One of My Favorite Things

I got to do one of my favorite things on Wednesday. My husband came home early, as it was one of his short days. After lunch, we each picked up a book and began reading the first few pages. Then I stopped reading to comment on something in the book and that sparked an hour conversation that ranged from the book topic (marketing to adults) to what we think the hardest thing will be to teach our child with a range of things in between. I love to sit and chat with my husband, who is one of my oldest friends. Even though we have known each other for over 25 years, we still learn new things when we sit and talk. Unfortunately, with our work schedules, those times are rare. But Wednesday was a good day!

Here's the story that made all the fuss

This can't be happening!

Many stories begin this way, the main character or the author are making a statement of frustration or awe. But they are always wrong- whatever this is, it probably can be happening. But not in this story.

Maybe I should clarify. If something is happening, it can be. The entire definition of “to be” is that it is. The definition of “can” is that it is possible... or something you put beans into. So, if it is happening, it can be happening. Same thing.

If you look down at your stomach and suddenly, your intestines are coming out of your navel, you might think that it is not happening. But, unless it is a dream or hallucination, it is happening to you and you should seek professional help.

Life is like a Sudoku puzzle. There is only one solution that works. You can't just throw numbers around and have it work out. You have to deduce what is the correct number to put in each square. If you are filling in the squares with numbers and you come to a point where there are two possibilities, you cannot arbitrarily pick one and be guaranteed to solve the puzzle. Only one answer is correct. But you do have to choose. If you have gotten to this point in a puzzle and gotten stuck, I'm sorry. It is frustrating when both numbers could be the right one and there aren't enough clues to help you pick. In the game, unlike in life, you can see the whole puzzle and all the other possibilities; and if you are good, you can try both numbers to see how they affect all the other boxes, to see if they work. If you come to a dead end, you can try the other number. For some, Sudoku are easy, for others, they are very, very hard. And, yes, I am still talking about life.

Ever notice that some people have an easier ride than others? Of course you have. This is what makes up most of the world's frustration, politics, and power. If everyone had an easy time, someone would become discontent and begin making it harder for others. If everyone had an equally hard time, there would be a lot more assisted suicides. But what does this have to do with Sudoku life? Well, some people have an easier time coming up with the right answers... some people have an easier time choosing between the hard answers... some people refuse to play the game and end life with a bunch of empty squares... and some people seem to have incredible luck at throwing numbers down and making it work... I have to tell you, though, the number throwers usually lose in the end- you can only be accidentally right so many times.

So, back to the thing that cannot be happening. Zack was not only wishing that it could not be happening. He was not hallucinating. He was not in a dream. He was not in an alternate universe where the laws of physics are different than ours. In all these cases, the thing that couldn't be happening, could have been happening.

Zack's intestines were not coming out of his navel. It was much, much worse.

Zack was in Hell. Literally. Hell. Now, some would argue that that could happen. Some would argue that it can't, to which the first group would say, “Use the author's argument. If it's happening, it can happen!” Whoa, I'd better watch what I say here! Don't let me get drunk on the power! Some would say that Zack was obviously having some kind of episode and that the Hell was not real, but the hell was. Yeah, way to get around it, guys. No. I am the storyteller and am omniscient. He was in Hell. He knew it couldn't be happening because he was a Christian. I see another argument coming.

If you want to just begin with the idea that Christians are right, then it will save you a lot of mental trouble over this story. But I'm not here to promote a religion. An argument can be made that Christians can still go to Hell. But this argument doesn't seem sound for two reasons: Christians are one of the few religions that believe in Hell and if a Christian can go to Hell, what keeps everyone else from going? And, if there is no Hell, then neither Christians nor anyone else can go there. I'm sure you can come up with some better arguments for me, but for the purposes of this narrative, Christians cannot go to Hell. And please do not cite my first argument to prove your point. Storytellers are omniscient in their own works- believe!

So, Zack is in Hell. I guess I should describe it, since there are so many ideas and versions of what Hell is. You will note that all of these versions are told by people who have never been there.

