The five books I'd meet in hell

Hours of my life I'll never get back, thanks to:

1. Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser. Assigned reading for a college lit class, this was an agony of a story frequently interrupted by pompous sermons.

2. The Lovely Bones by Alice Seabold. Nothing really is wrong with the writing, but the story is too incredibly tragic and unredeemed.

3. Little Children by Tom Perotta. Any book in which a child molester is the most likeable character is not for me.

4. A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole. Are you kidding me? Made me want to take a shower.

5. Steps in Time: An Autobiography by Fred Astaire. This was the first indication I'd ever had that any person, much less a famous one, could truly not have an interesting story to tell.

Christmas confessions and rebellions

Dear Santa,
Every year, people starting talking about simplifying. A few handmade gifts each, lots of hot chocolate and cookies and carols and candlelight church services and real greenery and home-baked goodies delivered to neighbors and food and toys for sharing with less fortunate people and most of all...oh, yeah!...a pervading sense of peace and tranquility and plenty.

But when it comes right down to it, what I really want is a Christmas like I had as a child. Big piles of gifts, shiny and curly and straight from the pages of the Sears Wish Book, or behind the big plate-glass window at Otasco. Baby dolls, a tin kitchen, a working cash register, a record player with a yellow plastic record that plays "Jimmy Crack Corn." A Malibu Barbie doll that I can love without having to worry I might want to grow up to be a hooker.

I want to jump on the simplicity bandwagon, but I also want to jump on the foam-rubber sofa cushion where I oh-so-hopefully left my stocking each Christmas eve. I want to say my prayers in front of the fake-brick paper rollout that served as our fireplace. I want to wear a Santa hat without worrying about whether I look foolish or might muss my hair. I want to ride my tricycle in the house, and I want it to be okay when I am just as excited about receiving a gift as I am about giving one.

I want my brother Rowdy to read us to sleep in our bunk beds, and I want Ben to wake up at 4 a.m. to try out everyone's toys and then wake us to tell us how cool they are. I want Bubby and Rally to wish for -- and get! -- BB guns and wood-burning sets. I want to be able to laugh over stories about how, when we lived in a two-bedroom house, my parents tied our door to the bathroom door to keep Ben from getting up at 4 a.m., and how Rowdy had to pee out the window because he couldn't get to the bathroom. And the time my dad stayed up all night to assemble bicycles and tricycles for all five of us and made it to bed about an hour before we got up to try them out.

Really, though? I want to not feel guilty for trying to give my children the kind of Christmases I had. I want people not to judge me because Geddy gets a bonus and we spend it all, plus some. When people find out Larry, Curly Sue and Moe still believe in you, I want them to say good job, for keeping them children as long as possible.

I can't bring my brother back and wouldn't even if I could, nor my mother-in-law, and they both helped make my Christmases memorable. You stopped visiting me a long time ago and I'm more likely to get Paxil than peanuts in my Christmas stocking. But, Santa, if you could let people know it's okay for us to enjoy Christmas this year, I'd really appreciate it.
Love,
Me

Because Linus says so!

Nothing puts me more in a Christmas mood than music and television programs I enjoyed as a child. By mutual consent, Geddy and I are going to make a concerted effort to actively celebrate Christmas this year. Last night, we kicked off our celebration on a chilly, rainy night by stuffing everyone snugly into our king-sized bed and watching Rudolph and Charlie Brown.

We plan on making this a nightly event. Tonight's schedule includes a visit from the Grinch and Mickey's Christmas Carol. We put up our Christmas tree this week and build our gingerbread train next week. Next Monday is our special annual family Christmas outing to Callaway Gardens' Fantasy in Lights, which is always incredible.

Sure, we've had our share of heartbreak this year. We lost Geddy's mom to cancer in June and Ben in a car crash just a few weeks ago. The everyday struggles can be enough to crush me, and the outside stress and extra activities inherent in the season...well, I feel like I'm drowning sometimes, trying to please everyone and hold myself together. But Jesus is the same yesterday, today and forever, and His birthday deserves a long, determined and glorious celebration. So when I want to scream, "Isn't there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about?" Linus always is there, ready to remind me.

Confessions of an uninspired Mama

I am not artistic. Not. at. all. Can't draw, can't paint, can't even cut well with scissors. My redeeming artistic quality is that I sometimes manage to copy someone else's ideas. Such is the case with "lapbooks," groovy little learning tools that you make yourself. Kind of like pop-up books crammed with monstrous doses of education.

