looked David over and saw that he was little more than a boy, glowing with health and handsome, and he despised him. He said to David, “Am I a dog, that you come at me with sticks?” And the Philistine cursed David by his gods. “Come here,” he said, “and I’ll give your flesh to the birds and the wild animals!” David said to the Philistine, “You come against me with sword and spear and javelin, but I come against you in the name of the Lord Almighty, the God of the armies of Israel, whom you have defied. This day the Lord will deliver you into my hands, and I’ll strike you down and cut off your head. This very day I will give the carcasses of the Philistine army to the birds and the wild animals, and the whole world will know that there is a God in Israel. All those gathered here will know that it is not by sword or spear that the Lord saves; for the battle is the Lord’s, and he will give all of you into our hands.” As the Philistine moved closer to attack him, David ran quickly toward the battle line to meet him. Reaching into his bag and taking out a stone, he slung it and struck the Philistine on the forehead. The stone sank into his forehead, and he fell facedown on the ground. So David triumphed over the Philistine with a sling and a stone; without a sword in his hand he struck down the Philistine and killed him.

I received a wonderful message from an old friend a while ago. He is someone who has walked ahead of us on the road of international adoption. His words spoke deeply to me, since I know his family has suffered mnay hardships through their obedience to God's calling in their lives. He has experienced many of the things I prayed against as we pursued what we believed to be God's call to adopt. Some of his words were, "My prayer is that you will abide in Him, for He is near! When you feel as though you have nowhere to turn, He is there. When you feel as though no one understands, be reminded that He has walked that same road. When it seems like you aren't sure you can continue past this very moment, invite Him into that single moment and allow Him to walk with you into the next. He will prove faithful...to you, to the girls, and to His purpose. The funny thing is, His purpose may not be about you or the girls, but it will always be about Him, and that is sobering, at least to me."

It was the last sentence that struck me most. That truth about the purposes of God.
Because I, like many well-meaning adoptive parents have wondered many times what our adopting A and G would mean. I have wondered, "Why do we have these particular two children? What great things will come of this huge change in their lives? What will they become? Perhaps," IVe thought, "one day A will be a doctor or G will be a teacher and they will return to Ethiopia and help to save their people." (Should we name one of them Esther???) Or, more humble, but still gratifying, "Maybe one of our children will be so moved by their experience that they will do this or that or the other great thing." Surely, I've thought, something wonderful will come of this.


But when I begin to presume on the purposes and plans of God I am reminded of my experience several years ago, when God rather precipitously moved our family to Southeast Asia for most of two years. I remember how much thought I gave to trying to figure out God's purpose in our being there. I remember actually saying to people, "I'm not really sure yet why God has us here," as if it were only a matter of time until either I figured it out, or it God revealed it to me. My questioning was honest, good-hearted, sincere, and ultimately unsuccessful. I don't think we, or at least I, ever got any insight into the big picture. I never gained any understanding of God's intentions for our family's life beyond what I already knew - that He meant for us to do justice, love mercy and walk humbly with Him. (Micah6:8)

Maybe my notion of God' purpose was too narrow. When I was looking for one reason, mayber there were many. Maybe we were there so my children could develop compassion for the world, so we could meet a particular aid worker, for us to help a student finish his education, for us all to see our own culture with different eyes, for countless other reasons I've never thought of and never will. Maybe it was all those things and many more. Maybe it was not really about any of those things.

Maybe God' plans, like His character and being, are so beyond our comprehension that we are foolish and presumptuous to even try to name them. I wrote the first part of this entry months ago, before I encountered the next big fork in the road - my diagnosis of cancer.My friend's words are true in this situation, too. And perhaps I have learned something along the way after all, since I have spent much less time and energy this time trying to figure out what God is doing in my life. I have tried to remember that whatever is going on, it is not really about me. It's about God and His plans. What is required of me, as a steward, is only to be found faithful (I Corinthians 4:2). I don't have to know the plot, I don't have to figure out what God is up to. I only have to be faithful.

Swimming Outside the Gene Pool

I am a diffident person. I am the kind of person who will patiently let a confident novice instruct me about something I am expert in just to be polite. I will even ask a few questions for clarification. I never assume I know how to do anything, at least not as well as anyone else. In college I called my parents at the end of every semester apologizing for how poorly I had done that term, begging their forbearance and promising to do better the next term. And I was always shocked when my grade report arrived with nothing but A's. Roget suggests I might be called bashful, blenching, chary, constrained, dubious, flinching, rabbity or reserved. I am self-effacing, shrinking, shy, timorous, unassertive, unassuming.

