Jul the Bewondered

Feeling Stupid

2011-11-03T18:29:00.003+02:00

Pumpkins in the Poznan City Square

I can feel so stupid, sometimes--not just ignorant, but completely void of good judgment and good sense. Does that ever happen to you? The thing that gets me is how quickly this problem arises, even after I have made preparations, studied, or whatever else.

For instance, nearly two weeks ago, I was ready to take my first trip to Poland to study up on a coffee house ministry I want to try here in Sweden.

The day had been more chaotic than expected because our container came in and was being delivered to the place we'll move into and needed to be emptied within two hours. But there were issues for driving our car out of the container and onto Swedish soil (the strangest feeling--our U.S. car of 5 years on Swedish soil--it was like time travel), offices to find and visit before unloading, etc.

By the time Phil drove me to the train station, we were sore and already exhausted. The train station was new enough to us that we had trouble finding a good drop-off place. We eventually found the station entrance and Phil left me at the curb, pack on my back and rolling suitcase in hand.

Enter: My feeling of stupidity. Where did one purchase a one-way ticket? I wondered, after taking only a few steps away from the car. I approached the railing overlooking the train tracks to get some clue which track I needed and where to purchase a ticket. I heard Phil yell behind me, "What are you looking for?"

I told him I didn't know where to buy a ticket. He assured me there would be a kiosk down by the tracks, "I promise," he said. He usually knows these city things, so I hauled my suitcase down two long flights of cement stairs to the tracks. As I reached the platform, I could sense someone else on the stairs above me, so I acted confident walking away down the tracks.

Sure enough, there were bus ticket kiosks and garbage stands the same design, but no place to buy a train ticket. I kept moving up the tracks and sensing that someone was behind me, following as if a shadow. I finally glanced back only to discover Phil standing there, no coat in the wind whipping through the terminal, arms crossed, having followed behind me to see that I found what I needed before the train arrived. He had been trying to leave this adventure to me.

He was also surprised there had been no ticket kiosk, yet. Together we found it, almost at the end of the station. He left as soon as he saw that I could buy the ticket.

I couldn't have been happier to see Phil--to know he is there for me like that sometimes. Who knows how often he has been there without my knowing. The rest of the trip worked without a hitch. I even got home by plane, train, bus and on foot a few days later without Phil's help.

It reminds me of this old song, "Clumsy," by Chris Rice. You might be able to pull the song up on the web, but I've posted the lyrics, here, and will tell you another of my "feeling stupid" episodes at the end of the lyrics. Think of Jesus' disciple, Peter, and of me, another clumsy disciple.

You think I’d have it down by now
Been practicin’ for thirty years
I should have walked a thousand miles
So what am I still doin’ here
Reachin’ out for that same old piece of forbidden fruit
I slip and fall and I knock my halo loose
Somebody tell me what’s a boy supposed to do?

I get so clumsy
I get so foolish
I get so stupid
And then I feel so useless
But You’re sayin’ You love me
And You’re still gonna hold me
And that You wanna be near me
‘Cause You’re makin’ me holy
You’re still makin’ me holy, yeah

I’m gonna get it right this time
I’ll be strong and I’ll make You proud
I’ve prayed that prayer a thousand times
But the rooster crows and my tears roll down (again)
Then You remind me You made me from the dust
Find More lyrics at www.sweetslyrics.com
And I can never, no never, be good enough
And that You’re not gonna let that come between us

I get so clumsy
I get so foolish
I get so stupid
And then I feel so useless
But You’re sayin’ You love me
And You’re still gonna hold me
And that You wanna be near me
‘Cause You’re makin’ me holy
You’re still makin’ me holy, yeah

From where I stand
Your holiness is up so high I can never reach it
My only hope is to fall on Jesus

I get so clumsy
I get so foolish
I get so stupid
And then I feel so useless
But You’re sayin’ You love me
And You’re still gonna hold me
And that You wanna be near me
‘Cause You’re makin’ me holy
You’re still makin’ me holy, yeah

Feeling stupid episode number 2: It was the day after I had returned from Poland. I was even more tired because everything had happened late at night, too early in the morning or loud as hostels are in the middle of the night on weekends. It was time for my Swedish lesson, which I forced myself to attend though my brain felt like mush. Every movement felt slow and exaggerated.

I arrived at the place and couldn't fit the car in the free parking spot I found, so had to find a place in the paid parking. I decided to back in for easy driving away afterward. I carefully put the key fob (to a Mercedes station wagon rental) in one section of my purse, and my smart phone in another. I grabbed my purse and school bag and went out to buy a parking slip. Back at the car, I placed my stuff on the hood of the car because it had been difficult to drag all that stuff between the door and the hedges. In the time it took me to open the car door and reach in to set the slip on the dash, a man in a hooded black coat walked casually up, took my purse, walked to his bike, set my purse in the bike basket and rode away.

Two things went through my mind even as I tried to figure out if I should chase him or just kick myself for being so stupid: "The Lord is my helper, what can man do to me?*" and "Stupid, stupid, stupid!" even as I chased and yelled after the man to come back (as if!).

Of course, I went to my Swedish teacher's place, winded and full of alarm, to get help. The remainder of the day was spent calling police, looking around in the hedges for a discarded purse (no luck), waiting with the unlocked rental car, no key, talking to police, waiting for the tow truck, and watching even the car I had driven in with drive away.

It was difficult not to take this scripture out of context, "For whoever has will be given more, and they will have an abundance. Whoever does not have, even what they have will be taken from them" (Matthew 25: 29). Because my identification, license, money, cards, phone and contacts, and now car all vanished within one tiresome morning.

After the car left, we had as much of a Swedish lesson as I could stand. Then my teacher and her husband (dear friends from our church in Malmo) took me to Hunter's school so I could meet him and go home with him on the bus.

I've learned some things:

1. Don't leave your purse on the car hood, even for a second.

2. The advice, "don't keep all your eggs in one basket," works for stuff in a purse as well as Wall Street stocks and chicken eggs.

3. It's good to have friends to help in times of trouble. (It was a bright, beautiful fall-color day).

4. The mind has trouble turning off the re-play of awful events so that fear can take up residence in an otherwise adventuresome mind.

5. All that stuff is just stuff. But I let my mind sometimes believe that I am what is in my purse, so that it takes something like this to figure out who I am when there's nothing left.

6. That forgiveness is absolutely the only way to peace and sanity, even if I have to forgive every moment of the day until the pain stops hurting so badly.

7. Now I feel even more deeply for those who have had to leave so much more--who have had so much more ripped from their arms.

8. What I have should be shared, because keeping or hoarding stuff guarantees absolutely nothing.

I'm back to working on getting more sleep as well as wisdom! Wish me well as I do you!

I get so clumsy
I get so foolish
I get so stupid
And then I feel so useless
But You’re sayin’ You love me
And You’re still gonna hold me
And that You wanna be near me
‘Cause You’re makin’ me holy
You’re still makin’ me holy.

*"So we say with confidence, 'The Lord is my helper; I will not beafraid. What can mere mortals do to me?'" Hebrews 13:6 Psalm 118:6,7

Month of the Pumpkin, or We're Turning into Pumpkins!

2011-10-07T14:06:00.000+02:00

My kiddo picking out his pumpkin in Bjarred, Sweden. He keeps asking for pumpkin pie.

Picked myself a lanky veggie--pumpkin colored, too! What looks like a cigar is actually a carrot top.

Here we are, back in Sweden--waiting--fat and happy, I might add. We're in a temporary rental that is beyond comfortable.

The weather has been sunny and warm for two months, now. Leaves are starting to change and the wind is teasing us that it might come back to live for the next several months. Oooooo, we shiver, we are very afraid.

We're waiting for temporary residency permission, for our container to arrive, to move in to the house we will be buying in Sweden, for a financial windfall (well, aren't we all), for H. to stop growing (when will THAT be?), for sleek and slender to be our own realizations without having to try, for the Swedish language to dawn on us without any practice or study (though I am being tutored and making strides), for our U.S. house to rent, and for the Lord to reveal to us the next step we are to take.

But waiting is not so bad when you have a house to live in, a car to drive (rental), food to eat (good veggies from the pumpkin patch!), a school for your kiddo, and friends to spend time with. The people who graciously rented to us last winter/spring gave us some furniture, including beds, which we are deeply grateful for! The only problem with waiting is our inability to predict what customs will be like when our container arrives on the ship, what things will need attention once we move into our house, and why we still don't have residency permission.

We are incredibly indebted to our dear friends and family who helped us accomplish the impossible task of moving out of our house within only two months during summer. In fact, there are still people helping to maintain things at the U.S. house while we are away until someone rents. I'm told my favorite plum trees are ready for harvest. Sigh.

The dream for our time in Sweden that we had when we went home in June has gotten bigger and more amazing. We've found people to bounce our ideas off of and to whom to be accountable. We've found that there is so much to do before the dream even begins! More on this dream, later.

Keep praying for us as you think of us, and we'll do the same for you.

Time to pick the kiddo up from school. Let us know how YOU are!

Malmo's Western Harbor! 1 day: Countdown Malmo to Idaho

2011-06-17T22:45:00.000+01:00

People have asked me, "Do you like living at Vastra Hamnen" (Western Harbor)? "It's a rather posh place, isn't it?"

The only thing I can see out the windows are apartments and the narrow street-wide sections of sky. The people next door are often remodeling with a cement drill loud enough to echo through the apartments connected to it, including this one. Crowds of people get off of tour buses with their cameras and peer into the windows at us. I tell people about these things.

But I would be lying if I said I never loved walking only one block to the sea, or one block to the grocery store, or one block to my chiropractor. I have loved the floor plan of the house--especially that every bedroom has a door and the kitchen is full of cupboards.

We've all loved eating at Vespa Pizza, where they've come to know our names and you can watch the people on the promanade who also love looking at the sparkling sea. I especially love to visit the coffee shop for a quick chai latte on my way to going for a walk or going back home to do housework.

They say Swedes live for summer. From here, I can see why. The sky is near, the green park so close to the white sandy beaches surrounding the sparkle of water under the midnight sun--it's possible to forget that nine months of wind and cold ever really happened. This place is a little piece of heaven. If you tour Malmo, you have to come here on purpose. I highly recommend the side trip.

Two things we did right on this big packing day: We took a nap midway through the day, and we ate at Vespa looking out over the sea. The packing and cleaning are hardly part of the memory.

To my friends in Idaho, see you soon! To my Malmo friends, see you in two months!