This particular Hell, which for all intents and purposes is The Hell, is not a place full of fire. It is not full of other damned, moaning or gnashing their teeth. You won't find Hitler or Stalin or Bin Laden there. This Hell is empty. And I mean EMPTY! No light, no sound, no one. Zack would have thought he was asleep or in a dark room or maybe even in a comma. He could not hear his own breath- being dead, he didn't have any, but that only occurred to him later. He could not feel his body- being dead, he didn't really have a body as we think of a body- this also occurred to him later. There was no wind or even a slight draft. There was no light and his eyes never became used to the darkness (did he have eyes?). There was nothing.

You know how bored you can get when the power goes out and there is no internet or TV or video games and it is too dark to read and the cell phone towers are down? Not lately? Well, think of the old days and you will have a sudden feeling of boredom. Now, take away touch, sight, smell, and sound. Hell for Zack is complete lack of anything, good or bad, and a boredom so intense that if he could have felt, he would have tried to strangle himself. The only “feeling” he had, was of loss- he felt that the space around him was empty, but he also felt an emptiness of spirit or soul. This is hard to describe, but his heart did not feel exactly heavy, but empty. His only emotions were panic and apprehension. Not only was he not feeling happiness or love or comfort, but he felt as if he could never feel them again- as if all good emotions had been whipped out of his reach. They were un-feelable.

He did, however, have his own thoughts and they tended this way:

Where am I? What is going on? Why can't I feel my body? Why can't I shout out for help? Am I dead? What was happening 5 min ago? How did I get here and into this state? What do I do now? What can I do now? If this is Hell, how is it possible that I am here? Answer: it isn't!

OK. Five minutes ago I was talking to that stoned beggar with the dog. He asked me for money and I said “no.” I'm sure he was just going to buy more drugs with it. He was really pissed... told me I was going to hell. Then his dog jumped at me and I backed up... that's all I remember. Huh. Well, I would say that was no big deal except that I seem to actually be in Hell! Who was that guy? Did I piss off some angel in disguise? No, angels don't have the power to overrule God. Shoot. Maybe it was Jesus and maybe he wasn't stoned but crying for human kind and that made his eyes puffy!

Things can get easily mixed up in your brain when you are in Hell. The beggar was not Jesus. And he was indeed stoned.

***

Back on Earth, a funeral is being held. It is a closed casket funeral, as Zack had accidentally lept in front of a semi while trying to avoid the dog. Poor soupy mess.

The crowd is just breaking up when a man in his late 30's approaches a woman in her late 20's. Both were fairly attractive and fit, the kind of people you see at movie funerals. Neither is crying.

“Excuse me. I couldn't help noticing you from across the grass. Did you know Zack well?”

“Not really. We worked together and I was assigned the job of sending flowers. I though I might as well take a day off and pay my respects. What about you?”

“He and I would go running twice a week. We used to live in the same building years ago and kept the habit of running together after we moved. My name is Guy.”

“Hi. I'm Tracy. He seemed to have a lot of friends.”

“Well, he was active in a lot of groups. He was always talking about his church stuff and other charity groups he was with. Good guy, really.”

“He worked hard, too. But I don't think he was close to anyone at the office. I didn't see anyone else here.”

“I know this is forward and I might be a jerk for picking someone up at a funeral, but are you free for coffee?”

“I did take the whole day off. Sure. There's a cafe just around the corner from here.”

Guy and Tracy walk around the corner. He keeps telling himself not to be too smarmy. She is feeling confident of her attractiveness. This is one of those scenes that can make women swoon at the theatre. But don't get too caught up girls. This guy is bad news.

After ordering coffee, the conversation gets flirty but informational. Step two in pickups. We don't really need to know what they do for work or where they live, what schools they went to or any of that other boring drivel. The important question come late in their talk. Why is this not the first thing every woman asks, instead of something you warm up to?

“Are you married?”

“Nope. Never been.”

“Girlfriend?”

“I'll let you know how this works out.”

Too smarmy. But somehow she falls for it. They set up a date for Friday night, exchange phone numbers and part.

***

That evening, before entering his home, Guy pulls a gold band from his pocket and put it on his left ring finger. As he walks up to his door, he notices that there are no toys in the yard. Funny. His brats are always leaving their bikes and Barbies and squirt guns around.

“Honey, I'm home.”

Silence.

That is also funny. Usually he is greeted by a nice but chubby woman who is wiping her hands on a towel and has just finished yelling at the kids. Today, nothing.

Maybe she's out.

But if she needed something from the store, she would have called him to pick it up for her. Well, he wouldn't worry yet. To the bedroom to change.