I gave birth to seven children who bear at least some resemblance to me. They all learned to talk early, but learned to talk on the phone late. Some are still mastering the skill, and all are grateful for the faceless nature of facebook and texting, the shy person's friend. They are not all as retiring as I am, but none of them would ever be called bold or brash, cheeky, audacious or forward.
So I am a bit non-plussed by a daughter who told me which shoes she should wear to her first T-ball practice, when she had no idea what T-ball even was, a daughter whose favorite phrase when she hardly spoke any English was, "Mommy, no," often accompanied by a glare or a scowl. Now that she speaks the language almost perfectly her favorite phrase is, "I know." Almost any explanation I try to offer her is interrupted halfway through by, "I know," even though she doesn't. When her younger sister asks me a question about something she doesn't understand I have to be quick to get in the first word, or G will launch into her own, often incorrect, explanation. Had she been born into my family I am sure I would frequently be asking, "Where in the world did this child come from?"

But, of course, I know where she came from - Ethiopia. What I don't know is who she resembles, which strong-willed relative she takes after, or even what early experiences may have shaped her audacious personality. She is like a little bantam rooster in a house of retiring hens. She doesn't fit in very comfortably. Like most introverts, I value caution, self-effacement, thinking (long and hard) before you speak. Even as a child I secretly scoffed at classmates who waved their hands to be called on before the teacher had finished asking the question. As a parent I was always relieved that I never had one like that in my brood. I would rather never be recognized for what I do know rather than blurt out the wrong answer, and my genetic offspring either caught or were taught that same attitude.

Before we met our youngest daughters we had only pictures to study to try to imagine who they would be, what they were like. I knew this daughter was brave - she was always smiling broadly in the sad little orphanage pictures, and I knew she was fiercely protective of her little sister - she always had her arm around the sad little one's shoulders. But I did not know that part of what allowed her to survive her difficult childhood was a brash, dauntless, cheeky courage and the conviction that she could handle anything that came her way, that she already knew most everything she needed to know, that she didn't need any grownup to tell her what to do. So I find myself often piqued at her attitude, annoyed, rather than amazed by her confidence. Instead of praising her chutzpah, I find myself biting my tongue so I don't criticize her presumption. I recognize in myself the lack of grace and acceptance of her "otherness." I see how hard it is to affirm and value the qualities I don't naturally like. I am conscious of how easy it is to love people who are like me, and how hard it is to extend the same unconditional love to someone who is just so different from me. Of course, this is part of what God means to teach me through the experience of adoption. He has shown me how easy it has been to love the children born to me, whereas Christlike love embraces the unlovely (to me), rather than just those I feel comfortable with. He is showing me my pride, my judgmental attitudes, the shallowness of my "love" through this gutsy daughter who is nothing like me.

chapter one

I was thinking this morning as I pushed my empty grocery cart back to the curb that God is giving me what I have said I wanted - a chance to live out what I claim to believe.  I have written about that desire many times, and spoken it in my heart over and over. I have made choices which have involved a certain amount of renunciation, a willingness to take some risks and to allow God to change my life in some pretty big ways.  I have said "yes" to moving my family across the world, "yes" to adopting two Ethiopian orphans.  I have felt as if I were giving up my life for the gospel, to do those things that Jesus said His followers should do. I have felt willing.  But I realized this morning that I have been exercising faith as I chose those paths; now I need to exercise faith on a path I would never have chosen.  I cannot imagine choosing cancer if God gave me the chance.  I would have moved to Somalia, adopted ten more kids, given away all my money before I would have chosen cancer.  But I was not given the choice. God chose it for me.  This time when I give up my life as I know it, it is not of my own volition, and I don't like it.  I realize how different this is, and how much greater faith it requires. 

I have been reading James 1 and Hebrews 12 a lot lately,  Hebrews 12 exhorts us to "fix our eyes on Jesus, " a great corrective for me when I over and over fix my eyes on the mirror, to see if the swelling in my face is growing more noticeable, or fix my eyes on the computer screen reading chilling acounts in cold, clinical speech about the destruction various kinds of cancer can wreak. James 1 reminds me of the purpose of trials - that they are not tests to assess how much faith I already possess, but testings to produce patience and perseverance in me.  By definition both of those qualities require time, not haste, uncertainty and effort, not obvious happy endings.  If I knew this would all turn out the way I want it to, I could not learn patience or perseverance through it. 

So here I am in the place I never wanted to be, and the timing seems horrible.  My daughter is getting married in less than three months.  Will I be able to attend her wedding?  Will my face be swollen and disfigured from a recent surgery?  Will I still have both my eyes?  Will I be in the middle of radiation or chemotherapy treatment?  I don't know.  God knows.

