A Not-Silent Night

Several years ago–four, to be exact–I sat in a Christmas Eve service, feeling as I never had before. I was there with my own round, pregnant belly, living in the expectation of my own blessed child. I was overcome–Christmas shifted for me that year. In thinking about my own anxieties about birth, I thought about Mary in that stable. In thinking about the overwhelming love I already felt for my child, I thought what it must have been for Mary to give up Jesus. In the quiet of that church, I found tears streaming down my face.

While I love our beautiful Christmas carols, I am often struck by how they get so much so wrong. Holy night–right on target. Silent night–are you kidding me? Are we supposed to believe that Mary’s birth was supernaturally painless, or that Jesus didn’t cry out in hunger every few hours like every other new born? The Bible doesn’t go into detail about Christ’s entrance into this world, and maybe every thing about it was supernatural, but I don’t think this is true. It’s the human-ness of Jesus as much as the God-ness that matters. The messiness, the pain–they are all part of the miracle, all part of the love.

I suppose that the recognition of the reality of birth and new baby could make us feel a little sad, or a little less miraculous, but for me, it does the complete opposite. It makes me feel even more connected to the Christmas story, even more moved by the narrative of Christ’s life. The idea of a father giving his son is a powerful one, but it is also an abstract one for me. But the idea of the mother giving life to that child, then giving him up, was something that hit me powerfully once I became a mother myself. What love, what joy, what pain. What love, what joy.

Merry Christmas to you all. May you have a holy night, if not a silent one.

 

For the Love of Books and Perhaps Not-So-Sequestered Nooks

I know that many of you are facing time in the passenger seat and time on the beach or in the rocking chair as vacation time is full upon us. Here are some thoughts in case you are looking for a way to fill your time. Happy reading!

Safe Haven: I know that I risk making some people very angry, but I do not fancy myself to be a fan of Nickolas Sparks. Don’t get me wrong; the man does tell a good story. But, I do not enjoy his style. His phrasing is sometimes awkward, and the description in his novels sometimes becomes plodding. Generally, I just wish he had a little more finesse. I also wish that I did not feel that he sits down at the beginning of every book with the sole intent of making me cry. Let’s just say that it was embarrassing to be caught crying by my doctor because I was reading this book while I was waiting. I have to grudgingly admit that I enjoyed this book–I like that it is set in North Carolina, and the protagonist is incredibly sympathetic. But I do think that Sparks lost his mind in the last couple of chapters of the novel. But, because I do not like to be hated, I will not give away the plot, just in case you still want to read it.

Derby Day: The problem with most historical novels is that they don’t get it right. The story might be intriguing, but the period details are often all wrong; contemporary authors seem to be unable to keep their modern sensibilities out of the mix. I am so happy to say that this is not the case with Derby Day. This 2011 novel by D. J. Taylor focuses on the time leading up to Derby Day.  Mr. Happerton sets his eye on the horse Tiberius, and his sometimes extreme schemes to purchase the horse and then to run him in the derby form the central plot of the novel. While the novel is not quite Dickensian, it has the feel of a Dickens novel with multiple plots that are eventually bound to the central plot. One of the most important characters in the book, Rebecca Gresham, shows Taylor’s skill at getting the cultural context right. This woman manages to be strong and scheming but to still be a believable Victorian female. This novel is all the best parts of a “Victorian” novel without the difficult ones; it is a very enjoyable read.

Serena: I am embarrassed to admit that this is my first experience with the work of Ron Rash. As a resident of North Carolina, I should have read something by him long ago–not to mention that my parents now live in the area in which many of his novels are set. The only other thing I knew about him before I read this novel was that he frequently employs violence. A knife fight that ends in a murder on the first page proved this to be true. The opening scene of the novel marks the arrival of Serena, the new wife of timber baron George Pemberton. Unlike the wives of George’s partners, Serena plans to be actively involved in the running of her husband’s business, and she has big plans for it beyond those that her husband can envision. However, the personal issue of the presence of absence of an heir plays just as important a role to the plot as the couple’s business ventures. She is a fascinating character, and she will surprise you. The backdrop of the novel is 1930’s western North Carolina, and Rash includes plenty of references that show he knows what he is talking about. Conflicts between the timber barons and those who are establishing the Pisgah National Forest are important to the novel’s events, and George searches for the supposedly absent mountain lion; my father and I talked about this elusive and supposedly non-existent creature just a few weeks ago (and by the way, my parents have seen one). This is a suspenseful novel, and it is difficult to put down.