Hands! 2 days: Countdown Malmo to Idaho

2011-06-16T22:20:00.000+01:00

The handshake of greeting and of meeting,
of those who have welcomed us to this land;
The helping hand of those who have volunteered
to help us pack, clean, store, and move--each time;
The hand raised in warning--for our safety
and for better understanding;
The beautiful hands of pianist, Lorenzo, now gone;
The tool of hand--to grasp, clasp, crimp, pull, push,
twist, wring, wrap, fold, tape, wipe, stir, kneed, wash,
the list goes on, tapped under these hands;
The hand to hold.

Of course hands can be used for ill, but I am thankful today for helpful, useful, soothing hands.

The Bid! 3 days: Countdown Malmo to Idaho

2011-06-15T22:28:00.000+01:00

It was a sleep-in day today. The worst part about that is the rest of the day got completely away from me so that I have been unfruitful when it comes to packing, but have enjoyed some time with good acquaintances whose companies are moving them away from Malmo (all are going back to their home countries).

It is a Swedish custom to have a farewell church service at the close of the school year. We have missed the last two for mostly stupid reasons (always packing to go back home). Hunter and I attended today, however, and it was a very special event. It is much like the American Baccalaureate, only for children in elementary and middle school. It is held in a church, the priest begins and ends the service, and there are musical presentations by different age levels, as well as awards, certificates and speeches. I am told that the past few years have been in both Swedish and English, but this year the ceremonies were separated so that the one we attended was in English only.

We took one of Hunter's friends home for the remainder of the day until the two of them had a farewell party to attend. During that time, I received word back on our bid for a special kind of farmhouse in the country. The counter offer was acceptable. This made my day and I felt at peace. Praise songs to the Lord went through my head. How to interpret these responses, I have no idea, but they are very nice for a stressed out woman standing among boxes in her soon-not-to-be-hers-kitchen while two boys make sounds like banshees from upstairs.

Offer? you read. Where are you talking, now, Sweden or Idaho? Well, I have not officially told you about this, so I guess it is time.

We feel the Lord asking us to move to Sweden semi-permanently. We are looking for a house to buy. It will only be the second house we've ever owned and it will not be in the U.S, which is alarming for newby adventurers like us.

Not only is the idea of owning land overseas alarming, but of not having sold our house in Idaho yet, and not knowing how we will do it in the current economy, housing market, or time allotted for getting it done. We have accumulated so much STUFF!

My friend reminded me of the phrase, "living on a wing and a prayer." Sounds like us, right now. We have nothing else!

We will look at one more house tomorrow night after we've packed everything else up and begun cleaning this apartment. Then we will most likely pounce on the counter offer. Unless, of course, The Lord shows us otherwise. We made so many unwise decisions with our first (and beloved) house that we are shy about "leaning on our own understanding."

So much to do, so little sleep. Pray for us, if you're into that kind of thing--and resolve to stay friends, no matter where we're off to--okay?!!

Saying Yes, Saying No! 4 Days (yipes!): countdown Malmo to Idaho

2011-06-14T21:50:00.000+01:00

Figuring out what to say "no" to and what to welcome with "yes" in life is no easy task--or character quality, for that matter. At the end of this day, as well as the past six months, I realize I said, "yes" too often. In some ways, I was my most efficient this busy day, but too many of the things that filled this day should have been better managed.

For instance, I said I would meet a realtor to look at a house that was far from the heaviest workload of my day. It ended up being a waste of gas, time and angst. Everything about the "house" monstrocity with no actual bedrooms anywhere near bathrooms, seemed was impractical. I should have set it for a different day, if at all (we had already seen the silly floor plan). The best part about that whole experience was telling the kind man up-front that this place did not work for us. No need to make him wonder any longer.

I'm extremely pleased to have said "yes" to my son's request to make dirt dessert (crushed oreos, pudding and cream, and gummy worms) for his end-of-year party. It meant a great deal to him. He told me he liked it when I invited his class (who had been studying animals and habitats) to eat some aardvark food. (Wait, do aardvarks even like worms?) He told someone today that his favorite part about his whole 2nd grade year (in true boy fashion) was the party today. He had looked forward to it and said it was even better than he imagined it would be. It was work, but the reward of his pleasure was worth it!

It was also fun to say "yes" to a dinner invite. The day was too full, our house packed up to the point of being difficult to cook (even the dishes I used for the dirt dessert are now packed), and, like the hostess said, we could think about something other than the move for a few hours. It was pleasant and they had good advice for us.

When we got home, we tripped over half-packed boxes and suitcases and rushed to finish more of the things we said "yes" to that we probably shouldn't have.

Remember my saying I became the class parent representative just by being late to the first meeting of the year? Well, I have been looking forward to that job ending as of today. Now, I am contemplating taking the position for next year ONLY if another interested parent and I don't have children in the same class next year. We talked about it. It could go either way, so I'm still caught between saying "yes" or "no." Whatever the case, I need to mean what I say and have the wisdom to think it out ahead of time.

Gotta Love These Northern Places! 5 days: countdown Malmo to Idaho

2011-06-13T22:13:00.000+01:00

Don't ask me how this works, but I've had time to pack like a mad(wo)man, make a complete mess of the house, get ready for the end-of-year party for my son's class (including goodie bags), and still have time to watch a movie.

Maybe you've already seen "Into the Wild" about a college graduate named Christopher who went on the quest of a lifetime to explore the West, especially Alaska. The scenery is fabulous, the cinematography well done without being pretentious, and the storyline nearly perfect. The ending isn't what I would choose, (spoiler warning, I tell the end of the story, nevertheless this movie is a must see!) but you can't choose the ending in a biography, especially if it is a biography honoring someone who dies.

What's strange is that I remember hearing about someone who was found dead in an old bus north of Fairbanks only a short while before I moved to Fairbanks as Phil's new wife. Now, I am grateful to have heard the real story more completely. If there's a book, I want to read that, too!

This movie is a thriller without being fast. If you're not used to contemplative movies, you'll be bored within the first 10 minutes (as my son was). It's for the thinker, reader, beauty lover.

Last summer I watched "Grizzly Man," which completely gripped me for a few weeks. It wouldn't be difficult to compare these movies except that "Grizzly Man" had a heavy art/movie production-producer angle that "Into the Wild" doesn't have. Besides, they are from two completely different personality viewpoints.

As you might have figured out already, I'm in love with northern places. It's not just about the places, either, but what the extremes of such places do to the character of those who encounter such places. Like Thomas Hardy (a classic author), I believe a place often demonstrates aspects of the human condition. Some people are not connected to "place," but I'm in the camp of those who are.

I could go on, but I would bore you. I'm boring myself! See the movie if you haven't!

The Brown Family! 6 days: Countdown Malmo to Idaho

2011-06-12T20:45:00.000+01:00

Today we were invited to celebrate the fourth birthday of the Jeff Brown family's youngest child. It is a privilege and a joy to play with all four children--this time, frisbee--and enjoy whatever Jeff sets out for the feast. It was a smorgasbord of open face sandwiches and a lovely salad. Dessert was a "goodis kaka," which means candy all over a scratch chocolate cake. More and more, our time with them feels like being with family.

It was good, beforehand, to worship at church on Pentecost Sunday. Our friends were glad they didn't have to say any formal goodbyes since they knew we would soon be back.

I enjoyed the pressure of not packing on Sunday. We use this day as a day of rest and recuperation. Things are a little sparse, but not as bad as they will be tomorrow.

As I type this, a fantastic sunset is evident by the pink clouds overhead, but I'm too weary to walk a block past all these apartments to see it fully myself, which is already regrettable.

Still, I'm grateful for friends, cute little kids, good food, family and the day "the sound like the blowing of a violent wind," "tongues of fire" (Acts 2:1-4), and the gift of the Holy Spirit changed the lives of Jesus' disciples and continues to change more disciples and my life forever.

Waffles at a Seaside Resort! 7 days: Countdown Malmo to Idaho

2011-06-11T23:24:00.000+01:00

Tomorrow is another last day. Last day for waffles.

Of course, there will be other waffle days. But, you have to understand, Sweden is the land of the Waffle Day! And we've only had a real, painless, waffle iron since a year and a half ago and it only works in Sweden. It's a sign of having to move, yet again, that I say it is a last. We will have a batch of waffles for breakfast before we pack up the waffle iron.

We were able to pack a lot more of our things today, take them to storage, then come back and strap a couch on top of the rental car (definitely not a common sight around these parts), and take it to its new owners. The new owners served us a lovely tea time with coffee, tea, frozen cake and pie. It was a hot day, so we especially enjoyed the frozen cake.

Now the apartment looks like a whirlwind went through it.

Last time we had waffles was about a week and a half ago. We decided to eat them on the upper deck where you can see one little piece of the sea and some of the boat harbor. Phil put extra cinnamon and extra vanilla in them, and made sure the oven kept them warm until we went up to the cool breeze. We were amazed how long those waffles stayed warm even after we'd been eating them awhile.

What's more, it was the first time since living in this ritzy place near the sea that it felt like we were living in a seaside resort. It didn't smell like someone's cigarette, or taxi exhaust, or lighter fluid, or stinky sea grass. The air smelled of the sea. We just took in the sun's warmth, the warmth of the delicious waffles and acted like we were enjoying a seaside resort. Because we were!

We may just eat tomorrow's waffles on the deck again.

Wind, Waves and Word! 9 Days: Countdown from Malmo to Idaho

2011-06-09T22:04:00.001+01:00

“A temptation arises: it is the wind. It disturbs you: it is the surging of the seas. This is the time to awaken Christ and let Him remind you of these words, 'Who can this be? Even the wind and the waves obey him.'”

Yesterday was one of those Walt Whitman days, when it doesn't matter what is in view--the sky, the trees, the grass--or what can be heard--a new songbird, the absence of the cries of seagulls--it all opens up. Suddenly the normal senses seem dull compared to the heightened awareness of the mind's eye, ears like an arctic fox to 100 feet below the earth's surface, the slightest breeze across silken hairs like the pressure of thunder, or the slightest hint of nutmeg.

It's Aladin's lamp, Shrek's onion, Gran Telescopio Canarias looking at stars light years away, the pearl of great price. I am not sure what makes this happen for you, but for me it is doing a literary word study in The Bible.

Yesterday it was what in the world do the Word of God, seeds, and the sea have in common with Jesus' disciples asking, "Who is this? Even the wind and waves obey him" (Mark 4:41). Chapter 4 of Mark is a series of parables ending with the story of Jesus calming the sea. I wanted to discover why the parables and this story were strung together. (There's a great YouTube video of a lego retelling of this story--I loved it!)

We can talk about it, if you like, but I've got to tell you that most of the fun is in finding out for oneself. I used word searches in BibleGateway.com, when I couldn't find the passages that came to mind. Of course, the search found so many more.

I came away from this study feeling like I was on fire. It was better than falling in love.