Promises, Promises

A few weeks ago we had an impromptu picnic. The days for picnicking are growing short here in northern New England, and one of my older daughters suggested we pack a lunch and head to the park. We pulled out the old wicker basket and filled it with our picnic standbys - good, crusty bread, a few cheeses, fruit and drinks. There was still a sandy blanket in the back of the van which had never been unpacked after the trip to the beach two weeks earlier, so we were all set. The evening was surprisingly warm; we'd had enough chilly nights so far that I had pulled all the fans out of the windows, though I had not carted them up to the attic yet since Indian Summer was still around the corner. A late crop of mosquitoes annoyed us and some suspicious-looking red ants swarmed one daughter's flip flops, but the picnic was still a success - much better than eating indoors while the light still lingered till 7 and the trees were just beginning to drop coy hints about the colors they would wear this fall.

Heading home from the "penguin" - Lily couldn't keep the word "picnic" in her mind - my smallest daughter began reciting a litany of all the things she was not going to do the next day. She still uses the Amharic structure for negatives, putting the "not" or "no" after the verb.

"In the morning I take Ivy's candy, no. I touch Ivy's things, no. I hide things from Mommy, no. I squeeze kittens, no." She was so earnest and adamant about her intentions. She repeated her vows several times, going to great lengths to explain when these things would take place, "Tonight brush teeth, go to bed, sleep, wake up, have breakfast, then." I was touched by her resolve, by her remembrance of all the sins she had committed today. I was also reminded of my own resolutions, of all the things I have promised myself and God, over and over, not to do again tomorrow, or ever.

I complain, no. I want what everyone else has, no. I judge other people, no. I worry, no. I get impatient with my children, no. I think I am usually right, no. I overeat, no. I forget the log in my own eye, no. I gossip, no. I feel too wise to have the faith of a child, no.

What I remember most

Today is C's 21st birthday. She is on the other side of the world this birthday, like she was for the last, as well. Different country, but equally foreign and faraway. We tried to skype with her today, but she didn't pick up. I hope she is out with some new friends. I hope someone there knows it's her birthday. Her siblings decided to make some silly birthday videos for her and asked me to make one, as well. My first idea involved stuffing a pillow under my shirt, going for the pre-natal look. My eldest daughter laughed at me and said, "Oh Mom, that's what you always think of on any of your children's birthdays!"

Of course she's right. And why wouldn't I? Doesn't every mother? Don't we all wake on our children's birthdays remembering the morning they were born? Don't we all compare today's weather with the weather on that first day? Isn't every mother more conscious of the passing hours that day, remembering what was happening throughout the day? Doesn't every mother divide the day into the time before and after the child arrived? Maybe not; I don't think I've ever asked anyone else if they do.

But I do. I love celebrating my children's birthdays; I love decorating the cake and finding the gifts that will make them smile. But I always feel as if I am harboring a secret that day, conscious of the fact that I am the one who remembers the occasion we are commemorating, not them. Their actual birth days are immortalized in my memories, not theirs. On this day they are characters in my story as much as in their own. It's a funny thing.

So today I recalled the events of September 17, 1990. I remembered how I felt when I woke that morning in the hospital after the previous night's stalled labor. I remember my husband deciding it was OK to go in to the office, only to be called back a half hour later. I remember my closest friend, two months away from her own first delivery, sitting patiently with me after sleeping all night in a chair. I remember the doctor's tactless words, "by hook or by crook", before he left to do someone else's C-section, and the nurse's gentler manner. I remember my fears for this baby's condition and my determination to avoid any interventions. I remember how quickly she arrived and how quickly she was whisked away to be examined by the high risk pediatric specialist. I remember my relief when she was placed in my arms a short time later and how marvelous I felt after such a quick labor and delivery.

I remember, too, that one of the best parts of any sweet experience is recalling it later, taking the memories out and turning them over, looking at them again and trying to recapture the feelings that left me breathless at the moment. But I know, also, that memory is fragile in its malleability, that looking too closely or talking too often about an event can alter its shape. I call to mind Annie Dillard's caution to the memoirest - that if you really want to keep your memories, you should be wary of writing them down because they will become the words you have used to describe them.

So I only revive these memories occasionally, taking care to refresh them gently and somewhat cautiously. I handle them gingerly, trying not to look directly at them, to examine them too closely. I recount the story in its outline only, letting the details swirl about, coloring my recollection. But I don't try to pin everything down in black and white. I allow for some mistiness around the edges. I don't want to lose the wonder of that lovely, lovely day.

