November 22… Hmong New Year!!!

In honor of the Coroner’s Lunch, I just wanted to mention that today (November 22) is Hmong New Year! When I saw this I thought of our reading. Enjoy your day everyone! (Maybe some celebrations are  in order?!?)

 

Package of Warmth

Frost covered the trees and the wind whistled through their skeleton branches. As the vibrant colors of fall faded into winter’s gray we pulled on our hats, mittens, and warm, button up coats to take a trip down to the city of lights. Denver’s streets sparkled with golden lights, bright shop windows, and busy streets. The evening was filled with fun and laughter. Running through 16^th Street, grabbing coffee, looking at shop windows, taking pictures… We counted the buffalo statues (11 of them), and took pictures of the man playing chess. We posed in front of buildings, jumped down stairs, and spun through doors. The night steadily grew colder and we were happy to be driving home with the heated seats on. Near our car though was a man lying up against a wall, newspapers surrounded him to provide some form of insulation. His breath came slowly in and out, hanging before his face like fog on an early morning. He blended into the wall and was easily missed if you were not looking – gray, gray as the sky and its surroundings. We counted many of these dark, shivering figures on the way home. It was quiet.

Throughout the following week though, it was not quiet. No, sewing machines whirred and scissors cut yards and yards of rich, red fleece. By the end of the week we had made 25 thick red blankets, all folded and tied with ribbon. Late that night we went back downtown, and next to each of the gray, sleeping figures we placed a red package of warmth.

May this upcoming week bless you with an abundance of things to be thankful for.    

 

16th street

 

Holden Evening Prayer

In The Quiet

In the candle glow we stand,

Moonlight glints through the stained glass windows.

Shoulder to shoulder,

The warmth between bodies spreads.

Notes drift through the air,

Voices hushed,

 Rise and fall.

The melody grows,

Swells and overflows.

Heads bent,

Hands raised.

Higher and higher,

Bodies sway together and apart.

There is a quiet,

A surrounding sense of peace.

The candles flicker, moonlight glints.

Shoulder to shoulder.

Warmth grows.

Peace settles,

Draws near.

Listen.

 

And it felt like joy…

The door opens and the scent of old books wafts up to greet me. I walk through the dimly lit hallways to your room, my shoes scuffing the floor. Knocking softly I come in, the door creaks just a bit. You sit quietly by the window, waiting patiently for me. I reach down and touch the shoulder of your old woolen sweater. Some days you look up at me with eyes full of awareness and anticipation; other days your eyes are questioning and ask, “Who is this?” On those days I simply introduce myself as a friend come to talk. Your eyes instantly brighten and a hint of a smile spreads across your lips. I can imagine that you were quite sassy years ago. You tell me about your family and your house between the hills. Your favorite part is always to describe the grand living room; this is where the piano sits. You call her majestic, regal… She is your love and life. You tell me how the smooth, pearl white keys fit to your fingers and how the music leaps and jumps off the page, taking time to twirl around you. Favorite bits entangle in your hair and sink into your skin. Once inside they burn like fire until they reach your soul, settling in and filling you with a quiet hum. There, resting, the notes are at peace, and you the great musician find peace as well.

You reach out for my hand. Through the years your partners have gotten old – they cannot play as well as they used to – but in the end it doesn’t matter. The music is inside of you. You reach out and place my hands between yours. Leaning close you whisper a secret, you are going to share some notes with me. Each time I visit I receive a small strand of music, reaching into the depths of my being. The notes fill me with warmth, and each time, my library grows. Your smile is soft and your eyes sparkle.

Time passes quickly when I am with you. Only minutes seem to go by. When I get up to leave your smile does not break, “Five-thirty next week?” you ask. And five-thirty it is, every Monday, wouldn’t miss it for the world. You laugh a little then, a giggle, like a young girl; small bursts of joy. You may not remember me next week, or the week after that, but just 60 minutes out of my day brings a smile to a face, warmth to ones hands, and music to the heart. Just 60 minutes to spread pure and true joy.

 

Jackal Hide

Red leaves scatter, tossed by the wind. Dusk darkens into night. Stars glimmer in the sky, the breeze is crisp. Golden globes with carved out faces glow on each doorstep.

The call came late, after a fun night at the church. Trunk-or-Treat they called it. A safe way for kids to go trick-or-treating in a not so safe neighborhood. Each child’s face had a sense of wonder and anticipation as they went from car to car getting candy. Their sacs bulged and mouths watered. The call came later, as I unlocked the door to my house – 11 o’clock.

His voice sounded smooth over the phone, he sounded innocent. He wanted to go for a walk, he had missed me. I told him he could have come with me, to Trunk-or-Treat. He responded saying he should have, he had just stayed at home. There was question in my voice, I replied, “No parties?” His answer came quick with no hesitation. There hadn’t been a party, no drinks. He said that he didn’t go because of me; he knew I liked him more when it was just him.