The closet is empty.

Now he begins to worry. What had he done? Did she find out about one of his affairs? Would she just leave with no note? How could she find out? He kept a separate phone for his hanky panky and the bills were sent to his office. What was going on?

As he walks around the house he notices other things. The pictures of them at their wedding are gone. All the kids' pictures are gone. All her nick knacks are gone and had been replaced by his old school trophies and other stuff she hadn't let him display in years. She didn't just leave him, she redecorated the entire house! How could she have done all that in just 8 hours? She must have had help!

He picks up the phone and dials her sister.

“Cassie, where is Julia?”

“Who is this?”

“Don't give me that! It's Guy. Where is she?”

“I'm sorry, but I don't know who you are.” Dial tone.

What was that all about? He dials again.

“Cassie, I'm serious! Just tell me where she is. All of her stuff is gone, even our wedding photos. What happened?”

“Look. I don't know who you are, but my sister is married to a man named John and they are both here for dinner. You either have the wrong person or you are nuts!” Dial tone again.

Guy has to sit down. Too many thoughts are going through his head. And who is John?

***

Richard was thinking about his brother. He was skipping class today and walking leisurely toward the corner store of an adjacent neighborhood to the one he lived in. He knew his buddies usually scored smokes there with their fake ID's and he was itching to try his out. But on the walk, which was about eight blocks, his thoughts turned to his brother Charlie. Charlie had gone off to war a few months before. He was just 18, two years older than Richard, and had been drafted almost immediately. Richard had been learning about other war drafts in history class and knew there hadn't been one in ages- but this war was different. Not a World War, but still serious. Now, his brother was in a foreign land, just deployed after a brief visit home following boot camp. Charlie was in harm's way, and would remain so for who knew how long.

Richard tried not to think about it, but couldn't stop the thoughts from jumping into his other musings. He had quit playing video games because they made him think of Charlie. He had stopped watching action movies because they were no longer entertaining. He had stopped doing most of the things he did to distract himself from the real world because the real world had just become too like his distractions. He had, however, begun to smoke. He had also been reading a lot of sci-fi and fantasy novels, because in them, he was transported out of this world.

Richard reached the store. He pulled out his new ID and looked hard at it. He had examined it several times since receiving it from a “friend” a week ago. He had memorized the birth date and tried to steady himself before entering the store to use it for the very first time. Deep breath. Bell ring above him. Deliberate strides straight to the counter. Don't look nervous.

“One pack of American Spirits, please.” Was he being too polite? Was that a give away of his youth?

Apparently not. The clerk put the pack on the counter and asked casually for ID. No note of suspicion in his voice and he hardly even looked at Richard. This was going to be easier than he though.

“Just 18, huh?”

“A couple months ago.”

“How long you been smoking?”

“A couple years. Would swipe 'em from my folks before I was legal.”

Richard had decided that having a squeaky clean past in this imaginary scenario would seem too unreal. Play it cool.

The clerk handed the ID back and rang up the smokes. At the last second, Richard threw a lighter on the counter- he almost forgot!

“Always losing them,” he fumbled.

The clerk still looked unconcerned, as if he either didn't care or completely believed the kid. Richard was out the door in minutes, his heart pounding and in need of a cigarette.

***

Richard wandered around for another hour or so before going home. He didn't want his mom to think he might have ditched class. Not that she was as attentive these days, since Charlie had gone. He walked into the house without much concern. The living room was full of smoke. That was odd. His mother was sitting on the couch with a cigarette in her hand, picking at her nails and staring into space. That was odd, too. Richard had never known his mom to smoke before; but she had been under a lot of stress lately. Richard sat down next to her in case she wanted some comfort.

“There's a letter for you on the table,” she said, her voice trembling as if she had been crying or was trying not to cry.

Richard went into the dining room and picked up the official looking letter addressed to him. Curious, he opened it. His brow began to furrow as he read words he could not understand. He walked back into the living room.

“What is this? I don't understand.”

His mother stood up and snatched the letter from him. After just a moment, she threw her arms around him and erupted in sobs! Richard was even more confused.

“First Charlie and now you! How can they do this to us?” his mother wailed.

“What do you mean? I can't be drafted, Mom. It has to be some kind of mistake.”

His mother cried even harder and held him in a vice like hug.