This feeling of being on fire has carried over into today--into a meeting at school, lunch with a friend, a trip to the Malmo Library with my son and his friend, and halfway into the movie, "Into the Wild" (don't tell me, I haven't seen the rest, yet).

Unfortunately, it has not given me the jet power to get packing.

Blixt och Dunder! 10 Days: Countdown Malmo to Idaho

2011-06-08T20:50:00.001+01:00

During a five day weekend, including Swedish National Day, the weather was so splendid that the beaches, ice cream parlors, highways and touring sites swamped with people in summer clothing. Even today, after we packed a load and took it to storage then helped someone else move from one apartment to another, we took advantage of the weather. We biked, stood in a sweating line to get ice cream, and had a barbeque.

Funny. Now it is all pouring rain, lightning (blixt) and thunder! (this was written Monday, June 6, but I had trouble posting. Today, Wednesday, the weather was fine, but raining and thunder again.)

Great days! Great fun!

I hope you are having fun, too!

Love Locks! Day 16: Countdown from Malmo to Idaho

2011-06-03T22:35:00.000+01:00

Some days are too boring to describe. Forgive me if I have been guilty of boring you in the past...but today was one such day. It was full of all that dailiness. It ended with a nice get-together, then, of course, piles of dishes.

When I was already in bed, I remembered my countdown. Maybe I should have count down by weeks, instead...

On Malmo's Western Harbor (I've been referring to it in Swedish--Vastra Hamnen), there is a cement and metal jetty (not sure what they call it) hanging out over the sound. It is a thrill to walk to the end of it, because it feels like one will certainly fall into the water. This is especially true on a windy, white-cap day. But it is really quite sturdy with heavy metal sides.

The Sunset and the jetty at Malmo's Western Harbor

One day I was watching the sunset with Phil's brother when he visited. I saw some Middle Eastern men go out onto that jetty and watched two women photograph them. At one point, one woman pocketed her camera and said to the men in English, "Do you know why those locks are there?"


Looking toward the Oresund Bridge	from the jetty.

Now, I had noticed some padlocks clipped to the metal grates on that jetty and could not imagine why they were there or why the beach officials didn't have them cut off. So, at the prompting of the woman's question I felt myself straining to hear the answer over the wind.

Maybe you already know the story, but when the four of them came our direction, I asked the woman to tell me the story of the locks. She told me there are places in the world, usually over large bodies of water, where lovers clip a padlock to the rails and throw the key into the water as a sign of a love that is never to be broken. She said there are places, like Hong Kong, where there are so may padlocks clipped to the rail that the structure is nearly crushed by the weight of them.

She turned to one of the Middle Eastern men and said, "We are going to do that, here, when we are married, aren't we?

Here's to unbroken love, to the unfathomable depths of commitment, to throwing away the key!

Picincs! Day 17 Coutdown from Malmo to Idaho

2011-06-02T22:57:00.000+01:00

Sunset clouds on Vastra Hamnen, Malmo, Sweden. Into what kind of clouds do you think Christ ascended?

Today is "Kristi himmelsfärds dag" in Sweden (Christ's Ascencion Day). Though people will tell me what the day means, they refer to it mostly as a "red day," which, to most concerned is simply a national holiday (read: day off of work). Because this red day happens on a Thursday, they have a sort of "rule" that Friday be a "squeeze holiday" since it falls between the actual holiday and the weekend. Furthermore, Monday is Swedish National Day, so we essentially have a five day weekend.

Enter "what does everyone do on a five day weekend," and you'll get a jillion answers. It's obvious a lot of people are gone (dark apartment windows), but it is also obvious (since the weather is fine) that people are out to enjoy the weather, the green grass, the blue sea and each other.

Including us. We had three picnics today: waffles on the deck for breakfast, a bike ride and picnic at the nearby castle park (with a stop at a technical museum), and a picnic at a nature reserve on the peninsula with friends. Now that is a great way to spend a day off!

As these days wind down, I find it more and more difficult to choose only one happiness in a day. Today contained a hundred happinesses. That doesn't mean everything is all happiness, all the time, but it sure is amazing how many small things--when I look for them--add up to happiness.

Even with a hundred happinesses, none of them compares to the joy of knowing that my Redeemer (one who saved me from my sins) died on the cross, was raised on the third day, forty days later he ascended to rule and to reign with our Heavenly Father, and lives to do so over two thousand years later. I know it sounds crazy. I can hear the craziness of it--can read it for myself. But I'm with the Apostle Paul, that "if only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are to be pitied more than all men" (1 Corinthians 15:19 NIV).

Picnics on Ascension Day, out looking at the clouds, are a great way to wait for Christ's return. And, of course, I could never claim to know when that is!

Poppies! Day 18: Malmo to Idaho Countdown

2011-06-01T21:38:00.001+01:00

Today was windy and colder. Though I spent much of the day doing research on my computer, I took time for another 15 minute walk by the sea. It was more fun with a hot latte machiatto (sp?).

It only took a few minutes for me to realize that knee-length pants were too short and I would need to wear my wind-breaker hood up to keep my hair from entering an outer atmosphere. The wind was so strong by the sea, the sea a frothy deep blue and green that I found it exhilarating. I let myself imagine what it would be like to be one of the wind surfers I could see in the shallow harbor.

But, my main happiness for today, even after driving around in my favorite countryside with hubby and little boy, were the yellow poppies in the back garden.

Yellow poppies! Have you ever seen such a thing?

Scones! Day 19: Countdown from Malmo to Idaho

2011-05-31T21:25:00.001+01:00

Alas! There are no photos to demonstrate what a hot, sunny, muggy day it was in Malmo. But the seashore, the promenade, and the huge park near where we live filled up with people wearing as little as possible to stay cool and soak up the sun. It was a nightmare to drive a car through carefree bicyclists, hand holding walkers, mother's with prams (huge sleeping strollers) and groups of children on field trips just to pick my son up from school.

At one point, after my laundry and housework was finished, I joined the throngs for a 15 minute walk. Every tiny daisy in the vast grassy area poised for the sun, dogs rollicked in and out of the sea, people sunned themselves, read books, ate a picnic, or made out. There was plenty of room for everyone. The sea sparkled nearby and the Oresund Bridge fuzzed like a mirage in the distance. This is not (yet) like one of those beaches packed like seals with sunbathers. They tell me it gets like that, but I've never been around during the heat of summer.

Just before picking my son up from school, I met a friend for a little while. We viewed an area across town recently built up with new apartments and a new spa. I had not eaten lunch, except for a banana, but after awhile, she opened up a bag to reveal that she brought her freshly homemade scones, lusciously lathered in butter and cheese, along with homemade juice from the elderberry flower. They hit the spot on this beautiful, warm day.

You can probably guess that having a friend who brings fresh scones and juice is one of those things that makes a sunny day even brighter!

"The earth is the LORD’s, and everything in it,
the world, and all who live in it;
for he founded it upon the seas
and established it upon the waters."
Psalm 24:1-2

Color and Coffee! 20 Days: Countdown from Malmo to Idaho

2011-05-30T21:10:00.001+01:00

I hate going grocery shopping so much that when I discovered we were out of sugar, I opted to scrape sugar cubes together to get the effect I wanted on the top of another rhubarb pie. See the crumby mess I made? Oh, but I digress. This is not about my hates!

See this cup and saucer? This is the very thing that got me started wanting to share with you what makes me happy. It is an old IKEA design, but I bought two of these at a thrift store and they have been making me happy since. The rest of my mugs are plain white. My fancy china cups (which also make me happy and were purchased at a thrift store) are white with gold rims. So when I want to brighten my day or invite someone over for tea, I use these cups. Inevitably, they are enjoyed by the other person, too. They are big enough for a cup and a half of tea or coffee, which is just long enough to share stories about the day. Combine drinking something warm out of these cups and Bible Study or prayer and it's an even happier event!

It is common to meet someone for coffee at a konditori (sweet bakery) or cafe' in Sweden. But coffee or tea with someone in their own home is most special. Most women have special cups to share for one-on-one fika (tea time). During the art round, one of the homes I stopped to look at art also offered fika at the kitchen table. There were quite a few of us around that table and it made us enjoy time with such a generous artist that much more!

Here's to what brightens your life, warms your heart and makes you happy in simple ways. (Clink)

Daughters and True Friends! Day 21: Countdown Malmo to Idaho

2011-05-29T20:54:00.001+01:00

My countdown is messed up because I accidentally skipped Saturday. Saturday was the birthday of my beautiful second daughter. She is definitely someone I am happy to know and love. We sang to her just minutes into her birthday.

Saturday I was extremely weary from the day before and Phil had me packing things up for moving out of this apartment near the sea (the owners come back in August). The longer I packed, the sadder I became. I realized I kind of liked it here, that I haven't yet done everything there is to do here so that my work went slower and slower the bluer I got.

After packing and delivering the boxes to some kindly friends' house, we watched "The Terminal" with Tom Hanks. It felt all too possible for those of us who have spent layovers in the airport. I wasn't sure if it lightened my mood or not.

Oh, and it was pouring rain outside (as it is now, on Sunday).

We decided to go for a walk in the rain. We weren't prepared for how soaked and cold we would get, walking in the rain along the sea. But we walked, anyway.

Hunter collected rocks from the sand that reminded him of gold so that he proceeded to ask every question about recognizing, mining, selling and finding gold he could think of until we were weary of the whole subject. We told him he needed to check out a book on the subject if he was so interested in it.

We tried entering one restaurant for a quick dessert only to discover everyone was dressed as if for a wedding surrounding a table piled with gifts. We looked like drenched monks in our rain coats, so we turned back down a long pier toward shore where we found another restaurant. By the time we entered, Phil had accepted the prospect of having to pay for a shared dessert, but was surprised when I said I wanted a steak.

Mind you, this was nearly nine in the evening (not dark yet except for the rain).

We shared a steak, dessert and some deep conversation, paid the bill then walked a different route home than along the sea shore. This tree-lined path was full of the perfume from said flowering trees. We wound our way around goose-poop mines. By the time we got home, we were all tired enough to sleep, so I neglected to write.

Today started sunny but cool turning to rain. We had a great service with Pastor Terry preaching, then came home to prepare for dinner with our friends and their baby boy.

We never ran out of things to talk about. We ate until we were stuffed. Time with true friends in Sweden makes me very happy, because it reminds us we are not alone in this world--or stuck in an airport!

Rich Mullins and the Zoo, Day 23: Countdown from Malmo to Idaho

2011-05-27T19:21:00.001+01:00

A bus load of 2nd Graders on the way to the Skane Djurpark (Zoo), my kiddo included.

Momma Bear and three nursing cubs

Wind turbines in a field of "Raps"

Hmmm. Today I have to pick between a bus-load of 2nd Graders, bears (and other northern animals), fields of yellow "Raps," and the devotional book I've been reading.