In my mind I wondered if this was true – there had been no hesitation this time, no stuttering to come up with a good lie – who was I to accuse? I told him we could meet on the canal path behind our houses. 11:15, I saw him, his ripped jeans, gray sweatshirt. His hair was tousled, he was wearing his glasses. I loved it when he wore his glasses – less macho – simply him. He ran to me and picked me up in his embrace, warm. There wasn’t a scent of alcohol, just Old Spice deodorant and his peppermint gum. I relaxed, fell into his strong arms. He let me down and we walked, our fingers interlaced. We talked for a long time as the stars looked down on us and the miles grew behind us.

We stopped at a hill, sat down. I kissed him and thanked him for keeping his promise. He didn’t answer, only kissed me back. It was then that I understood he hadn’t kept his promise; I could taste the alcohol on his lips. Up close, I could smell it, invasive and bitter; his gum had worn out. I pulled away but he would not let me. He told me he had been patient, a good boyfriend. I told him he was drunk, he wasn’t thinking. He kept coming and I pushed away. Angry words flashed between us. I told him I was done – he knew the boundaries – I was tired of the pressure, of the lies… and I was done. He stopped then, almost stunned. Then his pride grew, his heart broke, and his anger flared. A sudden pain jolted my face, ruby drops of blood streamed from my nose. I looked up at him – blood running down my face, my eyes questioned him – his eyes shown with fear and loss; almost as if he would reach down and wipe away the blood. His lips were angry though, they told a different story. He yelled, yelled that I was only a child, a stupid child, not worth anything. Then, he ran, ran from his doubt I think.

The leaves were still, blood red against the ground. Night shadowed the path, hiding the angry words that had passed. Clouds covered the sky, the air cold and thick. Jackal faces laughed, their weak lights flickering. But I was blessed, it was only a nose and with time it would heal.

 

Columbine… Colorado State Flower

I don’t know if all of you would remember the Columbine shooting in Colorado a little over 10 years ago. The date was April 20^th, 1999, it was a Tuesday. I remember the day being sunny but windy. I was 8 years old and a wild little girl with bleach blond hair. I remember playing tag during afternoon recess that day, I was “it”. As I reached out to tag my friend Emily our teacher called us inside. Her voice was strained and all of us were confused as to why our game had been cut short. “Mrs. Doyle, Mrs. Doyle,” we whined, “Why do we have to go indside?” But she didn’t respond. She told us all to sit in the reading nook and stay quiet. Methodically she closed and locked the windows, pulled the curtains, shut and locked the door and turned out the lights. The room was dark but not black. She walked over to us and sat in the rocking-chair, and then she explained. She told us that our school was on something called a lock-down, to us the concept was surreal. She told us about two boys who were shooting people, about guns, fear, and troubled lives. Then she did something that in a public school does not happen. She prayed with us. She prayed for our protection and for the victims of the tragedy, and finally she prayed for the shooters themselves. She prayed, God be with them. Those were her final words, God be with them…

The reason I wrote about this was because an article was posted today on MSN about Susan Klebold, the mother of one of the shooters at Columbine. (Link: http://www.oprah.com/article/omagazine/200911-omag-susan-klebold-columbine ). Since the tragedy 10 years ago, questions still float around the family. How did they not see signs in their son? How can they live? For 10 years these questions have been left to sit and simmer. Recently though, Susan Klebold published an article about that day and the change that it has made in their family. The article is lengthy, but powerful. Her words are heart wrenching and each carefully worded sentence hits home. Being only 20 minutes away from the school I remember the shock and the terror as the news hit the city. What I don’t remember and cannot even begin to understand is the pain, grief, humiliation, and guilt the Klebold family must have felt, and continue to feel throughout the years. Reading her story made me understand how Dylan Klebold’s pain was overlooked and why the massacre happened. The power of the article left me feeling numb overwhelmed. It is quite thought provoking.

 

Cold Weather brings Warm Memories…

Scratch Cooking

As I walk into the warm room

I see the puff of flour as Grandma’s soft hands hit the floury dough.

We need to make three apple pies.

We are scratch cooking

Mixing, whisking, as we make our own pie crust

Flouring and rolling, our hands knead the dough.

Scratch cooking

As thin as a pancake.

Carefully laid dough in the pie tin

Birds feet at the rim

Fork pricks in the bottom.

Grandma takes out the apples, nice and crisp

 The peels fall into the sink like tear drops.

The knife gleams in the evening glow

Carefully cutting each apple.

Scratch cooking

Smells of cinnamon, sugar, nutmeg, and vanilla waft through the house.

Toss in the apples and turn, turn them over

Cinnamon, sugar, nutmeg, and vanilla

Apples so sweet

Poured into the waiting tins.

Blanket over top

More and more birds’ feet go by.

Three cuts on top to show some color

Perfection.

We place our pies in the oven and wait.

Our hands are covered, our faces spotty

Our hearts are warm.

We were scratch cooking.