“I have been worried about this ever since your birthday. I knew they would take you right away! Oh, why did you have to turn 18? Why couldn't you stay my little boy?”

Now, Richard was irritated. Did his mother not know how old he was? How could she forget? She would often call him “Charlie” on accident, but she also always treated him like a child. So, how could she make this mistake?

“Mom, I'm not 18 yet. I'm only 16. There really must be some mistake.”

His mother pulled away from him and stopped crying. She looked at him shrewdly.

“What are you saying, Richard? You had your 18^th birthday two months ago. We bought you a pack of cigarettes to celebrate. How can you not remember?”

Richard was even more confused. Had that actually happened? How could he not remember? And his parents would never buy him smokes, would they?

He sat back down on the couch and stared at the carpet while his mother began to cry quietly again. She offered him a cigarette and he shook his head. What was going on?

***

Gracie worked for the Times. She was a fact checker but had aspirations of being a foreign correspondent. Maybe after the war was over, though. She didn't fancy being in quite that much danger.

This week had been a strange one for news. Reports had been pouring in of differing, contradictory accounts of the same events. One reporter had told of a favorable outcome of a recent battle, while another had told of a mounting death toll and the loss of the same ground. Hundreds of people were claiming to have won the same lottery. Reporters had been sent to the same press conference with the President but had come back with bafflingly different quotes. Gracie's job load seemed to have tripled overnight!

But the strangest part about these odd stories was that she couldn't seem to find where the discrepancies lay. She would listen to the recordings of the President and hear all of the quotes that were being reported. It made his speech incomprehensible, but they were all there. She found that the Lottery department was actually acknowledging the rights of all those claiming to have won. This was not really a problem for them because they would just pay out a few cents to each, but they did respond with some concern that the numbers were leaked. How this could have happened when the drawing was done live on television with an audience, they couldn't say. And the battles... how is it that the American army could have won the battle but lost the ground and that many troops? Gracie didn't know, but when she checked with the official report from the war department, that seemed to be what had happened.

What was going on?

Gracie decided to take a break and wander over to the desk of her friend, Rita. This did not help.

Rita was the gossip girl. She wrote the “entertainment” column that got so many people to buy their paper. But Rita was not having a great day, either. As soon as Gracie got close enough to hear, Rita began to complain.

“I might as well go and write for the Enquirer!” she almost shouted. “What is going on today?”

“I'm not sure. What's wrong on your end?”

“Well, it seems that about 18 women have become impregnated by Brad Pit in a matter of hours. They have all had positive paternity tests and everything!”

Gracie couldn't believe that! No man can be both that busy and that fertile.

“And I guess I have to start believing in extra terrestrials because one of them just had a baby at Memorial Hospital!”

“Are you sure you aren't writing for a tabloid? I mean, how did you get that story?”

“I was there! Someone called and told me to go to the maternity ward for some good gossip- turns out it is bad gossip. Who is going to believe me? I can't print it, but then, when the alien woman goes on Good Morning America with her offspring, we are going to look like we dropped the ball. I guess I have to decide between being fired now or later.”

Gracie began to look around at her fellow Times employees. Every single one of them had a look of bewilderment or frustration or some combination on their face. The Editor was pacing his office with his hands over his face, obviously frustrated.

What was going on today?

***

As the people of earth become more and more confused, there is laughter on Mount Olympus. Zeus, the god of law, order and fate is talking with Hermes, his son, the god of cunning wiles, and writing who is also in charge of leading souls to Hades' realm.

“Well, Son, I'm not sure what to think of your little experiment. It seems to have just thrown everyone into confusion. As far as I can tell, no one has even figured out that the lies they tell are now coming true. At least, no one has stopped lying because of it. I'd call this one a failure.”

“Not at all, Dad! We just proved that the human race is either stupid or too stubborn and driven to evil to warrant out good will. I wasn't expecting any of them to stop lying! Plus, we have had some really good laughs out of this!”

“I suppose we have had some fun, although at their expense. Oh, well.”

“I love to see the looks on their faces! Do you want any more popcorn?”

“No, thank you. I think it has probably been long enough, though. I'll let the experiment end at sundown tonight. Should I put things back the way they were, or just let things run their course?”