But I would have to say that the book I picked up for my smartphone kindle application, "Rich Mullins: A Devotional Biography: An Arrow Pointing to Heaven," makes me happiest. That I was on the bus with 2nd Graders on the way to see a zoo-full of northern animals with raps fields passing along the way adds to the joy of reading such a book.

Favorite quote from the book:

God has called us to be lovers and we frequently think that He meant us to be saviors. Se we "love" as long as we see "results." We give of ourselves as long as our investments pay off, but if the ones we love do not respond, we tend to despair and blame ourselves and even resent those we pretend to love. Because we love someone, we want them to be free of addictions, of sin, of self--and that is as it should be. But it might be that our love for them and our desire for their well-being will not make them well. And, if that is the case, their lack of response no more negates the reality of love than their quickness to respond would confirm it.

The song Rich Mullins wrote to demonstrate this was "Brother's Keeper."

Now the plumber's got a drip in his spigot

The mechanic's got a clank in his car

And the preacher's thinking thoughts that are wicked

And the lover's got a lonely heart

My friends aint' the way I wish they were

They are just the way they are

I will be my brother's keeper/ Not the one who judges him/I won't depise him for his weakness

I won't regard him for his strength/ I won't take away his freedom/ I will help him learn to stand

And I will, I will be my brother's keeper

Now this roof has got a few missing shingles

But at least we got ourselves a roof

And they say that she's a fallen angel

I wonder if she recalls when she last flew

There's no point in pointing fingers

Unless you're pointing to the truth

Got me thinking. Puts me in an uncomfortable place--because I haven't been so loving always, if ever. Lord have mercy on me! But knowing I've got a ways to go, the Lord to help me, and good books to make me thoughtful makes me very happy!

RHUBARB PIE Day 24: Countdown from Malmo to Idaho

2011-05-26T22:34:00.002+01:00

It has been a busy day. I'm a class representative for my son's class and tomorrow is the big Spring Family Festival. Each class must host a game booth for children to play complete with prizes. I've been staying up too late and bombarded with e-mails and people approaching me in the school yard trying to organize our booth. It's coming together nicely, however!

Then there was tea with a friend at the coffee shop across from the school. She asked, "Why did God suddenly want to kill Moses? I don't get it." She found one of those "troubling passages," as my husband calls them.

I made a yummy lunch for my friends who are sisters from Hollviken. We liked the berries and yogurt for dessert.

In the evening, our little family looked at houses for sale in the country. It is fun to see how houses are built and decorated in Sweden.

All these things make me happy.

But today, what makes me happiest is having two huge rhubarb pies finished for the festival after ALL THAT, and it's only 11:30 pm!

Dad and Family: 25 Days Left in Malmo, Sweden Before Summer in Idaho, USA

2011-05-25T22:43:00.001+01:00

Consider this a little like a journal of gratitude, only it's a blog and I'm so many days from my last post and only 25 days before I'll be too busy to post. The next 25 days, I want to tell you something that makes me happy. You never know what it will be.

I might as well start with my family. Above is a photo of my family at my Grandparents' most recent anniversary--70 years. You can see them in the front with me, my son and my cousin. A few important family members are missing (including my husband and oldest daughter), but my family is a blessing to me. It would take me hours to tell you about each one and what he or she means to me--what special moments we have shared--so I won't attempt it for now.

It is a blessing to have grandparents who consider the covenant of marriage so valuable that they are still married, even though Grandmother has suffered severe memory loss for quite a few years, now.

I'm grateful my parents value marriage, too. They will be married 48 years next month!

Today, I would like to highlight my Dad.

Last week, my Father got older (catching up with my mother). It used to be that I had to keep track of my dad's age for him because he could never remember. But I've caught the disease of forgetfulness such that he got older than I expected while I have been exploring Northern Europe. It hit me just today how much I value him and how much more I hope to learn from him before he gets too old to teach me (or I become too forgetful to be taught!).

Dad is the one in the center above my grandmother. People know him as a faithful pastor, teacher and counselor, committed to Jesus Christ, the Bible and the Church of the Nazarene. He stands in the picture next to his brother and wife, my mother, and his parents, who have all supported him, kept him in check, teased him, and even worked with him in the church. I can't imagine life without the Hunter family as well as my mother's family, the Browns!

Dad makes me happy (most times--he can make me really angry, too). I cut my teeth on his preaching, learning a great deal from his insights and love of Scripture. As a young girl, I learned to read, standing beside him during morning devotions, while he pointed out the words he read from the Bible. Call me spoiled, because such training taught me to love words and great literature--to seek out the truth in what is read.

Dad was the one to help me learn to ride a bike, his old vespa, built my brother a lawn-mower-engine go cart, and make sure we had the best sled run for Christmas (as long as it wasn't where he needed to drive). He worked my brother and I hard, expected us to work beside him at home and at church, then played hard with us when he was "on vacation."

Some may know Dad to be the tinker he is. That is not a typo,--though he is also a great thinker--he loves to tinker with mechanical things, especially old Ford's and Chevy's. When I was a senior in high school, he helped me tear apart and put back together a beautiful old Chevy truck. In the end, I couldn't reach the pedals to double clutch and see out the windshield at the same time, but it sure was an education and a bonding between my dad, my brother and me! Almost as long as I can remember, Dad has used his day off--the day after Sunday--to work on cars or some other mechanical thing.

Some others may know my dad is a small aircraft pilot (I'm aware that my Grandfather and Uncle have been all or most of these things, too, but I'm highlighting my dad). We spent many hours back and forth between Grand Coulee and Spokane, Washington, so I could get adjustments on my braces and he could attend meetings. I had motion sickness so badly that I memorized or quoted scripture for quizzing just to keep my mind off of the turbulance. We also had our birds and bees conversation up there. Not sure I heard everything perfectly over the roar of the propeller and the noise of the radio, but I was proud of Dad for attempting the conversation even if he needed it to be couched in so much noise.

One of my favorite things to do is get my dad all to myself so we can talk about our lives, our work, our faults, our ideas and insights. I love how he sometimes opens up to me about himself and becomes a person just like me. Sometimes he is so insightful, so intelligent and so belligerent (Wait! Did I say that?), that I tend to put him in a different category than human like me. But when we get some one on one time, he shares his heart with me and I feel honored all the more to be his daughter and friend.

We asked Dad to come visit us in Sweden, along with my brother, last year about this time. We wore him out walking him around some of our favorite sights, had him busy repairing things around the house, and made him teach a seminar and do a radio program. It was fun to share my dad with my friends overseas.

Just the other day, Dad told me he was putting a different engine in our old lawn mower so it would be usable when we got back home. Good ol' dad. That really is the way to put it. He still has so many things to do that I feel it a privilege that he shows me he loves me the ways he does.

When I was younger, I asked Dad why he didn't say, "I love you." He still doesn't. He said, "I put a roof over your head, pay the dentist bill, pay for groceries and you'll just have to accept the way I say 'I love you.'" It kind of bugged me that he said it that way, but it doesn't take a psychologist to see that he sure does show it to us kids and our children. His 'I love you's' happen most often in the garage, under the hood of one of our limping vehicles. If you stand out there and watch, he'll hand you a wrench or a flashlight and some great learning and conversation happens out there.

Then the phone will ring and he'll be counseling, or hurrying off to see someone at the hospital, or he'll need to read several papers from the on-line classes he teaches. Then Mom gets to visit us in the house without any interruptions or competition. (smile)

So, Happy Birthday, Dad. Have many more birthdays. Happy Father's Day while I'm at it. You taught me well--no use wasting all those sentimental words all over the calendar!

Mom, you'll be featured, too, but you never know when!

What a Woman Does

2011-04-25T20:42:00.000+01:00

What a woman does is what

A woman must: Walk fast

In heels beside her man;

Be home in time to make

Her man feel at home

In his own house; interpret

A complete conversation

Since he obviously understands

Too little to respond; Maintain

A career and relationship

While her man keeps his career;

When he smiles, she succeeds;

Hold her man up at the end

Of his brilliant career (setting

Hers aside, even if she is an

Equally famous painter) to care

For him until there is nothing

Left to give. Love like this is

Left out of the painting, heart

Breaking and Lonely, but we know

There are men who do the same.

Her Vision

2011-04-24T21:21:00.000+01:00

She said she stood at a crossroad

Between Mohammed and Jesus

Christ. She said the choice was

Easy—Jesus took her by the hand

And Mohammed told her it was

Okay to go that way. Belonging

is a wonderful, difficult transition.

And He Thought of It Long Before Easter

2011-04-23T23:02:00.000+01:00

A note popped up reminding of Easter

In my e-mail. It’s time to send cyber

Cards to our loved ones simply because there

Is no longer time to write a full letter.

It’s true! A goodie box to my daughters

Will deliver up to ten days from here,

Thoughtfully packed up the evening before

Easter. On arrival what will they think of mere

Nonsense after the fact, when, of two, neither

One cares what happened to a kind healer,

A sandal-wearing, int’resting teacher

Who died two thousand years ago either

Buried in one much disputed grave or

Another. As a child of a preacher,

The connection between chickens and hare

And the eggs they share, sought by young ones where

Some weary parents hid them to keep their

Belief in tall tales, escapes this reader’s

Suspension of disbelief. The Author

Of mankind’s story, I would rather

believe, had planned to become much lower

Than the angels to pay what we debtors

Could not pay with our lives. He said, “Father,

forgive them, they don’t know what they do.” For

Us he died and in three days he appeared—

Alive, undaunted, an answer to prayers

Long prayed in the past, for hundreds of years--

Now by those who forget about Easter!

Poetry In Motion

2011-04-21T21:34:00.000+01:00

Phil showed Hunter how to blow eggs last night to decorate them with paint for Easter. Two were successful, three failed. We had yummy French Toast with some of the egg contents, this morning. Afterward, Hunter thought the acrylic-painted egg of his would be fun to roll on the floor. Yeah, not such a great idea.

Watching the sunset by a lighthouse

Reflections at Vastra Hamnen after the sun goes down

My poetry in motion!

Easter Week Morning

2011-04-20T21:32:00.000+01:00

> > > > > > > > > > >

Rising late from sleep, eating a slow

Breakfast with the radio on, we note

A reminder of the great faithfulness

Of Our Father--a chorus of yellow

Daffodils nod in agreement in the court-

Yard--of His mercies, new every morning,

Like the variation of birdsong wafting

From the trees, punctuated by gull cry.

We almost miss the significance of this

Peace, our son’s Easter Break from school

During Passion Week, how soft the cool

Breeze after months of frigid wind and ice,

How quickly we are lulled to comfort

While someone we don’t know suffers--

Taking all the blame for a guilty world--

And we marvel crossed contrails in the sky.