Dinah Zike is the author of The Big Book of Books, which explains very well how to make all the elements for lapbooks. I found a perfect copy for 50 cents at a library sale last summer but never got around to reading through it, much less using it with my kidlets. So when Homeschool E-Store had its annual Black Friday freebie download bonanza and I scored a Grinch lapbook kit, I knew I at least had to try that one.

It bodes ill when I can't even get the folder put together correctly, does it not?

Still, I persevere. Two of the folders now lay under heavy books, coaxing the flaps to stay together. One is horribly wrinkled from liquid glue and the other, put together with a glue stick, is likely to separate itself at the first glimpse of daylight. (I really miss the library paste we had in school.) The third is waiting...waiting...waiting...

I know this is likely one of those things I'll improve with practice, but I can't help thinking sometimes that going against one's natural gifts and talents may be a mistake. Especially when I'm wearing glue instead of fingernail polish.

As I was saying...what was I saying?

This is the conversation I was having earlier today with a friend:

"So I told what's-his-name he couldn't leave those things lying there on the thing or the dog would...um..."

What I meant to say was, "I told Larry he couldn't leave his school papers lying there on the hearth or JoJo would chew on them, and I didn't think anyone would buy the old 'the dog ate my homework' excuse."

Ba-dum-pah.

I'm starting to have to work my thoughts in Mad Libs: So I told (person's name) he couldn't leave (noun) (verb -ing) on the (noun)...(Insert punch line.) (Canned laughter.)

Pretty soon, I'll be hearing a soundtrack behind every event in my life. And I won't even be able to remember the words so I can sing along!

Purposefulness

Once in awhile someone comes along and gives us the kick in the pants we need.

As a homeschooling mom, I frequent a terrific forum where a group of people talk about their struggles, triumphs and need for chocolate or good bookshelves or the right kind of shoes for their homeschoolers (sorry, here I confess to lapsing into the world of private jokes. And that's a darn funny one!).

One of my favorite contributors is MFS, who is also the author of a very fine blog, Mental Multivitamin. I greatly admire her wit, readily admit she writes circles around anyone I know in real life and aspire to her parenting abilities. I believe her to be authentic and know her to be raising amazing children, as Larry was on the receiving end of a beautifully encouraging letter from her son several years ago.

On the forum, exhausted homeschooling parents frequently lament their lack of motivation or ability to maintain a tidy home, perform all their homeschooling duties, apply the correct amount of time to their churches/jobs/relationships, etc. While I agree that achieving perfection is impossible, I also think falling into the traps of letting others validate your failures and settling for mediocrity are dangerous, dangerous, dangerous.

That's why I appreciate this collection of blog entries. Enjoy!

On my bedside table

I finished Death of a Murderer a couple of days ago. It was mildly interesting and fairly well-written. It jumped around and went stagnant in a few places, so I doubt I'd recommend it.

More interesting to me is the non-fiction, almost-completed read Idoleyes, which I wanted to read because I love Mandisa's song "Only the World." Her story is more complex than fiction tends to be. She is a strong Christian who auditioned for American Idol and made it into the top 10 contestants before being voted off. Her outspoken Christianity, her weight struggles, her incredible talent and her brutal honesty about her life make this a compelling read.

And then there's Healing the New Childhood Epidemics. This book, written by Kenneth Bock, M.D., outlines Bock's "groundbreaking" program for the 4-A disorders (autism, ADHD, asthma and allergies). It's chock-full of good information for me, as the mother of asthmatic and allergic children. Bock relates all four disorders, puts forth some thoughtful theories about the alarming rise in autism cases and documents the work he has done in helping children with the 4-A disorders improve.

I blush to admit that I never have read Pride and Prejudice or Sense and Sensibility. Those are next on my list from my library basket.

Music-wise, I am loving Mercy Me's Coming Up to Breathe. So many of their songs speak to me, but a couple on this album keep me hanging on most current days. I get a particular kick out of this one, as will anyone who's ever been on a deadline and gone blank.

Each year, I buy myself one or two Christmas CDs. Last year, it was James Taylor's At Christmas, which instantly became one of my favorites. I think I talked my friend Angela into buying it last night, in fact. This year, I went a little retro and picked up Christmas With the Chipmunks and A Charlie Brown Christmas.

And just for fun, I put this on my Christmas list!

There's a great big Ben-shaped hole in my life

I'm getting ready to make turkey-shaped Thanksgiving cookies for our family dinner Sunday, and I think, "Ben will love these!" and then I stop...

I'm thinking about taking the kiddos to see Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium, and I wonder if Ben has seen it yet, or if he'd like to go with us, and then I stop...

I buy a great Star Wars pop-up book as a Christmas gift and think I'd like to show it to Ben before I wrap it, and then I stop...