Too Many Daves

Did I ever tell you that Mrs. McCave
Had twenty-three sons and she named them all Dave?
Well, she did. And that wasn't a smart thing to do.
You see, when she wants one and calls out, "Yoo-Hoo!
Come into the house, Dave!" she doesn't get one.
All twenty-three Daves of hers come on the run!
This makes things quite difficult at the McCaves'
As you can imagine, with so many Daves.
And often she wishes that, when they were born,
She had named one of them Bodkin Van Horn
And one of them Hoos-Foos. And one of them Snimm.
And one of them Hot-Shot. And one Sunny Jim.
And one of them Shadrack. And one of them Blinkey.
And one of them Stuffy. And one of them Stinkey.
Another one Putt-Putt. Another one Moon Face.
Another one Marvin O'Gravel Balloon Face.
And one of them Ziggy. And one Soggy Muff.
One Buffalo Bill. And one Biffalo Buff.
And one of them Sneepy. And one Weepy Weed.
And one Paris Garters. And one Harris Tweed.
And one of them Sir Michael Carmichael Zutt
And one of them Oliver Boliver Butt
And one of them Zanzibar Buck-Buck McFate ...
But she didn't do it. And now it's too late.

-Theodor Geisel

Two too many Kevins

Our two Ethiopian daughters came with indeterminate birthdates. Their birth mother did not even make a guess at their ages, leaving the choice of dates and ages up to the social worker who did the initial orphanage intake interview. The girls' birthdates were chosen with some thought, and then also some randomness. Unable to ask the mother if she remembered even what season they were born in - Ethiopia's tourist slogan is "Thirteen months of sunshine," and every day does seem like the one before - the social worker presumably picked a month and day out of a hat. Amazingly, he chose a date already on my calendar as my fourth daughter's birthday for G's big day. A just missed our third daughter's birthday by two days. With 365 days to choose from, does that seem a bit odd?

The girls also came home with us saddled with strange names - not their first, given Ethiopian names, but their middle names. The adoption process in Addis Ababa dictates that all adopted children are given their father's first name as their middle name. So we have two little girls named A and G Kevin Horner-Richardson. We had never planned on changing our daughters' first names: they were chosen by their Ethiopian mother and both have beautiful meanings, but we found ourselves forced into choosing new middle names (unless we wanted them to go through life with the middle name Kevin). We did not realize at first that we had to choose their new names within 30 days of arriving home. Fortunately I finally read the fine print in our Welcome Home Instructions 26 days after we arrived back.

Feeling like we did when it was time to leave the hospital when we had not yet settled on a name, we tried our several in quick succession. We wondered if the girls had a preference - they certainly have strong opinions about most other aspects of life, we reasoned. "G," we said, "do you like Rachel or Rebekah?"

"What?" she asked, screwing up her face, twisting her neck and peering at us through the lower left corner of her eye like she sometimes does. I think she thought we were asking her about what she wanted for dinner, or which outfit she wanted to wear but she didn't recognize any of the choices.

"Names" we said brightly, wondering how to mime the concept, "Your American names." We ran through each of our own names, pouncing on the MIDDLE name each time, to try to make the point that in America we all have THREE names, but she thought we wanted to hear her Ethiopian last name, the one name we were not considering. We tried asking again what she thought of several possible names, but she just shook her head and began to look disinterested. At one point she laughed, and we wondered how we would know if a name we innocently chose might sound like something offensive in Amharic - which we never figured out.

So, we filled out the paperwork at the last minute with the names G Rachel and A Lily, followed by the ponderous Horner-Richardson. We don't know when, if ever, the girls will use those names. We wanted to give them the option of a name, should they ever want one, that does not make their softball coach ask what gender they are. (That happened this week.) They may never choose to be known by any name but the one they were christened with at the church in Woliso, Ethiopia, but this naming seems to be one more step in the adoption dance which we are clumsily trying to learn.

Are we having fun yet?

I was a melancholy baby from day one, I bet. I've never asked my mom what my infant temperament was like, and I'm smiling in the old Olan Mills studio prints still hanging on some wall somewhere, but as far back as I can remember I've been looking at a half-empty glass and wishing it were half-full. I've always been singing the blues in my heart of hearts. And I know most of my writing reflects that.