< < < < < < < < < < < < < < <

Easter Break Troilet

2011-04-19T22:23:00.000+01:00

Five children at the People’s Park,

Two mothers, and the sun.

Turtles, kangaroos, even an Ark.

Five children at the People’s Park

Refused to listen to their mothers’ barks,

Running away as if they didn’t hear one.

Five children at the People’s Park,

Two mothers and the sun.

The Key

2011-04-18T21:47:00.000+01:00

* * * * * * * * *

It sounds like mistrust, this issue
of locking and changing locks, of
asking-- even those we love--
to give what little they have of you

back. What is left behind becomes
burdensome to those who left
and those staying. Until everyone
has left, and in leaving, left something

of possible value. Those bearing
codes and keys for entrance care
about little else than their own lives,
locked up with our dusty remains.

Those who need access have none
and those who maintain evil intent
find entrance, and so it goes. Value
of treasure is lost if love isn't trust;

and love must be given away until
it is the only remainder of any worth.

* * * * * * * *

Sowing Seed-Words

2011-04-17T21:51:00.000+01:00

* * * * * * * * *

Every seed contains its own power
To grow. The Word of God is a seed.

Soil preparation is the farmer's responsibility--
Neat rows are not required. Scatter

Words as seeds--on pathways, beside
The road, among other plants, on fertile

Soil. Wait! Sun, water, sprout, scatter:
Seeds are words, birds watch pathways,

Weeds may pose as the entertainment
Industry or entwine the purchase

Made with a credit card. Rocks
Make good incubators but bad

Greenhouses. Don't pull weeds, but
let them grow up with the good plant

Otherwise the good plant may be pulled
Up with the bad. A plant hears the lull

Or is one who hears the Word with
A certain kind of dirt. "Dirt don't hurt,"

Is the hope of the farmer, who longs
For sweet fruit with a long shelf life;

Fruit grown from vine grafts into a person
Who is the Word, Who is the tiny seed

One can put faith in, placed in the dirt,
That makes a mountain movable,

That sinister birds snatch. Who is
The farmer? What crop is planted?

Who tends the fields? What size tree
grows from that microscopic seed?

Whose Word seeds whose unpredictable
soil? Does one need to know how to read?

* * * * * *

Church Work Day April 16

2011-04-16T21:43:00.000+01:00

“I was glad when they said unto me, ‘Let us go into the house of the LORD’” (Psalm 122:1).

I will go to the house

Of the Lord. There,

I will sing His praises.

On another day, I will

Join the choir of those

Who take up paint brushes,

Vacuum cleaners, drills,

Tools, and cleaning supplies

Maintaining walls, windows,

Doors and floors. I will

Pace marble, Tile and brick

In search of dried gum,

Baby spit, cake frosting

And candle wax, then

Scrape and clean the surface.

This, I will do on my watch,

Bending to my knees, praying

For those who will seek

The Lord where He may be

Found, in rooms where His

Name is spoken in different

Languages. Appalled

By the scent of petrified

Peppermint and the curdled

Milk of crying babies removed

From the solemnities,

I realize the build-up

In my soul, vices ignored

Before fellow Believers

And enemies . . . Search

Me, O Lord. See if there

Is any stickiness in me,

And, if you are willing,

Scrape me clean. Inhabit

The ready house in my heart.

* * * * * * * *

Just Another April 15 Tax Day (2011)

2011-04-15T19:38:00.000+01:00

"When fog comes, everything
                               goes away . . ."
except the geese waiting at the
                                     bus stop,
necks bent on trimming stray
                                 grass bits
fertilized with cigarette butts,
                             tobacco spit
chewed gum, and used tissues.
                              Such a crop
could hardly be desired, but
                              the way they
go at it, you'd think ecology was
                                 all the rage.
Before long, the fog blows away.
                                  Tall shops
reappear, as do massive ships
               approaching the harbor,
and we mothers convene, watching
                        Magnus-the-dad,
who, being a very committed father
   seems honestly glad
to retrieve his son, as we do our
                        prince charming's,
Sighing as they disappear into a fog
                       and the cares of age.

Some Days Are Like That

2011-04-14T09:31:00.002+01:00

* * * * *

My son is late to school again, but

he’s got his homework done. Driving

back, I see the brown duck stretching

her neck, cooling her feet at the edge

of a man-made waterfall. A driverless

white BMW sits in front of my parking space,

but I’ve learned to squeeze not scratch.

The gulls cry out a warning when

the seagull nest-capturer pulled up in his tiny

white van. He’s not surprised the birds

recognize him. “It must be these blue clothes,”

he tells me. The ladder my husband borrowed

from the community shed rests against

yellow apartment brick, where the man leaves

it after cleaning bird turd from the skylight.

Gulls simply press concave spots in the roof

grass or stones to lay their brown speckled eggs,

he tells me. I think of them posting guard from the bathroom

skylight while I develop digital photos for the school

yearbook. He used a word I refuse to use when

he said, “How much shit is there?” What better word

can a native Swede use? Some days are like that.

Not My Poem but Emily Dickenson's

2011-04-13T21:17:00.000+01:00

Call me a cheater, but I'm posting an Emily Dickenson poem from Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series (from my kindle). She still inspires me. Oh that I could write like she did!

XVI.

To fight aloud is very brave,
But gallanter, I know,
Who charge within the bosom,
The cavalry of woe.

Who win, and nations do not see,
Who fall, and none observe,
Whose dying eyes no country
Regards with patriot love.

We trust, in plumed procession,
For such the angels go,
Rank after rank, with even feet
And uniforms of snow.

In the Same Way....

2011-04-12T20:15:00.000+01:00

Did you see her? She just tripped, her arms full
of letters. Prophesies. Both hands gripping
the weighed and judged; finding a precise measure
of truth.

Pages are everywhere. When someone asks
if they can help, she looks worried, almost
afraid. She's been called a fanatic before,
even a lunatic.

Her occupation doesn't fit tradition or common
culture. There is always someone at her shoulder
reminding her of the messes she makes and how
many shoes

have flown into her mouth. They even criticize
her clothes. But she's too busy dreaming the dreams
people tell her, puzzled by what they have seen.
What they see

confirms what she has already thought, every
inclination and intuition in her gut, to which she
gathers the leaflets of prophesies, still fresh after
all these years.

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^

Slow Motion on an April Evening

2011-04-11T22:07:00.000+01:00

The soft air that buoyed me up, without excuse,
practically windless after a brash winter--
jewels sparkling on the sun trail as a pot
under the rainbow, or at least under
the bridge, ornate with fractaled light--

I was late, again, and too stunned
by such blanket warmth in the air
to pick up the pace, focused at all,
but thinking heaven landed while I
did chores all day in the shadows.

________________

Pilgrimage

2011-04-10T21:06:00.002+01:00

"Lord help me! My boat is so small and your sea is so large."--Fisherman's Prayer

From these stairs, we stretch our necks
to see to the height of a Medieval Danish/
Swedish church. Our leader bears a walking
stick and brochure of the holy places in Lund.
She sings in Latin, expecting us to join.
Irreverently, I think, wasn't this supposed
to be in English? She is full of riddles and
the delight of a good mystery. During the hour-
long pilgrimage, we will understand that her heart
is pure, though she says nothing of it. We will
have enjoyed the blue of her eyes and the wind
blowing her hair into her face and away. Lund
will become a metaphor for the whole world,
its saints, and the passion of Our Lord. Streets
will bear the significance of a bleeding Savior
on the cross; buses unknowingly transport
people through the Eastern Gate of a demolished
church. Long afterward, our son will repeat
"Lord show us your will, and make us willing
to walk it." When the bells ring throughout
the cobbled streets, we leave wondering just
how we who follow Christ, will die.

* * *

From my Window to You

2011-04-09T22:20:00.001+01:00

This is the city. My apartment on the ground floor,
Sees sun rays, car lights, bird flight and people's eyes

Stream in. I smile back. Some people blush, or
Look away quickly. Some smile back. The guys

Squeezing by in large trucks nod their heads
That they made it okay. The children wave--

But they wave at the art mannequin dead-
Center on the window sill, watching them leave.

People are glad the mannequin stands
For so many ordinary things. They pretend

They watch him catch raindrops in his hands
Or stoop to pick flowers--wooden bent.

In this way we refrain from menace,
Offering, instead, neighborly goodwill,
A mask of shocked penitence--
Caught. Unguarded. Curious and real.

Cinquain for April 8

2011-04-08T23:05:00.001+01:00

Times come

When your breathing

Gives you away, no use

Hiding in the wind surrounding

Your bike

Villanelle for an April Day on the City Streets

2011-04-07T21:16:00.000+01:00

Never mind a Cadillac, mom’s got to have a pram

Buses and Trains make room, so should you,

Since there are too many cars and traffic jams.

Put the baby in buntings and warm p’jam’s

Mom’s layered over tights, wool coat, big scarf, tall boots

Never mind Volvo, Mercedes, BMW; mom’s got her pram

While Mama walks, baby sleeps like a lamb,

Sleeps in the fresh air, ‘midst exhaust and horn toots,

Next to you in your car waiting in traffic jams.

Rush into a building behind a mom with a pram

You’ll have to wait as she pauses, adjusts zippers and coos

“Never mind, darling, you’re in your mother’s black pram!”

Wind and rain die down, sun feels warm as it can,

She calls three new mothers, saying, “how about you?

Want to worry some cars, and form a four pram jam?”

Their answer is proven by the evidence, yes ma’am,

All four of them brush past bikes, pedestrians, and you.

Never mind age or privilege, those moms have their prams.

There are too many people, worse than a traffic jam!

While Dinner Cooks in the Apartment Kitchen

2011-04-04T14:26:00.000+01:00

Sage and rosemary surely change everything--

slow roasted, a fragrance broken into sauté

as fresh rain on lettuce seedlings, as a warm sun

softens a breeze. The shimmer of wet streets

at night, abandoned pillows crouching

behind a long, white sofa bed on level two,

a group of candlelit faces amidst the sparkle

of wineglasses raised in a toast next door, a reading

light glowing past a row of books and orchids

beneath the red pull-shade across the way, while tulips

droop on an empty lit table, a face peers quietly

from a dark window and disappears. In a room lined

with a child’s drawings, a young mother holding a book

flicks on a bedside lamp and pulls the shade. The click

and echo of sturdy boot heels fade past, trailing

behind them the ache of collective loneliness, steeped

as it is in savory green herbs, your nose a reminder

that the space you inhabit, the language you speak,

the stance you take, is a fortress not yet penetrated

by the frequency of potential friends or the possibility

of a new enemy knocking on the apartment door.