I need to stop.

And now for something completely different

In the midst of the dark last week, I kept an appointment to have Curly Sue and Moe skin-tested for allergies. They reacted to every single marker, including the ones for beef, chicken, fish, shrimp, tomatoes, peanuts and citrus. And dogs and cats, though I'm pretty sure it's their dander and not their meat that's an issue. (I'll err on the side of caution and take them off the menu.) The allergist said not to worry about the food markers unless they've had a serious reaction to any of those foods in the past, which they haven't.

At homeschool group today, Curly Sue got her arm smashed in the door and for a brief while, I thought I'd be taking her for x-rays. My friend the EMT checked her out and was pretty sure it was only bruised, so we stayed put. Exactly 14.7 minutes later, Larry was sprawled on the gym floor with an overgrown toenail bent completely backwards, wailing in panic. Another friend had nail clippers and we soon took care of that injury as well.

Last night at church, I did pretty well until mid-lesson, when I spontaneously burst into tears and couldn't excuse myself because we were smack in the middle of a sea of chairs and I couldn't maneuver my way to the the ladies'. Fortunately, I had brought tissues for just this eventuality.

But hey, last night's viewing of Kenneth Branagh's "Much Ado About Nothing" was fantastically hilarious, so I haven't much to bemoan, right?

Saturday I go help clean out Ben's home and Sunday we are going ahead with our family Thanksgiving as planned. I am making turkey-shaped cookies and green bean casserole and deviled eggs and sour cream dip. We are wearing black tee shirts and visiting the cemetery, though we all will be acutely aware that what made Ben himself is not there. We probably will sing and play guitar, and we definitely will cry. In a good way, though, I hope.

"Afterimage" by Neil Peart (Rush)

Suddenly, you were gone
From all the lives you left your mark upon

I remember
How we talked and drank into the misty dawn
I hear the voices

We ran by the water on the wet summer lawn
I see the footprints
I remember

I feel the way you would
I feel the way you would

Tried to believe but you know it’s no good
This is something that just can’t be understood

I remember
The shouts of joy skiing fast through the woods
I hear the echoes

I learned your love for life,
I feel the way that you would
I feel your presence
I remember

I feel the way you would
This just can’t be understood...

Refined as silver

My middle brother, Bubby, sent an e-mail this morning to encourage us.

Malachi 3:3 says: "He will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver."

This verse puzzled some women in a Bible study and they wondered what this statement meant about the character and nature of God.

One of the women offered to find out the process of refining silver and get back to the group at their next Bible study.

That week, the woman called a silversmith and made an appointment to watch him at work. She didn't mention anything about the reason for her interest beyond her curiosity about the process of refining silver.

As she watched the silversmith, he held a piece of silver over the fire and let it heat up. He explained that in refining silver, one needed to hold the silver in the middle of the fire where the flames were hottest as to burn away all the impurities.

The woman thought about God holding us in such a hot spot; then she thought again about the verse that says: "He sits as a refiner and purifier of silver." She asked the silversmith if it was true that he had to sit there in front of the fire the whole time the silver was being refined.

The man answered that yes, he not only had to sit there holding the silver, but he had to keep his eyes on the silver the entire time it was in the fire. If the silver was left a moment too long in the flames, it would be destroyed.

The woman was silent for a moment. Then she asked the silversmith, "How do you know when the silver is fully refined?"

He smiled at her and answered, "Oh, that's easy -- when I see my image in it."

Seen on a sign...

Everything looks different through tears.

Strength in song

Today I'm faltering, "So I pray
Bring me joy, bring me peace
Bring the chance to be free
Bring me anything that brings you glory
And I know there'll be days
When this life brings me pain
But if that's what it takes to praise you
Jesus bring the rain"
--Mercy Me

A beautiful example of faith through grief

At The Well-Trained Mind forum, Cindy in C-ville comforted me with her friend's thoughts after he lost his little boy:
"He said that his understanding of the kingdom of God has expanded exponentially. Now, it's not like heaven is some far away place. For him, his little boy is in another room. They're both in the house, and in a way he can see through to it at times. Boy, does he long to be there with his sweet boy, but he knows he will be someday. For now, he wants to live in light of the reality of the kingdom - here and now, every moment for eternity - knowing that one day the fullness of the 'house' will be by sight, not only by faith."

Truer words never written

"(My life), indeed the whole of human experience, is made up of moments of rapture and regret, with long, empty spaces in between." --My brother Ben

He sleeps.

I hate funerals but I have to say that people are...better?...afterwards. My small hometown turned out and every person who expressed his sorrow and shared a memory blessed us and soothed an unbearable ache.