So I'm happy to report that in spite of my perpetual angst, there is a lot of giggling going on in my house these days. Although my newest daughters are around 5 and 7 years old, they are babes in the woods - the New England woods - when it comes to American life. It's so much fun to see so many firsts again - the kind of events I remember from my older children's toddler days. So far I have witnessed the first bubble bath, the first king-sized bed (which is not, unfortunately, in my bedroom), the first escalator, the first plane ride, the first leotard, the first tights, the first snow and the first trampoline. Not to mention the first pizza, the first yogurt, the first Ritz crackers and the first cheerios. There have been so many first foods that the first question our youngest asks about anything she's never seen before is "Eating??" A rubber ball, a cupcake liner, a die from a game, a tube of face cream - "Eating, Mum? Eating?" she asks with an inquisitive look.

Another word we hear often is "mechina," car. These girls love nothing more than to ride in the car. Anytime anyone reaches for the car keys or mentions the word "car" they are rushing for their coats and shoes. I never thought anyone would love the car more than our poodle, but I was wrong. With their limited English, and my limited Amharic, (we both know food and potty words in each others' language), our conversations often consist of strings of single words. Bedtime conversation often runs like this: "Mum, sleep, good morning, eat, clothes, brush teeth, mechina, anh?" To which I reply, "Sleep, good morning, eat, clothes, brush teeth, play, lunch, THEN mechina." So we understand each other.

Of course, I hear the word "no" frequently - though probably not nearly as often as they hear it! Abonesh has a very serious little face and she usually accompanies her earnest "no" with a finger shaking back and forth. She will indicate the food, the toy, the activity I've proposed and very seriously shake her finger in my face saying "Abonesh, no." Gudinesh has more language at her disposal, and is likely to offer an animated diatribe in Amharic before she emphatically states, "This, Gudinesh, no."

They are as fierce as any revolutionary when it comes to equality. Everything must be measured and counted. If Abonesh has found a pair of socks in her drawer which have not yet been worn, Gudinesh calls them to my attention immediately, and demands a new pair, too. If Abonesh has had two hard-boiled eggs and Gudinesh is still eating her first I must NOT offer a third to Abonesh - no matter how many more eggs are left. I have to count out the Ritz crackers and measure the peanuts, tea mugs must be identical or there will be hell to pay. I'm getting the hang of the Bobbsey Twins routine, however, and don't make nearly as many faux pas as I did the first weeks.

They love to sing. The Ethiopian national anthem, the names of their sisters and brothers, Frere Jacques with unintelligible words, "America the Beautiful" which they've probably heard once, they sing them all. Any time they are happy or content they begin singing whatever comes to mind. One will start a repetitive little tune, and soon the other will join in. We drove two hours last weekend to visit their older brother and sister; for at least half the trip Abonesh was happily singing, "Ransom, Casey, Anna" to a little tune she'd made up. Gudinesh joined in as well. More music in the house (or the car) is definitely a good thing.

I even think it's a good sign that they now feel free to beg for things in the store. The first weeks home they never asked for anything, but now they beg for frozen pizza, chocolate milk, shoes, hair ornaments, books they cannot read, jewlery and balloons. Gudinesh shamelessly hugs me and says, "Mommy I love you," when she especially wants something. How gullible does she think I am?? The frozen food case makes them squeal when they open the door, they still get a kick out of the electric eye doors at the grocery store. Even though Gudinesh feels too old for many things, she loves riding in the grocery cart. Her legs are so long we couldn't figure out how to get her out the first time, but now we've got a method.

I still ask myself several times a day, "Am I glad we did this?" "Am I so tired because I'm just too old for this?" "Will this ever feel normal?" So I'm especially grateful for the moments when we all just laugh together and marvel at how amazing it is that we should be here together at all.

Things I don't want my social worker to see

One of the things one we have acquired through the adoption process, in addition to two new daughters, is a social worker. Case worker sounds nicer, but in my mind I always use the more ominous sounding term. Even though my eldest daughter is about to become one, the word still strikes fear in my freedom loving, homeschooling heart. This morning as I stumbled into the kitchen in search of morning coffee I began a mental list of things I would never want the SW to see.

1. Three empty wine bottles on the kitchen table at 7 AM.

2. What I was wearing when a child climbed into my bed at 4 AM.

3. The outfits my new daughters choose most every morning. I try to edit their clothing before we go out in public, butI don't always remember.

4. My kitchen floor, an hour after it has been swept for the fifth time today. I'm not kidding.

5. The pile of laundry in my bathroom.

6. The number of hard-boiled eggs, bananas and oranges we consume every day. The resulting compost pile on the kitchen counter.

7. How slowly our computer is running since our new daughters have pressed every button and flipped every switch in sight.

8. The way the girls shreiked when they saw their older brother with coconut halves taped under his shirt.

9.The four large lizards we are babysitting for the rest of the semeste

10. The candy I bribed the girls with at the hospital blood lab.

"Clothes, Mum!"