Psalm for April 3, 2011

2011-04-03T19:55:00.000+01:00

Praise the Lord oh my soul

Praise the Lord on the Sound:

Praise Him fog, hiding the way,

Praise him clapping waves

Praise him mute swan

the song in your wings

Praise him ringed lighthouse

Praise him crying seagulls

Praise him grit and gravel

Praise him waving sand grass

Praise him turning bicycle wheel

Praise him time and no time at all

Praise him spume at ship bow

Praise him restless boy

Praise him mewing newborn

Praise him weary one

Praise him sun not seen

Praise him selfish parent

Praise him five mile bridge

and the water it spans

Praise him wind and tree

Praise for this moment free

Haiku for a Windy Day

2011-04-02T21:25:00.000+02:00

Outside wind and rain--

leaves writhe in gusts; inside

a window lamp sways

Poem 1, April 1, 2011

2011-04-01T17:10:00.008+02:00

Today is the beginning of poetry month. It has been more than a year since I have attempted to write a poem. In honor of this month, I vow to stare at the white page, after immersing my senses in the world around me, and write a new poem for each day in April. To pump my poetic muscles back into shape.

If you decide to do the same, please post in the comments with a link or your whole poem. It is easy to find "poetry prompts" in Google to help get you started. What started me today were the trees in Pildamsparken in Malmo on the edge of my son's school yard. The first line came to mind before I realized it's reference to this day.

Without further ado:

#1. 01/04/11

Even the trees felt fooled in

an earlier spring, leaves open,

as trust, into the arms of late

frosts and cutting winds. This

year, no fooling, naked beech

stand sentinel, no green peeks

behind the chilly curtain of April

waiting until school children thrill

to skipping, running; flinging behind

their coats into a warming wind.

More Wonderments

2011-02-08T14:34:00.004+02:00

Today the wind is so strong that I've seen it nearly thrust bicyclists into trees and other people. Most of the folks riding bikes today have had to spend more time than usual walking their bikes. Walking requires a sense of needing to lean on the wind or be transported. Even the thinnest slack of fabric on your clothing becomes a billowing flag.

It was difficult to sleep through bursts of wind in the nice. It sounded as if outdoor furniture and dormant plants in pots were being thrown against every surface and that the roof would soon fly off. We don't sleep through such weather very well. Our imaginations won't let us--we're too aware of the news in other parts of the world!

When we went to bed last night, we mused about an "upcoming storm" mentioned by our landlady. We looked at our little "weathermen," called "Android Global," for some sign of such weather. We saw no warnings. The landlady told us her family enjoys the spectacle and feel of such winds, going for a walk, feeling the spray of the waves crashing and splashing against the pier, then "ducking into a nearby coffee shop for warm chocolate."

The idea would never have occurred to us! But turning a wind storm into romance is just my idea of fun (provided we're not talking cyclones or tornadoes)! But we were already asleep when the storm began, so we couldn't try the new trick. Instead, after my husband had walked to work and I had dropped my son off at school, switched some laundry around and checked e-mail, I walked a short distance toward the coffee shop, shot some photos of the waves and darted in much sooner than the landlady suggested.

It was enough. I'll be trying this again, but this time with my family so we can fall into coffee house seats together, breathless, and marvel that they have to lock the door behind us to keep it from flying open!

It's About Time! God Forsattning (or may your year continue well)!

2011-01-05T21:54:00.002+02:00

It has been eight months since I last posted anything. This is a bad trend for one who sometimes hopes someone will pick up on well written prose. Sigh. Such is the life of the undisciplined writer.

Don't worry about me, either. I'm no longer mourning the loss of the little one in March. In fact, it has been a relief not to be dandling a fussy baby of my own during these years of cross Atlantic living. Raising a busy seven year old, marrying off one daughter and cheering on the college- attending daughter is quite enough for me.

My eight month silence had more to do with a frenetic schedule in the U.S., a time of being available for family, getting in on conferences and attempting to organize a home filled with years of neglect. Please forgive my blithe absence (since I was having a blast)!

My goal for this year is to share more bewonderments without worrying so much about chronology. Economics are a major concern for most of us, no matter where we read our blogs around the world. There is still life to be savored, albeit with less cash, but in no way without delectable extravagance.

For now, suffice this message to say that we are back in Sweden, enjoying the blessing of a warm house during a cold and (wonderfully) snowy winter in Malmo. In October we feared not finding a place to live.

Phil had been in Sweden for several weeks, staying at the same farm we have stayed on and off for the last two years. On his last day, he was informed that the house we had reserved on the farm would not be available during the time we needed it. Of course, he called me in The States to deliver the news, leaving me with a throb in my head and my heart in my feet.

The Sunday before, I had heard a sermon on Matthew 6:7-8 "...your Father knows what you need before you ask him." When I hung up the phone I said, as if God sat on the overstuffed chair in my office, "Okay, I'm not going to worry about this, because you know exactly what we need," and I left the room.

The next day, while I was quickly checking my e-mail before going thrift shopping with my daughter, an e-mail popped up from the American Women's club in Malmo about a house for rent for a limited time. Though my daughter was calling up the stairs to me, "Mom! Are you coming?," I quickly typed out a reply. That was the beginning of an amazing exchange of trusting emails that has landed us in one of the most fun places to live in Malmo city!

The Lord sure did know what we needed. We are only a mile from the new office building Phil works in, and only slightly farther from Hunter's school. Everything is within either walking distance or easy bus travel. After a few years commuting from the country, this is going to be a real change (and a treat!). We are only a block from the sea and the renowned Turning Torso.

So, I've left out wedding details. Stay tuned.

The Arduous Adventure Turned Impossible Issue

2010-05-10T19:42:00.006+01:00

[Some adventures are for women only . . . Enter at your own risk]

This is what happens when you become an adventurer. Call it being knighted or going through a rite of passage.

You learn to live without; you feel an acute sense of homelessness; you feel like a nobody in a culture you can’t quite grasp; you learn the streets by name and figure out how to wake up, dress, pack, disembark and hop on the next train in a matter of a few minutes; you learn to decrease the weight and number of items carried on an airplane; you learn to be flexible due to flight delays and acts of God; you drag your young child behind you and he becomes better at this game than you are; and in all these ways you find the limits of your mortality.

If you’re me, you aren’t writing much these days because you’re trying to strike a balance between the mundane, the insane and what’s really on your brain, meanwhile bleeding for two months. I know. Too Much Information.

But I’m not finished explaining the life of an adventurer in the medical minefields of Sweden!

Phil and I had been going through a rough time (those times always come). We barely spoke. Being in the same room was a strain. We asked our friends to pray for us.

One day, as Phil and I drove to a friend’s house in Malmö and Hunter was with some other friends, I asked Phil, “Are you going through a mid-life crisis? If you are, I’d like to know.”

“Of course I’m going through a mid-life crisis!” Phil said, “Every man goes through a mid-life crisis when his wife is going through menopause!”

“Menopause!” I exclaimed, “What makes you think I’m going through menopause?!!!” His explanation, something he’ read on-line, was less than convincing.

Nevertheless, our relationship started improving--almost like falling in love all over again (those times can be repeated, you know!). What exactly did our friends pray?

I woke up one morning, after having to visit the bathroom about four times in the night and something seemed different. In this case, I suspected I was pregnant. “This,” I thought to myself, “is what happens when you become an adventurer.”

I didn’t say anything to Phil for several days, but I thought of all the people I knew who wanted a child more than anything in the world. I wondered if Phil would go for adopting the child out. I couldn't tell anyone in the family this crazy idea because they would all try to talk me out of it. Even so, I decided to do things differently this time and tell the child it was welcome in this world. A few days later, when I was pretty sure, I told Phil (HE, of all people, was delighted).

We didn’t tell anyone about the pregnancy because it was too early, but we were pretty sure. For reference, this was February 2010 and the harshest, snowiest, blowingest winter in the region of Skåne, Sweden since the 1980’s. Strangely, I’d brought a test from The States, just in case. After waiting longer than necessary, I decided to take the test and it was positive. Though we had already started discussing the what-ifs and the irony against Phil’s suspecting menopause, it was still a shock. Not only did our minds reel, but we had to rethink the whole process of going back and forth to Sweden. This could change everything.

My second daughter is getting married in September. I imagined her threatening to kill me when she found out we’d be finding a suitable maternity dress for me to wear as mother of the bride. She wanted to kill me six years ago when Hunter displaced her as baby of the family.

Should we still go on the ski trip? Should we plan to go back to the States sooner for longer than we thought? Should I try the Batsu (sauna) on the Sound where you bake at 90 degrees Celsius before dunking three times in the frozen sea? How would I continue my chauffer duties with a growing belly when I already drive with the seat pushed against the steering wheel? What about the spontaneous trip to Morocco? Would that be too much?

I went to the local doctor's clinic for a confirmation test. My landlord’s mother also entered the clinic and sat down beside me. She chatted in Swedish, telling me why she was there, producing a glass black pepper spice jar full of her own urine, telling me she thought she had an infection. She wanted to know why I was there. While I searched for simple Swedish words to tell her not too much, she said, “Du vet inte (You know not),” and in that awkwardness, we fell silent in those close waiting room chairs.

The nurse called me in before my friend. The nurses’ office is right off of the waiting room and they don’t close the door when they ask personal questions at full voice. But I lowered my voice to state that I thought I was pregnant. “Oh, we don’t deal with that, here! You must go to a midwife. But you can only call once per day between 9 and 10 am. Here’s the number. Congratulations!” And I walked out the door, waving meekly at my landlord’s mother on my way out.

I managed to call the midwife a week or so later. My number on the call waiting line was 3. I listened to the repeated Swedish announcement that my number was still 3, then 2, still 2, still 2, etc, until I was still 1 and a real person picked up the phone. Several times during the wait, I wanted to hang up and forget about it. I have a prepaid phone card. Waiting costs.

Though I am learning Swedish, the midwife couldn’t understand me and was forced to help me in English, a language she felt uncomfortable speaking, but spoke well enough for me. The fact that I didn’t have a Swedish number caused a problem. I’m an untraceable foreigner. This didn’t make things any easier and it is taking too much of her one hour call-in time. So, what is my name, how do I spell it (saying letters is not easy in another language) and we went through this process three times to get it right.

The most important question a Swede asks anyone else, because this is the question of number one importance in life: “What is your birthdate?” After I answered, there was silence. I figured she was writing it all down. “We would worry about your age,” she finally said. “Do you want to keep it?” Ah, the other question known by many around the world to be so easily answered “nej” by Swedes.

“I keep and love all my accidents,” I said, feeling emotional and sentimental, suddenly. It was, of course, impossible to get an appointment for three weeks.

I told her I would be going to Morocco for a week and would like to have the pregnancy verified before the trip. She realized this was taking entirely too long and was too complicated. She offered to call me back with a possible appointment in another city. There I was, again in the maze of socialized medicine. I was warned that I would have to pay three times the usual amount because I didn’t have a Swedish number.