The Cove: Clearly, I got on a Ron Rash kick. If you cannot put Serena down because you want to know what will happen, you should probably take a couple of days off of work when you plan to begin The Cove. The novel, also set in western North Carolina, opens with a skull being found in a well at abandoned homestead; you will spend the rest of the novel, which immediately cuts back to an earlier time, trying to figure out which of the characters will eventually end up dead in the water.

Baby, It’s Cold Outside (And Sometimes Inside, Too!)

I’ve probably said this before, and I am sure that I will say it again–but I live in an old house. 109 years old, to be exact. I am happy to say that it has all the charm of an old house–interesting wood work, wood floors, high ceilings, big, bright windows.

Or, in other words, wood floors (with no insulation), high (energy sucking) ceilings), big bright (so drafty they rattle in the wind) windows. And let’s not forget about archaic appliances. I mean so old that professionals are at a loss for how to get parts for them.

You get the picture.

I should not have bought this house. But I was 30 and unmarried, and I decided that I needed to do something that said I was going to live my life and quit waiting for a man (he came the next year–and has never quite forgiven me for this house). So I bought this house and very conscientiously avoided asking anyone–even my dad who knows about houses–for help. I mean, all the signs were there–it had charm! it was in the neighborhood where I was happily renting! it had a fig tree and muscadine vine! And I do love this house, regardless of any of the issues that we have had with it.

The worst thing about this house? The heat. I became the owner of not one but two fuel-oil-burning furnaces (the house had at one time been converted to a duplex–it had the remnants of a second kitchen too!). Those furnaces were so old that the home inspector had no real idea of their true age. The ducts were equally out of date. But I had already put all of the money I didn’t have into buying the house, so I just had to live with them–and learn all about how expensive fuel oil was, and how the price could fluctuate (wildly!). Those things burned dirty, and there was no efficiency. I routinely lived at 45 degrees–thank heavens for the old black dog! Her body heat made it bearable. After the Mr. and I married, nothing changed except who was keeping me warm at night. When the heat would kick on, I would wake in a panic–I could literally envision dollar signs rolling on the meter. Did I mention how expensive the oil was?

And then the furnaces blew. Almost literally. Some important piece in each of the furnaces cracked within a few days of each other. The repairmen who came told us that we were very lucky–our house could have filled with carbon monoxide, and the equipment could have easily exploded. He didn’t even take into account the fact that I was pregnant and our child could have been affected by the fumes (he wasn’t). We were very lucky.

We spent three weeks arguing with our home warranty company about the how much they would pay to deal with this problem (those furnaces were the whole reason I even had the warranty); this was three weeks without heat–in January and February. That was a whole new kind of cold. But the amount of money in question was too big to quit fighting (although eventually we did).

And then we had heat. New furnaces. New ducts. Almost like a whole new life.

Now when it is cold, I don’t wake up in a panic about whether or not the tanks will run dry. I wake up and think how grateful I am to have efficient heat.

This new life is still a pretty cold one (remember those ceilings and those windows?), but at least it’s warm enough to bear it.

The Old Black Dog

Fourteenth birthdays are generally not considered to be a big deal; they don’t mark the beginning of our teenage years or our entrance into “adulthood.” But this all changes when we start talking about the birthday of an old black lab. And today, my old black lab turns fourteen.

This birthday is harder than her others, although I have been achingly aware of her mortality for several years now. Labs simply–statistically–do not live into their teenage years. And now we have hit fourteen.

She was a gift to me when she was two years old. I was in my first semester of my new position, and, while I was adjusting well, I was still a little lonely. Dosi was never supposed to be a pet; she was supposed to go into service for Canine Companions for Independence (check out the organization at http://www.cci.org). Unfortunately, a predisposition to hip dysplasia (that has never manifested itself) resulted in her removal from the program, and she ended up with me through the generosity of my aunt and uncle who were her puppy trainers.

She is a special dog, and not in the way that every precious dog is special. She has a truly superlative gentleness and quietness  to her. I used to feel some guilt that she came to me rather than going into service. But I have gotten over this. I know that she ended up serving exactly where she needed to serve. For a long time, she was my constant companion. If I ran errands, she rode with me as long as the temperature was cool enough for her to wait in the car. She walked miles and miles with me. She curled up with me and kept me warm when I was foolish enough to buy an old house that I couldn’t afford to heat properly. She soaked up my tears in that terrible, lonely winter before I met my great love.