G got up the other morning with a grumpy face and a demeanor to match. As soon as I came out in the hallway she met me, frowning and muttering, "Clothes, Mum, clothes." She was still wearing her pajama shirt though she had changed her pants; She was clearly unhappy about something.

She led me into her room and opened her middle drawer - the one with the tiny little colored shirt taped on the front, and swept the back of her hand dismissively across the pile of clean shirts - there were probably at least a dozen. "No, Mum," she grumbled, then more insistently, "Clothes!"

At first I tried to interest her in one of the shirts, lifting off the top ones to see if there might be one hidden beneath that was more acceptable, but she continued frowning and whining and writhing about until her little sister entered the room, dressed in a summer outfit I'd picked up on a whim at Walmart yesterday. Then I realized she wanted to wear the matching outfit I'd bought for her.

I stifled a sigh, thinking of how many choices she had, she who just three weeks ago owned nothing. (A friend who adopted at the same time told me she'd acutally been asked by someone if her child came with clothes or was he naked!) G did not come home naked, but she did come wearing one of the many outfits I had brought to Ethiopia for her, since all the clothing in the orphanage was communally owned. Today she had a dresser full of clothing, most of it much more appropriate than the summery, sleeveless shirt she wanted on this 35 degree March morning.

It's hard to blame her - she's just a child. She even had the grace to thank me when I produced the outfit she was looking for from the corner where it had been dropped the night before. But I couldn't help thinking about my own frequent grunbling over the contents of the drawers God has filled for me. Like G, I have nothing outside His gifts to me, but I am so often discontent with the choices I have. I want someone else's talents, someone else's job, someone else's looks, someone else's life. Although I know that "godliness with contentment is great gain," I often don't choose to be content.

I have a restless heart. I don't know if I inherited it with my DNA - my dad changed jobs often and I have heard my mother described as restless - or if I inherited it from Adam, who also was not content with the choices he was given in Eden. Even as I hope to teach my daughters gratitude and contentment, I hope to train my own heart to be more content with what I have received from my good Father.

A Moment in Time

I am sitting in the dark in a rocking chair next to a bunkbed. Across the room an old mantel still presides over a closed-up fireplace, one of five in our house that feed into a massive central chimney. Our home is built in a style called center-chimney colonial, common in 18th century northern New England. The blond wood bunkbed came from Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, purchased from a missionary family who used it for their own children but decided not to move it home at the end of theirten year stay in Asia. They were moving back to the states while we were moving to Malaysia, so we bought some of their furniture and adopted their cat. We used the beds for two years there, and decided we would ship them home to the US when we returned. The children sleeping in the bunkbed were born in Woliso, Ethiopia. We brought them home with us just two weeks ago. The rocking chair belonged to my mother-in-law from Ohio.

I am amazed at how much diverse history and culture have come together in this one, small room. The builders of this house may have never heard of Ethiopia or Malaysia, the Malaysian craftsmen who made the bed and dressers have probably never seen a house that looks like this one. The Ethiopian mother of the children sleeping (actually not sleeping) in the bed has never lived in a house with running water or electricity, has never seen snow or imagined central heat. The children have no notion of the age of the house; they probably think every house in America has big, drafty windows with 24 panes of glass and splintery stairs that creak. The whole combination is bizarre.

But it is all part of a grand plan. The house was built to serve many purposes; one of them,unbeknownst to the craftsmen who built it,was to shelter our family 200 years after the foundation was laid in ancient granite. The used furniture ad on the internet served to provide us not only with bunkbeds, but with a friendship that now extends to the Middle East. When we brought the bunkbed home with us just three years ago we had no idea that we'd be putting two little African girls to sleep in it. My mother-in-law passed away less than two years ago, without ever knowing about the granddaughters who would be rocked to sleep in her lovely, caned chair. The pattern is a mystery to me, I who am merely a thread in a complex design that spans centuries and cultures, encompassing people and places and objects and time. Still, it comforts me as I sit here in the dark, to know an Intention greater and wiser than my own is at work in this room.

Night and Day

Tomorrow marks two weeks home with G and A. This time two weeks ago we were somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. I can't remember much of anything about last week, but today was a really good day, in stark contrast to last evening. The girls were awake late last night - we had gone over to their cousins' house for dinner about 5:30. We didn't leave till 7:30 after two hours of horsing around with 14 year old J and then just racing around while the grownups drank coffee and attempted conversation. By the time we got into the driveway G was stormy and stubborn and refused to leave the car unless I carried her. Since I was already carrying her sister, this was not an entirely reasonable request. To top it off, the dog had pushed open the backdoor while we were gone and run away, so K had to head out immediately to hunt him down, while I tried to get the two little ones up to bed.