 

 

Nobel Conference 2009

Water is life. This was the one and only line highlighted in my biology book. I laughed when I saw it, and commented to my roommate if she thought I could pass the test with just that one line. Water is life. However, after attending this year’s Nobel Conference about water my perspective on this simple molecular compound has changed. Yes, I have always thought that water is fascinating. As a kid I loved to dance in the rain with my brother and splash in each muddy puddle in the driveway. As I grew older I learned water’s significance in growing our garden in the backyard, and the terrible effects of each drought that hit the state. As a runner I appreciate my full Nalgene of cool, clean water that I carry with me 24/7. Water’s rehabilitating properties after miles of running are remarkable. In school I learned of water’s biological and chemical importance; properties such as adhesion and cohesion that make it such a vital part of photosynthesis and other biological processes. Yet even with this knowledge, attraction, and gratitude for water, I had never thought of water as LIFE.

I attended the Nobel presentations by Nancy Rabalais and Larry Rasmussen, both of which stressed the importance of water to life. Marine ecologist Nancy Rabalais discussed the importance of oxygen in our water supply. The focus of her presentation was on the growing hypoxia in the Gulf of Mexico. I was astounded by the consequences of this increasing phenomenon and the affects this type of water could have on the human body, let alone the environment. Her discussion on the blue algae was a special interest to me; that such a small microorganism could have such an enormous impact on life in the water. Larry Rasmussen’s presentation was focused on the ethics of water use, and how our choices can affect that of the world. I appreciated his use of the three chairs labeled: poor, nature, the future. These helped me to realize who is being most affected by either unclean water or limited water supply. One of my favorite quotes was, “No blue, no green. No green, no us.” Basically stating that without water there could be no vegetation, and without vegetation and the environment there would be NO life. A simple statement, but a powerful one.

I think it is quite the opportunity that Gustavus has to be able to host the Nobel conference. I know that I really enjoyed attending the lectures and listening to the discussion that took place. It helped to open my eyes to the reality of “water crisis” and the science behind it. I can now say that whoever owned the biology book before me got it right… WATER is LIFE.

 

A Juarez Journey

The dogs roam the streets with nowhere to go. They are covered in ticks, their heads bent down as if they know they are dirty. The smells; sour, acrid smells. Smells of dirt, poverty and waste. Yet at the end of the week, these smells are sweet. Water is scarce, the heat sometimes unbearable. We work under the sun, our shirts soaked with sweat. The houses here are supported by tires, built from trash. Some have no roofs, some have no doors. Few have appliances. Electricity is scarce and expensive, plumbing is fragile.

Yet this is not the only side of Juárez. This is the view seen by those across the border. This is the view of Juárez seen on T.V; the poverty, the waste, the corruption. But this is not the Juárez that has changed my life. The Juárez I know is a community. A community trusting and grateful, full of passion, hope, and faith.

On my mission trips to Juárez, Mexico with my church, our goal has been to help the community of Juárez, but in many ways, the community has helped me. When I first traveled across the border I was shocked with what I saw. It was dirty and filled with waste; there were few trees, and little color. Their “home” looked like our trash dumps. However, my view soon changed and I fell in love with the community. I found that although the people of Juarez are seen as “needy”, they are, in many ways, richer than the richest men on earth. Their people are filled with a priceless joy.

The people of Juárez are hopeful people. Their humility and trust in each other, as well as in God, amazed me and impacted my life. They hold fast to the powerful conviction that God is in charge, and that he will provide for them. This is a community with few possessions and resources, yet they have a faith that surpasses understanding. Their supply of food is meager, yet they provided meals for all the groups who worked on their homes.

In Juárez I experienced joy as I worked at the day camp for the children. The kids were so eager to learn and play; they filled me with a sense of awe. I encountered faith through their worship services. They worshiped with their whole mind, body, and spirit. Hands raised singing hallelujah to Jesús; they were thankful, and asked for nothing. I felt embraced when I began to connect with the community. My Spanish was not always correct, but the people of Juárez were patient and eager to talk with me.

Juárez gave me a glimpse of what it is like to persevere, and take hope in the fact that God is in control of my life. It taught me to see value in every person, every toothless smile, every tearful eye. Juárez taught me to love all, no matter their circumstances. They challenged me to serve others and hold nothing back, all in Christ’s love.

 

Ewing’s Sarcoma – Say, what does that mean?

Gray clouds drifted in the sky that day; leftover snow and ice crusted the ground, frost covered the grass. As all the other fourth graders exploded out of the building that November day, she stayed still. She looked up at the still sky above, and simply asked God why? The anger, fear, pain and confusion consumed her. Tears welled in her eyes, bubbled over, and ran down her face. She took off her backpack and knelt. Taking out the scissors she grabbed a fist-full of hair and began to chop. Lock after lock of her golden brown hair fell to the frost covered ground. Searing pain shot through her, to her skull and in her heart, yet the sensation was almost soothing. She no longer needed her hair; she would no longer have her brunet features in the months to come anyway. What does Ewing’s Sarcoma mean anyway? What does malignant mean to a ten year old? Nothing except, I don’t need my hair.  She stands, lifts her backpack, and moves on, her worn sneakers scuffing the pavement. Explosive pain follows her, and many trials loom before her, but new found strength goes with her… with the loss of her hair. She must live.