And she has adapted. When my husband came into my life, there were miles and miles of travel–not to mention that beagle who came to rule our roost. When we got married, she got kicked out of the bed. The beagle bossed his way to alpha dog. Then came the cats. Then the foster dog. Then the baby, who seems to think that she is a horse–and she lets him crawl all over her without complaint. Through all of this, as her position in our house has shifted over and over again, she has remained that faithful companion with those big, understanding eyes and those velvety ears that can calm almost any anxiety.

Three times I have thought that I was going to lose her. The first, my roommate at the time let her out to go to the bathroom and did not stay with her. I have rarely felt the kind of fear that I felt as I sped home that day, fearing that I would see her on the side of the road. When my roommate opened the front door and my sweet dog walked out, I collapsed on the porch in relief–and this is not hyperbole. The second time, she developed a mysterious illness, then just as quickly snapped out of it right before we started to do all kinds of scary tests; we still don’t know what was wrong. Then, six weeks ago, we found a nasty growth on her toe. A month ago, her toe was amputated to get rid of the cancer that had eaten the bone of her toe and swollen it to the point of constant pain. I had the scary conversations with the vet about putting a dog of her age under anesthesia. I was sick with worry, but I had no choice. She couldn’t live with that growth, and it was growing fast. But true to everything we have ever seen from her, she popped right back from the operation like she was a young pup.

And now we are at fourteen.

This number looms large partly because I have watched other beloved labs leave us at this time; I have watched two dear friends each mourn their treasured companions during this year of their lives.

But for now, I still have my sweet friend with her sweet grey muzzle. She cannot hear so well anymore, and the steps give her some trouble, but she’s doing pretty well. And I am so grateful.

Happy birthday, old girl. Give us another great year.

Facing the Dark

Today is January 11, and my Christmas garland on my front porch is still up. I say this with some embarrassment, since I do think that all Christmas decorations should come down by Epiphany. Generally, I am conscientious about this. And, in my defense, all of the decorations inside my home were down and stashed by this self-set deadline. But the garland is still up.

No one likes to undo Christmas. Putting the decorations out is generally fun and exciting. It marks a season filled with expectation and excitement–not to mention that they are pretty and bring some gloss to our mundane lives. Taking them down is a chore; it’s something that has to be done rather than something that we want to do. But I find that I am generally ready to have things back to normal and to start the new year fresh with things in their places.

The garland on the porch is a whole different issue. Yes, taking it down is also a chore, but since it just gets rolled up and tossed it the attic, it is a pretty minor one. My issue with the garland is entirely emotional. That garland is one of my favorite things about our Christmas decorations. On an incredibly superficial level, it takes my somewhat ramshackle house into a less-noticeable ramshackle state. It’s gentle sweep and white lights make me feel that my house is the prettiest one on the street. No one can see that the paint is peeling when the garland is up, and the pretty red bows hold the eyes of those who pass so they do not focus on the crumbling shutters. But on a deeper level, those lights touch me in a way that I have difficulty describing. Those little white lights bring a sense of joy and comfort to me–they are an antidote to the darkness and the cold; they provide an antidote the stresses of daily life that only expand as we struggle to get through the end of the semester.

And then the lights must come down. We have to return to a darker dark and a colder cold. This makes me sad. As long as my garland is up, I feel like I can hold on to a sense of wonder and magic just a little longer. Of course, little white lights should not be the source of these things–but they do help.

I have a pass just a little longer before the garland must come down. Today’s pouring rain means I cannot get it down and put it into storage. This gray day needs those little lights. So do I.

I bet tomorrow they come down, and I will have to face the dark. But I will continue to see them in my mind’s eye, and hang on to the little bit of grace that I feel they give to me.

January’s Books in Review

The Constant Gardener: I have read (or tried to read) John Le Carre’s work on several occasions with mixed results. At least in my somewhat limited experience with him, he can jump around without strong temporal cues, and sometimes I feel like I wait a long time for something to happen in his novels. My father shares this view, and emphatically recommended that I stay away from this novel. But I was interested in the novel; I saw the movie years ago and was really moved by it, and I am interested in the topic–not to mention that I am an English professor who (not surprisingly) believes almost without exception that the novel is better than the movie. I don’t know if it was my father’s warning that made the novel very navigable for me (it does jump around chronologically), but I thought this novel was so powerful. In case you are unfamiliar with the plot, the novel is set in Africa and revolves around the death of the wife of a member of the British Foreign Service and the questions that her death raises. This is a suspense novel with some unexpected twists, and I have not given anything away that you don’t learn at the very beginning of the novel. This is a powerful and a beautiful novel–read it!