“Oh, please let them stay as they are! It will cause so many books and articles with titles like 'What Happened in 2011?' and 'Is The World Insane?' I'm looking forward to inspiring some of the more ludicrous theories!”

“Well, it seems poor sport to let that young man go off to war and that poor guy to stay in Hell. And not even the one where Hades' is, just an empty Hell.”

“Yeah, but you can't make exceptions! I say, all or nothing. Their just ants anyway.”

“I suppose. Maybe I will have some more popcorn. Let's see how many more lies can be told before sundown.”

***

We poor humans! Obviously, the gods do not play Sudoku.

The Pain of Insults

It amazes me how things are timed in life.

My husband and I have been talking a lot about our coming little one; what she will be like, what we will need to teach her, stuff like that. Today, our discussion revolved around hopes for her personality. Both Ed and I had many run-ins with nasty little children when we were young and his dearest hope is that our daughter does not turn out to be one of those nasty children- the kind that are mean on purpose and find joy in the suffering of others. We talked about it at great length- about possible reasons behind the behavior of those children and how to avoid that and about ways of teaching a child what it means to be kind and loving. I have fewer fears than my husband, as usual, but I don't want to assume that because we are loving, our daughter will be.

Than I went online to check my email. This is where the timing comes in. I entered a writing contest a few months ago and wrote my first sci/fi/fantasy short story. It was a good effort and I was mostly looking for the two critiques by published authors that would be given to every entrant. I got them today.

Points were out of 5.

The first author gave me a 4.2! "Pretty good for my first time," I thought! The comments were "Well written with a few grammatical errors. Easy to follow story lines. The ending was drawn out too far. A little more character development would have been appreciated. A shorter conclusion would have given it a very nice 'Twilight Zone' feel. With a little work this could be an excellent piece of writing."

Alright then! I was pretty happy with that. The author gave me some specific feedback, no personal comments, and something to shoot for. Great!

Then I read the second critique. At first, I wondered if they had read the same piece. But they had. Some of the more painful statements were:

"This story is a delirious, wandering, nonsensical piece."

"I just did not get it."

"The writing is too colloquial, scattered, and without narrative voice."

"It feels like I'm listening to a word salad from a crazy person."

"Makes no sense at all."

"If the plot was meant to be insanity, then it succeeds. Otherwise, the plot does not function."

Now, some people would be horribly hurt by this- and I probably would have been if I had a deep attachment to the specific work (I have yet to enter any of my true loves into contests for fear of this kind of critique- I usually start from scratch and see what pops up) or even if I had not read the other critique first, which helped soften the blow. What I did do, was laugh through the entire critique. I laughed partly because it sounded ridiculous to me- the author said my story made no sense and I sounded like a crazy person! That is so specific and gives me real points to work on! (I'm still laughing a little). But I laughed also because the author seemed to be trying to be extra mean, for reasons known only to him/her.

I can just see some smug person who has been published, looking down his/her nose at some amateur entrant in a short story contest and thinking about how to crush them. Or perhaps his/her motives are more to prepare that naive person for the realities of publisher critiques or reader critiques. That may be giving him/her too much credit, but I can see how someone might think that way. In either case, the critique was not useful to me in any way. There was nothing for me to work on and the comments seemed written specifically to injure. How am I supposed to take the score of 1 our of 5 he/she gave me seriously?

This hasn't deterred me from future entries. I can take a punch. I just wish the punch were more specific and less mean. I'm wondering if this person was one of those nasty kids... I may never know.

Grandpa

Memorial Day hold a special place in my heart. My grandpa died on Memorial Day five years ago.

I was very lucky and knew my Grandpa VanderZand very well. He and Grandma lived less than 3 miles from us when we were growing up. She died when I was in my mid twenties but Grandpa lived until I was 32. He was 90.

The day my grandpa died was just another day at first. I had the day off of work and was helping my friends, who had gotten married two days before, move their things into storage before they took a month honeymoon and then returned to stay with me for a few weeks before moving to WI for grad school. I was driving down Burton toward Calvin college (just a couple blocks from the house my husband's parents live in, although he and I weren't dating at the time). My mother phoned me and I answered while driving. I no longer answer the phone while driving for any reason. She told me that my grandpa had died. I must have scared my friend Alexis because I swerved out of the left lane and pulled into the nearest driveway, which happened to belong to one of the houses I admire most in Grand Rapids. I began to cry as soon as the car was stopped and remained on the phone with my mom only a few seconds longer.