I probably should not admit to this online, but when I finally carried G into the house, moaning loudly like some kind of miserable ambulance, I smacked her bottom and told her she'd better cut it out. I have never been much of a spanker, and I signed a solemn vow that I would never use corporal punishment on my adopted children, but my ancient mommy instincts were just too strong. As soon as I did it, I felt like a criminal. My first thought was that she didn't speak enough English to report me, but I remembered how good she is at miming things, and how easy to mime "angry Mommy striking helpless child" would be. Then, too, as she howled in my ear, I just knew she'd learn how to say "child abuse" before the social worker's next visit.

I decided to skip the toothbrushng and carried her straight upstairs to bed, howling and writhing the whole way. She usually sleeps in the bottom bunk with A, and I put them in bed together at first. G's wails became louder and angrier as the minutes wore on, and her mouth was right next to her sister's ear, so I moved A to the top bunk. I sat in the rocking chair beside the bed, trying to look as if I couldn't hear anything, and she bellowed as loudly as she could. The only time I spoke was to warn her she'd better not throw up when she began interspersing her yelling with threatening gagging noises. I felt heartless, yet strangely calm - I guess that's how heartless feels. Finally I picked her up and rocked her until she slowly calmed down. The wails became a little softer, she actually stopped for breath in between. Eventually she stopped crying and I laid her back in the bottom bunk. A was still awake up above, watching the drama with big, round eyes. I asked her if she'd like to move back to bed with G, never thinking she might say no, but she did. The injustice of the elder child being made to sleep in the lower bunk was just too much for her sister, who turned on the sirens again while stiffening her back and sitting bolt upright on her pillow. "How long, Oh Lord," I silently prayed, trying not to invoke an imprecatory Psalm as well.

Finally I gave in. Pretending it was all my idea, I asked her if she would like to sleep on the top bunk, as well. She was all smiles and clambered up immediately. Almost two hours later the two of them were still awake, laughing and giggling, singing songs in Amharic as well as several choruses of "Are You Sleeping, Brother John." I have no idea where they learned that. Although the sounds wafting down through the ceiling grate were happy ones, I dreaded what the next day would be like when the effects of sleep-deprivation kicked in. So, today was a wonderful surprise.

You Are Here

My niece sent us a sweet homemade card congratulating us on the adoption of our two youngest daughters. The cover of the card was a collage of paper cutouts, one of which was a circle with the words "You Are Here," like the ones you find on maps at rest stops along the highway. It was probably appropriate for a significant moment in our lives - a moment which changes everything, but it made me long for something more.

Whenever I have consulted one of those all-knowing maps which mysteriously seem to intuit where I am standing at the very moment I look at the map, whether it be at a late night rest stop on an all night trip, or in a multi-level mall in a huge Asian city, it has been able to tell me what I needed to know. On a trip, the map has told me both how far I have come, and how far I have yet to go. At the mall it has enabled me get my bearings and to figure out what direction I should turn to get to my destination, be it the taxi stop, the washroom or a particular store.

This time the circle told me only that I am indeed here, wherever that is. There was no map attached to the smart circle, no labels to suggest where "here" is in relation to anything else. Nothing to orient me in time or space or experience. I'm just here.

So, here I am, surrounded by my contemporaries whose children are mostly grown and on their own. Many have grandchildren, most have college students or graduates, a few have high schoolers, almost none have children who have not yet learned to read. Here I am, trying to divide my time and attention between young adults who still need my love and interest and time, and teenagers who need rides to sports and social events and a mother who has time to arrange for drivers' ed and SAT prep. Between a ten year old who has been displaced from her position as cherished baby of the family and two little foreigners who chatter away in a language I don't understand, and cling to me like their lives depend on it. Here I am, in a very strange place with no road map and no directions.

Here I am at 6 o'clock in the morning when a little dark person in a sleeper with the feet cut off wanders sleepily into my bedroom and climbs into bed beside me, smiling into my puffy, tired eyes. Here I am at six-thirty putting off making my precious coffee so I can serve chai and dabo and muz and betacan to two hungry, insistent children who must eat before they can do anything else. Here I am, slipping away for an hour with my last-born child so we can actually exchange five uninterrupted words, we two who have always had time for each other and finished each others sentences. Here I am, feeling guilty about asking my older daughter to start dinner yet again, because I have to referee the cranky, late-afternoon interactions of two little girls who cannot be reasoned with because they don't understand the words "gentle" and "later" and "tomorrow" and "exhausted." I am definitely Here.