The Innocent: I get so excited about Ian McEwan’s work, but I am finding that whether or not I enjoy the book is a toss-up.  I loved Atonement, hated On Chesil Beach, and I am pretty neutral about this last venture into his novels. The Innocent is about a young Englishman in post WWII Germany; he has gone there to contribute to a top-secret espionage project. He is The Innocent, having had almost no life experience of any kind prior to this appointment. Very soon after he arrives in Berlin, he meets a slightly older, divorced German woman. They fall in love and try to balance her past and their present as well as their very different experiences. I don’t want to giveaway  too much of this suspenseful story, but I will say that it takes an interesting twist.

That Summer: I don’t think that most American readers even know the name Andrew Grieg, but this Scottish author is well-known and respected in Great Britain. I came to know  his work years ago when I stumbled across When They Lay Bare when I was doing research for a professor. This is the fourth novel that I have read by him. While In a Different Light is probably my favorite, I really enjoyed this novel.  “That Summer” refers to the summer of 1940, which is probably most well known–at least to the members of Allied forces and their descendants -as the London Blitz.  The story focuses on two sweethearts as they navigate their own feelings about the war and about each other. Switching between narration by Len and Stella, with occasional and brief interruptions from an omniscient, third-person narrator, readers become very involved in their lives. While I did not enjoy the details about aerial warfare (Len is a fighter pilot), I did spend the entire novel rooting for this couple. I also spent the entire novel wondering whether or not they were going to survive. But you are just going to have to read the novel to find out for yourself.   I should probably add that Grieg is multi-talented and also writes non-fiction pieces about golf and mountain climbing; my stepmother highly recommends his work on mountain climbing.

The Paris Wife: I enjoyed this book about Earnest Hemingway’s marriage to his first wife. The first-person narrative is told through her point of view, and she is a character with whom I readily engaged. I am not a scholar of Hemingway, so I cannot speak to the historical accuracy of this novel, but it was an interesting and well-told narrative. This book was not one that I chose for myself; it was a Christmas present from my step mother because she thought that I would like it. If I needed any further evidence that she is a smart woman, this is it. I strongly recommend this book!

Nothing is Free, Certainly Not a Dog

How is it that “free” dogs always seem to cost the most?

A few weeks ago, I was talking to one of my neighbors about his dog. Heaven forbid that I have any idea about the human’s name, but his old beagle’s name is Daisy. We have passed on the opposite sides of the street for years, smiling and nodding, but I finally spoke to him because of Daisy. Although we do not currently have one, we are a beagle family; I grew up with beagles, and my husband’s beloved beagle, Flash, died a couple of summers ago after a long and happy fourteen years of life. In fact, Flash’s presence in my husband’s life was one of the first indicators to me that me and my Mr. were meant to be. But I digress. Back to the point. Back to Daisy.

I have seen this elderly gentleman with his beagle for years, and I asked how old she was–her gray muzzle certainly matches her person’s gray hair! As it turns out, Daisy is the second beagle that he has had in the last decade. She was the result of a pleading phone call from his grandchildren that a dog had been hit and needed help. “Pop Pop” rescued the dog and took her to the vet, and the children’s father promised that he would come back to retrieve the dog when it was well enough to travel. Well, we all know the rest of this story. A week and $2000 later, Daisy had a permanent home with “Pop Pop.” And it’s hard to imagine that elderly couple without her.

My free dog story is not that expensive–at least not yet.

On Memorial Day in 2010, I saw a dog running down our street and in and out of neighbors’ yards. If you knew my street, you would understand that this is a very, very bad thing. At first, I thought that he belonged down the block to people whose dog is their child; my husband and I went on a rescue mission. Figuring out that this dog was not the beloved Greta took about a minute, but we forged ahead to get him to safety in spite of the fact that we were now going to have deal with a dog. He was a skittish thing, and having now lived with him, I cannot believe that we ever caught him in the first place. We brought him in, quickly learned that he did not like cats, and started trying to find him a home.

He was the poster dog for difficult to place: scared of men, anxious, unfriendly to cats, and, maybe worse of all, a runner. We think that he was about six months old at the time; he was intact, and he had places to go if given the chance. We finally found a home for him, but his relocation would have to wait for a few months. We were so happy to have a good place for that crazy dog that we said “fine.” While we waited, we split the cost of his neutering with his new owner and got his shots.

Lesson: if the dog doesn’t leave with the new owner, you’re still the owner. Because of unforeseen circumstances, Elvis’ new home fell through, and we were back to trying to find a home for him.