His death came as a surprise to us. You would think that we would have expected it since he was 90, but he came from a family of long livers. His brother died later that week at 92 and his sister had lived to be over 100. Grandpa still lived alone and had no assistance in his living. He could still do all the things he needed, still had full use of his mind and body. He was a little stiff, suffered from emphysema, but didn't need oxygen regularly, and was fairly fit for his age. One of his favorite things to do when he would meet someone for the first time was to ask them how old they thought he was. Unless they had a reference point, like my dad standing there, they would guess up to 25 years off! He looked great!

My grandpa was always either laughing, talking politics sternly (the only Democrat among a family of Republicans) or tearing up a bit at the memory of my grandmother, whom he loved dearly. My grandpa was also the spiritual patriarch of the family. He and Grandma were the first Christians in their families and they lived out that life as an example for all their children and grandchildren- and for my grandpa, two of his great grand children.

My husband and I have a ritual of praying in bed just before sleeping. Last night, he prayed not only for our unborn child, but for the grandchildren and great grandchildren and any descendents we would have. I began to cry a bit, partly because I am pregnant, but partly because I wondered if my grandpa had prayed for me from the time they were expecting my father. I bet they did- Grandpa was a praying man.

The rest of that first Memorial Day, I spent with my friends. I worried that I was putting a damper on their day as they had just gotten married and were looking forward to a honeymoon. I called my best friend, who came to spend time with me that night, who knew my grandpa and loved to talk about her favorite "cute, little, old man." I needed to be around people and my friends were wonderful. I discovered that my grandpa had died of a heart attack in his sleep in the early hours of Memorial Day. He was expected at my parents' house for dinner that day- everyone in the family was there except for him and me. When he didn't show up, they called his house. When he didn't answer, they though he might not have his hearing aid in (bad habit he had). No one ever thought he might be hurt or dead. My dad and aunt went to the house to see what was up and my dad found his dad in bed. He wouldn't let my aunt in until he had adjusted my grandfather a bit- he looked like he had been pinched, was in a position of feeling pain, and my dad didn't want that memory in my aunt's head. They then called the police and then family.

Memorial Day is a day to remember those who gave themselves for us. My grandpa was in the army in WWII, but that isn't his greatest gift to us. His greatest gift was that he gave himself first to God and then to his family. He loved and prayed for every single one of us and was loved by all of us. I remember my grandfather often, but especially this weekend.

Maternity

So, I had a pregnancy dream last night. I'm 18 weeks along today and this was my first real maternity dream, although it didn't actually have a baby in it.

I was walking through a department store of some kind. It had really high ceilings like a Bed, Bath and Beyond, with stuff on the walls ranging significantly higher than my 5'3" would allow me to reach. I went first to what I thought was a wall of car seats, but when I got close up they were really booster seats and washing tubs. I was approached by a sales person, but moved on toward the maternity clothes section.

I have never been a big clothes shopper; partly because I hated my body for a very long time and wanted to hide it in bulky wear, not knowing that those things just made me look bigger and less shapely than I actually am. I was also never into dresses and skirts until I reached my mid twenties and found that they were so very comfortable! Now, I dress cute and comfy and for my body type (although, I will admit that some of my skirts should be shorter to underplay my lack of height) and kind of like it, but still don't like shopping that much.

When I reached the maternity clothes in my dream, I walked about 2/3 of the way down the first row and saw the cutest shirt ever! It was a salmon-ish floral-ish lacy pattern with a scoop neck, ruching on the sides and a slight elastic at the bottom (for under the belly). I picked a large off the rack (which was notated "MNLG") and went looking for some slacks, as I need some for work. As I was walking down the rows, I took the shirt off the hanger and laid it on top of another rack of clothes. I think I was trying to rearrange things in my arms. When I turned around to pick it up, the shirt was gone. Not only that, but the entire display of those shirts was no longer in the place I though it was!