Anthony sobbed with us, couldn't even talk. Gentle hands reached out from everywhere and I knew them, even when I couldn't see the attached faces through my veil of tears. Comforting, feeding, moving us along when we couldn't take one more step. Elena's single red rose, Central High Class of 82's maroon and gold wreath. Four arrangements from his company, three from our church. One from a new neighbor who wasn't even sure how to spell his name. People everywhere...from church, from a newspaper where I haven't worked in eight years, from our homeschool group, from the fellowship ministry. Cashiers from the convenience stores whose computers were serviced by Ben. We would never have missed them if they hadn't been there, but there they were anyway.

Surprisingly, laughter. Cracking a joke to beat back the sorrow. "I know I can die now. If Ben can do it, how hard can it be?"

Most of all, the fear is gone. The worst has happened, and God kept his word and took care of us. May he continue to protect and refine our faith so that when we join Ben, he can say to us, "Are you here already? Dude, you should see YOUR mansion!"

"From Uncle Ben"

--By his nephew "Larry"

Please don't stand at my grave and cry
Because I am not there,
I'm only upstairs
In heaven.

Please don't mourn
Because I've been born
Again
In heaven.

Please don't weep
Because I'm not dead, just asleep,
But awake,
In heaven.

"Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."

It does not seem possible that I am about to write about my brother Ben's death. On Saturday, he was here in the dappled sunlight, swinging my children from his arms and dropping them onto the soft front yard grass. Listening to them...really listening to them, like only a bachelor uncle can...as they told him their secrets and tales. Excited about seeing his high school classmates at his 25th reunion that night, fretting about the wrinkles in the microsuede shirt he planned to wear, showing off his brand-new company van. Carrying a pack of orange Orbit gum in his shirt pocket instead of those revolting cigarettes.

It does not seem possible that it was just last night that a sheriff's deputy called my home and asked me to come be with my mom and dad because my brother Ben was killed in a car accident. That the computer equipment in his van was thrown forward and crushed him when a woman crossed the center line on a curve, hitting him head-on. That he died at the crash scene of massive internal injuries.

It does not seem possible that my three surviving brothers, my parents and I wavered between utter disbelief and acceptance as we clung to each other in my childhood home all the long, long night, and grieved. It does not seem possible that this morning I was writing my brother Ben's obituary or fielding calls from shocked friends and family. Or that I was choosing his burial clothing from his things, and wondering if dead people wear underwear.

Most of all, it does not seem possible that my brother Ben, who slid off barn roofs, told ghost stories, saw the bombing of Beirut, introduced my children to Star Wars and Lord of the Rings and Razzles, cracked himself up with corny stories, never slept and was a computer genius; who finally, finally had his life together, has gone to Jesus' arms, and I cannot follow just yet.

Speaking of Shakespeare...

"To sleep, perchance to dream..."

I rarely remember my dreams, but last night was an exception. I'm an Eric Clapton fan, and I've been fortunate enough to see him in concert several times, but last night I dreamed I was personally acquainted with him. In the dream, I was royally irritated at myself for not ever having a photo made of the two of us together, because nobody believed I knew him except Geddy and the children, who'd met him several times as well.

I remember thinking it was weirder that I had a white convertible than that I knew Eric Clapton. My dream car would definitely be red.

The wonderful world of...William?

Shakespeare, that is.

Geddy and I got hooked on the library's copies of "Father Cadfael," which led to a discussion about his favorite actor, Derek Jacobi.

Jacobi begot Kenneth Branagh. (Well, not literally, unless ol' Derek's got something he needs to tell his longtime male partner.)

Branagh reminded us of "Tales from Shakespeare" by William and Mary Lamb, a copy of which already was resting gently on our shelves.

Lamb begot a crate full of library books on and by Shakespeare, and both Jacobi's and Branagh's versions of "Hamlet" on hold.

Oddly enough, the children went with it. After seeing the art in a picture book of Shakespeare's poetry called "Under the Greenwood Tree: Shakespeare for Young People," they started asking questions, which begot Geddy reading Hamlet's soliloquy from said book.

Which begot a lunchtime reading of the story of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark from the Lamb book.

After several peripheral readings of the Weird Sisters' chant from "Macbeth," Curly Sue has been using her creepiest voice to repeat the first few lines as often as possible, so Moe likely won't sleep tonight. Which will beget my reading of some of the comedies.

And if you want to see something terrific without having to pay $35 for the DVD, you can check out Jacobi's soliloquy on YouTube.

"Whether 'tis nobler in the mind..."