We became the neighborhood joke. I guess I cannot blame our neighbors; I probably would have rolled my eyes and laughed too at people who insisted on referring to what was clearly their dog as “the foster dog.” Talk about delusional. And, I have to admit, that the only effort being made to place him was talking about how we needed to make an effort to find him a home.

A year and a half later, we finally realized that we had a dog. A good dog. For keeps. He is obsessively attached to me, he and the Mr. are tight buddies, and his nervousness has resulted in a pretty great watch dog.

For a long time, he really did seem like a “free” dog; beyond the normal care, he seemed healthy and non-destructive (aside from a penchant for eating scrap paper).

But then, the seizures began. The first one was terrifying. I had no idea what was happening, and I thought that he was dying. I called the vet in a panic, and he said not to worry; dogs can have a random seizure and never have another–don’t start to worry until a third one occurs or the seizures last three to five minutes (or something like that). At first, it did seem to be a fluke. Then, months later, another happened. Then again, more months later, another one. We were now up to the three, but they were still short and so infrequent that we didn’t worry too much.

But then, the seizures started to occur every few weeks, and they got longer. Finally, the vet said to bring him in, and we did.

Lesson: nothing is free, certainly not a dog.

The good news is, he has responded well to treatment; he’s only had one seizure in six months. Luckily, the treatment is easy and (comparatively) cheap. Unfortunately, this is not true of the blood tests that are required to make sure that the drug-levels in his blood are as they should be.

By now, you have probably guessed that Elvis and I went to the vet this morning. And the bill was almost double what it was six months ago. Given that he will be on this medicine for the rest of his hopefully long life, this is not a good trend.

I guess that it’s a good thing that he was free.

The Magi of Epiphany

The people who were first to worship the Christ child get forgotten. What happens to them after the trip? I can only imagine that life isn’t so easy after you hear hosts of angels sing or follow a star for two years; I bet most people thought that they were crazy when they tried to tell their stories, especially when those stories seemed to end with a poor child. They were transformed people living in an un-transformed world. I’ve been thinking about this a lot today, the celebration of the Feast of Epiphany. One of my favorite poems by T.S. Eliot focuses on this very subject. It recognizes the hardship of the journey–and the return. I thought that I would share it with you.

The Journey of the Magi

“A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.”
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires gong out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty, and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we lead all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I have seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.

The Promise of a New Year

Earlier today, a friend asked me if I had made my resolutions yet. I have to admit that I somewhat dismissively told her “no.” I guess that I could defend myself by pointing out that every spare minute that my toddler has been asleep for the past few days has been spent in furiously purging superfluous material from our home; car trunks are filled with items for donations, and trash cans and recycling receptacles are happily at the curb waiting to be emptied and refilled.

But if I am really honest, I have not yet made the requisite New Year’s resolutions because I find that they often set me up to fail. Of course, if I am even more honest, I will admit that I fail because I fail, not because of some silly resolution.

I have thought about them; really, I have. But I find myself in the too-comfortable place of “I want to lose weight and be more healthy.” I’ve even thought about more specific goals that should take place along the way toward meeting my ultimate, larger weight-loss goals. But the other resolutions are so much harder to face; they are harder to measure, and perhaps the stakes are even higher than my health.

The most important resolutions have to do with my family. Simply put, my husband and toddler son need more of me–more time, more grace, more organization and order. I need to make my home more of an oasis and less of a place that we all land before we take off again. I’ve been thinking a lot about the word “intentional,” and this is the way that I want our life and my participation in that life to be during 2013–and beyond. This is hard. This is hard for any woman. But I am a full-time working mother with a toddler who is only in part-time daycare. Believe me. This is hard! But it is doable, and I need to do it.

The other significant area that I need to resolve to better is spiritual. It is hard to really examine myself in terms of my relationship to God and how the parts of my life reflect it. More prayer, more Bible study are places to start here.

I know that experts say that the way for resolutions to work is that they are attainable and measurable. I have not yet figured out how to attain and measure my goals, but I do know that I need to figure it out, and fast. I am an older mother; I was 37 when my son was born. I never really worried about time passing before he came into my life, but now I am very aware of how quickly my life is passing. There is no time to waste.

So, what are your resolutions? How high are you willing to set the stakes? What do you have to gain if you can stick to them?

Good luck to you as you figure out the answers to these questions. I hope that we all experience a happy, healthy, blessed, and hopeful 2013!