Though the orange circle on the card was not attached to a map, I do have an old, familiar map which I have not pulled out as often lately as I wish to, but I've consulted it enough over the years to remember much of what it says. I hope that I am somewhere near Isaiah 58:10 these days, the place which reads, "if you spend ourselves in behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed, then your light will rise in the darkness, and your night will become like the noonday." That's the place I was aiming for when I began this trip. If I'm not there yet, I hope I'm getting closer. For now, all I know is that I'm here.

I Am Nothing

I stutter when I try to speak the language of life
I want to shout out loud but I just cry inside
Sometimes it feels so holy sometimes so absurd
So who am I to try and put that into words

I am nothing
But the angels sometimes whisper in my ear
Yeah, they tell me things and then they disappear
Though I am nothing I sometimes like to make believe I hear

I stumble when I try to walk the straight and narrow
I have heard it said God's eye is on the lowly sparrow
Who in spite of everything will sing for all he's worth
You know sometimes I feel exactly like that bird

I am nothing
But the angels sometimes whisper in my ear
Yeah, they tell me things and then they disappear
Though I am nothing I sometimes like to make believe I hear

-Pierce Pettis

Peeling carrots in an old house.

I am standing in front of an open window peeling carrots, listening to the whistle of the 6 o'clock train crossing the Connecticut River from NH to VT. The trestle is about a mile from my house though it sounds as if it were much closer. The air tonight is fresh and comfortably cool, the first dry leaves of the fall are scattered across the yard. I am wondering how many women have stood here in September, preparing dinner for their families in this very kitchen. Tonight's meal is humble - carrots from our garden, potatoes and applesauce made from apples we picked last Sunday when it was still hot and summery. Probably many a housewife before me has combined these three late summer vegetables and fruit in this same New England house.

I love living in an old house. I often find myself thinking about the dozens of people who have lived their lives here before me - for whom these rooms have been "home," who have been born and grown up, married and borne children, and died in the rooms I think of as my own. Several years ago our family volunteered at a colonial fort, dressing in period clothing as reenactors. I would stare hard at my children as they played on the front yard in their knickers and muslin dresses, trying to imagine the house as it looked when children dressed just so actually lived here. I could never do it - I could never make the present fade away even in my own mind, but I liked to try.

In the first fifteen years of my marriage we lived in two other well-worn dwellings. Our eldest child was born in the tiny second floor room of a log cabin. She took her first breath in a bed wedged beneath the steeply sloping roof of a house built nearly 220 years earlier. When my midwife first visited our home she stood in the room thoughtfully, feeling the history there and pronounced it a good place to give birth. We had no idea how many babies had entered the world in that single, upstairs chamber, but there must have been many.

Our next children were born in a newer house - a Mansard-roofed Victorian rowhouse with a stone facade. There our bed was in a huge, high-ceilinged room with and arched doorway, tall windows and a balcony. That room later became our playroom where our children played make-believe and built forts and block castles. Sometimes when I passed through the dark hall at night to check on a sleeping baby or adjust the blankets of a restless toddler I wondered what mothers and children had lived here before me and what, if anything, of themselves they had left in the house. My daughter left a small, handwritten note under a loose floorboard when we moved away.

Here our last two babies were born in what was probably the parlor; they may have been the first of the dozens of babies born here in 200 years to emerge in the best room of the house! We have no record of who entered life in this house, though many of the former owners are buried in the colonial-era cemetery just up the hill. We know our house was built by the Comings family, and we can find their names carved on old slate slabs in the back part of the graveyard. The woman we purchased the house from is also buried there, next to her husband whom we never met. Sometimes I wonder if my name will be on a stone there as well.

Life in an old house makes me feel often the brevity of my life - to remember the Scriptural image of my life as a blade of grass that once withered, will be remembered by few. The King James version says, "It's place remembers it no more." The wind will continue to blow across the wheatfield and the grass will quickly close over the place where that one blade grew. Consumed with the big events of my own life - children's weddings taking the place of their births - I can feel more important than I really am. One day another woman will stand at this window who knows nothing about me; this will be her house and all traces of my life will be gone. It is already so in the other houses that were such a part of my life. No one but my husband, and maybe the midwife, has any memory at all of the birth-days that changed the world for me. No one else remembers the weather on those days, how hot one day was, how gray and chilly another, how the stars were so brilliant that night or how the sun gradually brightened the east-facing room as we waited for the child to be born. One day someone else will tend my lilac bushes and call them her own, will listen to the waterfall through the open window and never think of me.