Out the window, I could see the Oresund Bridge, the longest in Europe, the salty Sound mirroring the blue sky, ships and ferries inching past, the tall turning torso, people walking their dogs and jogging through the beach/park, and airplanes approaching for landings at the Copenhagen airport. I was in a fourth story apartment--the home of a new friend from Russia, who didn’t understand why I was taking so long on the phone when the tea was ready. When I hung up, I wondered if I should tell her. I did because the phone rang again with two appointment times—one before the trip and one after. She was the first to know besides the three nurses. I hardly knew this woman I told.

Everything slows down when you find out you are pregnant. At least it does for me. I’m aware of an intense hunger that needs to be monitored and faithfully fed. All my bad eating habits suddenly go out the window. I must be disciplined because there is a new life inside me and I’m much older than when I first started motherhood. I get shaky between meals and can no longer open jar lids for lack of physical strength. My problem with inattention and absent-mindedness goes away. My mind is clear and deliberate; my actions are more efficient.

When I arrived for the appointment, it was difficult to find the building. Thankfully, there is usually a map in every parking lot. The buildings on the map are numbered. An enlarged number appears on every building corresponding to the numbers on the map. This was good, because I couldn’t understand the word used for maternity clinic. Finding the entrance was a nearly impossible maze through a garden.

The posters on the walls were aimed at very young people who might be in tentative relationships or new at this. I felt new but not because of my age. There was no sign pointing to the reception desk and no one at the desk when I found it. There were adorable photographs of tiny babies in artsy studio poses that made me feel like a grandmother. Someone finally told me where the midwife was and told me she was behind one of the doors off of the waiting room. A very pregnant, obviously Swedish blond, still slender everywhere else, sat on the couch beside me watching a video about the birthing process. She looked alone and nervous. Even this mental snapshot made me realize how “on your own” a person is in Sweden.

I pretended to read one of my writing magazines.

When the door opened, I asked after the midwife and found it to be her. She was surprised to see me because she had called to cancel “if I wanted” due to the fact that this first appointment would be so basic, practically unnecessary. I persisted because I knew no other way to get into the system.

This midwife in a white coat, surrounded by models of growing fetuses and removable uteruses, slumped toward me on her side of a 50’s style office desk and ran through the questions about age and keeping babies. She spoke as if she were an unconcerned human speaking to the lost and stupid. I dutifully acted the expected part.

In answer to her question, I stated that I was not interested in the worry that amniocentesis causes and that I keep all my accidents. She was glad I had thought about it. She told me again that this appointment was really unnecessary, because all she does on the first prenatal appointment is tell me not to smoke and drink and that there won’t be anymore appointments before the 12^th week. You're only 8 weeks along, by everyone’s calculations, so I should be on my way to Morocco (or the edge of a cliff for that matter). Do I have any questions?

“Yes. I’d like to make sure I’m really pregnant.” I said. The hunger, the clarity, the shakiness—it had all stopped between Tuesday and the Friday I’m sitting across from a sterile-faced woman. But I forgot to tell her that I felt all those things once. I reached in my purse, copying my landlord’s mother’s example, and produce a sample in a peanut butter jar. She goes to another room. There is the sound of a dropped glass jar. I jump as if the firing squad shot me. She comes back with my sample in a Styrofoam cup, a flat stick resting on the rim.

“It’s negative,” she said, disgusted, as if I have now proven how much of a waste of time this appointment was.

“You’ve been through this before. You have three children already. Do you feel anything?”

In my discomfort and unfamiliarity, and then, shock, I said, feebly, as if I’ve been caught doing wrong, “No.”

“We won’t be charging you for this appointment,” she said. I thanked her and retraced my steps to the car and went home.

Two days later I was on a plane to Morocco and absolutely nothing happened to my body except that a Swedish

midwife proved there was nothing there and believed there never was.

The trip to Morocco was an on-site photographic class and tour. We walked all day from morning to night and ate too much because we didn’t know what to order. We were having a blast. Underneath it all, I grieved. No pregnancy of mine had ever ended before I beheld the wonder of the child in my arms. This thought would grip me while other members of the group laughed from their dinner wine or when I saw a baby hammocked on a mother’s back. Mothers in Morocco were not always young.

My husband and I talked about what happened at the midwife’s office and I had expressed relief mixed with a great sadness. He was sad, too, but we were both so caught up in the trip, we weren’t really worrying about it right then. After all, maybe we had simply imagined the whole thing.

Midway through the trip, I started bleeding. It was intermittently light and heavy one day and the next. The only pain I had was in my lower back. I figured it was due to walking so much and carrying camera equipment.

We picked Hunter up from our friends’ place on Friday night. We enjoyed a restful weekend, going over photos and building Legos with Hunter. It was mid-March.

I had another mid-wife appointment scheduled for that Monday after I picked Hunter up from school. It was tricky telling him I needed to go to the Doctor’s office without letting him in on what was going on, especially since this office was not the one we usually visit in Höllviken, but one in Vellinge. He wondered why there were so many photos of babies on the walls. In the last few weeks, he had been expressing the wish to have a baby sibling in the family and becoming rather clingy, as if he knew something was up.

The mid-wife I had spoken to was not in, I was told by another one. “You are the one who went to Morocco?” I was asked with a smile of interest. Great. My new title.

Answering in the affirmative, I was then told, “Oh, yes, we cancelled your appointment after talking with the mid-wife from Trelleborg. The test was negative, right?” I nodded. “Yes, we talked about it and decided to cancel your appointment.”

There was nothing more to do than turn around and leave. I made no fuss. I did not plead my case. But bleeding had started in earnest, more than I’d ever bled before, and I had slept much of the day while Hunter was in school. There was no one to guide me through the miscarriage.

Except the internet. On the internet, you can find people asking questions for which there seem to be no answers because they post their queries after multiple doctor visits, lab tests and sonograms, and being told there is nothing to be done, that these things are normal. And there are those who are simply wanting to know how long to wait before trying again. There is such a thing as a natural miscarriage to be simply waited out at home. People have logged the gory details of their progress. I figured I could wait this out on my own, since I could find no medical professional to believe me.

After a month of waiting it out on my own, I finally called the midwife during call-in times. She was aghast. She thought the test was negative! She thought . . .! Pulling herself together she said she would call in to the women’s clinic in Malmö to give them my fake-temporary Swedish number so I could be seen as an emergency. Again, I would have to call in my own emergency, but she did call in the silly number.

Obtaining an emergency appointment felt like a form of dying on the other end of the line before a decision was reached. I had to explain my symptoms to the receptionist from the beginning. She needed to find my fake number then grill me on why the number didn’t fit my birth year. I was to be accountable for why the midwives did not respond better to my case. I was to answer for myself if this was truly an emergency or could it wait two months out. Throughout the conversation, I became more aware of my responsibility and more decisive.

After seeing the same sob stories on internet news threads, and feeling misrepresented by the medical field in Sweden, I started confiding in a few women friends. I still didn’t want to tell my mother or my daughters. What drives a person to slink away from the very people who can provide useful stories from their own experiences, I have no idea. My friends grew worried for me, asking if I’d had an appointment yet and what did I expect to DO?

Phil left on a business trip to Israel. I wondered what I would do if something happened to him on that trip. I was feeling less and less sure of myself and of being able to carry out my set of responsibilities, let alone those things he takes care of on a regular basis when we’re together in Sweden (Phil makes breakfast and takes Hunter to school on the city bus, for starters. The first day Phil was gone, Hunter said, “Oh no! What are we going to do without Daddy? Like, what will happen if my computer gets a black screen?!!!”)

To check in to the emergency Kvinnakliniken (The women’s clinic), I needed my passport and the exact amount of money to be paid. These were facts drilled into me more than any given expectation for the appointment. My fake number still didn’t match my birth year, so the process took longer until they could give me a new number and delete the other as well as maintain my file. Furthermore, my first credit card didn’t work, for some reason. Three attempts and a second card finally worked. The trouble was the last two cards I had on hand took money directly out of certain accounts and Phil had not told me which accounts he preferred I use. A call to Israel during business hours while dealing with the check-in receptionist is a double no-no. Sweat, bother and worry.

How soon can I use a bathroom, for goodness sake?! I had already walked a half mile from my parking space to the clinic. Now this half hour hassle.

The receptionist stapled my receipts and pointed toward an ominous set of double doors where I was expected to take a number and sit in a cramped, grey waiting room where women in varying conditions flipped through mangled magazines and breathed in the stale, oxygen-deprived air. It was obvious that the group of us were multi-lingual internationals with a myriad of human symptoms generated from the same organs in our bodies--that it didn’t take much to fall through the cracks of the system. That the one who faints first gets the most attention.

A slender nurse called me into her laboratory. While she took my temperature and checked my blood pressure, I noted the hard lines in her face and the years of cigarette smoke gravelling her vocal chords. When she asked to see my passport, she looked at it and in awe, said in her deep, alto voice, “The United States of America . . . .”

That phrase gripped me for a moment, as if I should put my hand on my heart and recite the pledge of allegiance. It gripped me to realize people still idealized my country of origin and that I knew why. It gripped me because I felt worried that the country I love may not be the country I return to.

She took blood from my finger and from a vein in my arm. Though I said I didn’t need a band-aid, she insisted I use it anyway. “What, you don’t want me bleeding all over the place?” I teased.

“This is your responsibility,” she said, reminding me of what every person in this process had said up to this point, “I don’t have the time [to worry about it].”

I was sent back to the stifling room. A young mother limped in with her tiny newborn. Her own mother fussed about her, positioning the baby pram, arranging blankets, moving magazines out of the way and answering the nurse’s questions. I wondered if I would attend to my daughters the same way someday.

The doctor herself called the name on my chart the way most Swedes say my name, “Yulyen Moonts?” She introduced herself and asked if it would be okay that an intern be present. Since this is the story of my life and I wanted to get on with the appointment, I acquiesced.

The process of seeing the doctor is fairly different from the U.S., as you might imagine. For instance, I was directed to disrobe in a tiny corner of a large room behind a curtain that does not fully close. The doctor, nurse and intern remained in the room, speaking Swedish. They called out directions to me while I dressed. I was expected to emerge without a paper gown or covering, to embark the dreaded table contraption, and to maneuver into position as three people watched.

I was examined and given an ultrasound in the same space of time. The doctor pointed aspects of my body out to me on the screen. I was directed back to my changing quarters where I dressed while the nurse, doctor and intern discussed my case in the same room. It seemed strangely natural, efficient and third world. I was seated next to the desk by the doctor who spoke kindly to me, asking me about the past few months, and looking at the calendar I had kept. I was told that, indeed, I had been pregnant and my body was trying to get back to normal.

Someone believed me.

The doctor told me, as she ushered me out to the hall, I should be able to go home and be fine. I shouldn’t need to do any drastic procedures, but that I should call back if I had any more trouble. The nurse took more blood, and then sent me away with my band aids. This was the most positive Swedish medical experience I’d had in a long time. I was almost giddy.

One week later, after Phil was stranded along with thousands of other European travelers due to the Icelandic volcano eruption (he inched his way my plane and train,—standing room only--increasing his five day business trip by five more days), I started bleeding again, worse than before. I started pleading with the Lord to be able to touch the hem of his garment. I felt a greater level of empathy for the woman (and those women on the internet) who dealt with an “issue of blood” for over 12 years.

My heart broke for the many around me who have had nothing but trouble trying to conceive even a first child. I wasn’t even trying to conceive!

My friends were starting to get mad. They couldn’t believe that medical professionals would turn me out without finding and fixing the problem. They thought I should get another appointment, be persistent, even bothersome, if need be. So I went back in to be questioned by a nurse (another intern in tow), tested in all the same ways again, told my hemoglobin were better than good, and sent off to buy some over-the-counter-blood-stopping pills at the pharmacy.

The pills were as sugar pills, having no effect.

After weeks of the same and a few close call explosions in public places, I left Hunter with a friend and went to emergency after hours (this means after four pm). Even the waiting room was empty. I was given the battery of blood tests and told to return in the morning to a scheduled appointment with a doctor for another exam. Phil wanted to know if I was hemorrhaging.

The next morning it was the same place, same scenario, different female doctor, MALE intern shadow. Sigh. I was examined by both the doctor and the intern because the intern would be receiving his own patients the next day. Double sigh. Double the pain.

“There are a lot of parts left,” the short, dark-haired doctor told me after I was dressed and sitting beside the desk. The nurse came back in with a foil strip of tiny red pills. “It appears your body has not been able to flush the parts out. It will continue this way if we don’t try something else. It is always a difficult decision deciding to wait awhile longer before using a surgical procedure,” (the same procedure used to perform abortions).

“Take these pills, (I don’t know what they are called in English), three times daily,” she continued, “and I’ll set up an appointment two weeks from now for another examination to make sure there are no more parts and no infection.”

As I left with a new diagnosis and the strip of red pills, she warned me, “The pills will hurt. Take pain killers.”

Parts, pain and a busy schedule. Joy. My faith was running thin. I took some ibuprofen and Tylenol along with the little red pill (used mainly for hemorrhaging women after childbirth) and cancelled all my appointments for the next day. I felt better on all those pain meds than I had for awhile. My body felt stressed, but there was no pain.

By the next evening, the bleeding had stopped.

So, I’m at the end of a four month process. Spring has arrived in Sweden, but the temperature is not warming very quickly. I’m looking forward to feeling the warmth of spring outside and the lift of spring in my body so I can enjoy a bit more of Sweden before we leave again. I’m hoping the next appointment will be my last over these issues for a long time. But I’ll have to keep watch. I’m still a bit of a spring chicken.

Ode to My Daughter, Twenty-Five This Day, February 15, 2010

2010-02-15T13:20:00.010+02:00

A quarter century ago, a beautiful woman with a dimpled, cameo face was born, her skin still creamy from the inner world. To her amazed parents, she was so uncommonly alive, so full of breath and determination, that disbelief and wonder vacillated between them. She was their treasure, as money they had not.

Refusing to be treated as a china doll, the woman watched the oooo’s and aaaaa’s formed by her parents’ mouths, but let out her own wild yell when enough was enough. Holding her required rough treatment, or she’d yell all day. Alone in a rocking wooden cradle was her preference, or bounced over the shoulder, arm cradling, not.

Her life started the day after St. Valentine’s Day. The separation between her first day of life and that seemingly fabled day of love mattered, though the taste of frosted cut-out cookies and conversation hearts reached her umbilically. This may have begun the sensitivity of her stubborn stomach easily turned into knots.

The days and years since proved difficult enough that her determination and beauty served her well. She smote those within her icy, dreamy, alluring stare and rose to conquer those things her passions desired or not.

What comforts she may have sought from her distracted parents proved stark, if at all. She learned to read what floated in the air—words, thoughts, impending conflict, promises of ice cream or trips to the park—so wears she a chain mailed heart where the wind is full of torture and arrows seek her not.

She won’t be left behind or forgotten, though you’ll find her quieted in a spot where the walls endure her morning stare and listen to her cares. Give her a mountain to climb, an ocean to cross, a tree to perceive, a flower to prove, an idea to believe or stretch into lines of long prose, and she is up for the challenge—except when she’s not.

Like her mother, like her father, (she resembles them both), she’s remarkably endeared to that curly-haired girl whose demeanor surprises between good and horrid. The predictability of which remains a mysterious combinat

ion of constellations, colic, and tragicomedy. Expect concealed sentiment. Tease out her winning smile, but trust it not.

Though infinitely loved and sought by many, she’ll count her friends and loves with two hands. If you tell her you love her, she rarely believes, she watches your actions, the things left unsaid, seeing, instead, the day you will leave. Beware the one seeking to tie up loose strings, those things dismissed as meaningless in the procurement of love, into what the world’s elders call the truelove knot.

Know your buttons, your wares, books and words bird by bird; know pastries, gardens, vegetables all; know waters, tonics, teas and coffees; know bands and their alternatives, the art on the wall. If with this century-old woman you wonder what ought? Forget all you know since with her you’ll know naught!

Swedish Wildlife

2010-02-04T17:58:00.001+02:00

There are two reasons I’m typing this note by the kitchen sink. First, the countertop is at the right height for standing and typing. Second, the floor is warm underfoot.

Other fine reasons are that the hot water for tea is here and there is a window looking out over the vecker (beautiful) vinter (winter) underländet (wonderland). (At least that’s how I’d like to write my Swedish. Alas, it’s probably wrong. We were still eating when Phil took his dishes to the sink.

“Warning!” Phil said. “There is a spider in the sink. I thought you should know.”

“Thanks!” I said, “Why didn’t you take it out?”

Silence (a typical response).

I figured it was a Daddy Long-Legs (I don’t know the scientific name) like most of the spiders around here in the winter. Hunter tuned my mind in even closer by asking, “Why do they only have Daddy Long-Legs in Sweden?”

We explained that there were more spiders around here, but that they were generally not harmful.

When I finished eating, I took my dishes to the sink.

“Oh!” I said, surprised to see a Tegenaria atrica female (for you scientific types since I don’t know the common name) holding her ground of about two by two inches. “Why DIDN’T you take the spider out?” I asked Phil a little bit more insistently, as he cleaned up the table and I got the flyswatter.

“It wouldn’t have fit down the sink,” was his reply.

“Hmmm. I think it was something else,” I said, letting the spider climb onto the swatter, opening the back door and flinging him out onto the snow.

The spider ran across the top of the snow as if he were headed somewhere, then stopped.

“Ever seen a spider run along the top of the snow?” I asked, closing the door and watching.

“No!” he said, turning around quickly to look out the window (made you look, made you look!). We watched the spider stand still in the cold morning.

“I figure the birds will like it,” I said, turning away to get ready for work and school. Under my breath I said, “What a wuss.”

Picture this, as there are no photos included

2010-01-21T12:03:00.001+02:00

Like the forgotten white paint in a dimly lit hallway is the overcast sky in January. If I look hard, I can see pale pink shading etched here and there across the texture less clouds.

The snow on the ground lightens the view of dark, bare trees and old brick buildings, but my spirit longs to blow a spark to flame, to turn the tone from cool to warm. This longing is only for my heart as my eyes settle happily on high contrast with low punch. Winter is so brief.

Last Saturday it was too cold to go for a walk on the beach or hike a new path. Something about the temperature sucked us inward, toward home with no want to see new sights or try new things. We gathered the trash and recycling, sorted it all in turn, sought out a few things for the pantry and found the flea market closed against finding a lamp and a shelf.

When the call came from my fika friends that we should meet in the afternoon for tea and conversation while the children played, I leapt at the opportunity. We met last October when my daughter was here.

The children played loudly, seeming to purposefully make our visit more difficult. My friends were both on diets, as I should be (and have planned to be), so they munched on one thin, hard tunebrod with butter, while I enjoyed leftover Lucia buns and pepparkakkor (gingerbread) with my tea. It was so good to talk, again. Both of them are working part to full time and going to school. All of our children are in day care or school. We are busy, so time together was precious. Our conversation flowed easily from simple to complex, shallow to deep and back again. I treasure their friendship!

Meanwhile, Phil took a long, cold walk.

We had a family of six over for ham and scalloped potatoes. I made streusel pumpkin muffins to use up the rest of the cooked pumpkin. The children ate their muffins upside down, preferring not to eat the sweet, streusel topping. It was chaotic fun to have them over!

Now the week is nearly finished—where did it go?

I go through dry spells when I don’t read anything but the Bible (nothing dry about that, though). Lately, however, I find my finger in at least five books. One on back pain, another on postmodern Christianity and the rest poetry. An old book of poetry by Ted Kooser is full of things I need to learn.

We’ve been enjoying a deep, immense silence out here in the country. It is quieter by far than Malmö or even the town of Höllviken, but the snow has silenced everything that much further. It is healing, somehow. Then, the chapter in Habakkuk I read last night ended with the words, “But the LORD is in his holy temple; let all the earth be silent before him" (Hab. 2:20). It’s difficult to imagine a silence of the whole world.

I had another thought. Yesterday Hunter had a “study day” from school. He kept calling it his day off. At one point I felt a smidge of hunger. “Smidge” is the operating word here, even if it’s not a word. I went to the refrigerator where the contents are dwindling fast. Then I looked into a packed pantry, full of options. I thought about the Haitians, stuck in the streets, hungry and thirsty, and I couldn’t fully grasp their plight. If the place we are living right now were to be crushed and there be no place to go, we’d also die of exposure in the below freezing temperatures. They are dying of wounds, thirst, hunger and exposure to the heat, to their own wild fear.

Lord, help them! Lord, help me to be content!

Two dinners ago we had homemade chicken and vegetable soup. Last night I turned it into pork/chicken pot pie (homemade biscuits on top instead of crust). The boys didn’t mind their leftovers this time! I love watching Hunter gobble up his food without whining. The Haitians hunger is bad—frightening. But while we have plenty, we will enjoy it. We never know the day we will be in the place the Haitians are. And, yes, we send some of our plenty their way!

Time for Swedish lessons, a half hour drive away. I hope my memory and tongue work for me. I’ve only been assigned the “alfabetet” to start. Wish me well as I wish you well on your endeavors!