I spend the entire rest of my dream, which seemed very long, looking for this shirt. I asked for help from a couple staff members of the store and they tried to find the display, but couldn't. I walked through other departments and people asked me questions about sheet and automobile parts because they thought I worked there. I walked through changing rooms where women were modeling their maternity outfits for their entire family and friends, like you might with a wedding dress or if you are on a TLC show. I also passed the same woman several times as she shopped for maternity clothes. She wanted to buy two years worth because she planned to have another baby right away. The staff person helping her told her not to get ahead of herself because styles change and she was thinking that the woman might not have a second child. That woman had a room full of clothes!!! I mean, the size of my bedroom completely stuffed with hanging clothes. I thought maybe she took my shirt and wouldn't need it with all the other stuff she was trying on.

I never found the shirt.

This is one of a weeks worth of anxiety dreams I have had this week. My mother-in-law commented on facebook that I am so confident when awake that maybe my dreams release my underlying apprehensions. I'm not sure. Most of my anxiety dreams are centered on work, which is funny because I have worked at the same company for 13 years, have changed stores as many times, have worked in 4 states, and know my job so well I can do it on auto pilot. I almost never feel nervous at work. I have lost my passion for my job over the past two years as I look forward to soon quitting and being a full time wife/mother, but I don't feel anxious. Yet, I have many, many dreams about work and being out of control.

This dream was kind of pleasant, even if it was full of an unsuccessful search. I enjoyed looking at the women and the clothes and even interacting with the people who thought I worked at the store. I enjoyed the search, although it came up empty. But I guess I would still constitute this as an anxiety dream. Maybe because I have to buy some maternity pants in real life.

A Vision of Heaven as Inspired by Harry Potter

I was talking with a friend today about my passion for Harry Potter. She is reading the series through and hoping to finish for the first time and I have read them numerous times, as well as listened to the audio versions every time I have moved (essentially, every year). Because of this conversation, HP was on my mind.

As I was standing in the shower (a great place to think, by the way), I began to contemplate our society. I don't remember exactly what prompted these thoughts, but they tended toward the seemingly warring ideas of progress vs. traditionalism; specifically around technology and agriculture. These may have been on my mind because I am listening to Anna Karenina right now.

As my mind was grazing over the concepts and misconceptions of many, whether it is a person who thinks technology and the seeking after innovation should top all other concerts or the person who runs away from city life to start a hobby farm because they miss the older views of family life and community, I began to wonder what this world would look life perfected.

Hm... tricky.

What would it be like to have corporations behave humanly all the time? What would it be like if everyone were educated? What would it be like to have no fears of the unknown or prejudices? What would it be like if all people lived in community with all those around them? What would it be like if all systems actually worked as they were hoped to? What would it be like if machinery did not pollute? If agriculture didn't use chemicals? If there were no pests to kill? No wolves to destroy? No thieves to steal?

Essentially, what would Heaven be like?

Everyone thinks of the afterlife and the possibility of Heaven sometimes. It is a mystery, but some clues have been given: we will be with God, there will be constant light, there will be no more sorrow or tears or pain, there will be meaningful work, there will be homes, etc. Until now, I have not dwelt on the details of Heaven, although I have often begun a sentence with "wouldn't it be nice if in Heaven..." and I always say to people who I might never see again on this earth, "See you in Heaven." Today I thought about what Heaven could be. If it is perfect, then... well, that's a hard one, because no one here on Earth has ever experienced "perfect," "sinless."

I began thinking about people, the one thing we know will be in Heaven besides God. People, created in the image of God. People as creators themselves. People in all their different colors and languages and backgrounds. People from places in third world countries that seem to have "developed" little in hundreds of years. People in "developing" countries and those in the U.S. and Japan. What in the world would a community of these people together look like?

I began thinking about our work in Heaven. There are so many who live in cities here and who work in offices, so many executives and IT people- how do they fit into my vision of Heaven? Will there be perfected corporations? Will there be any work at all for them? I'd hate to say no, just like I would hate to tell a farmer that there will be no garden in Heaven to tend.

How does this fit in with Harry Potter? Well, as I was pondering the ideas of "old world" and "new" I began thinking of Jo Rowling and her amazing works. She created a world that was "modern" but still "old" to some. The wizarding world had existed along side the Muggle one for all of history, but they developed differently. Wizards never bothered with technology because they had magic- they didn't need electricity or parking meters or batteries. But they did not just stand still, either. They had trains and buses- but flew powder was more convenient and apparition even more so! They had "new" spells and potions and innovative gadgets like Dumbledore's Dilluminator (book 7) aka Put-outer (book 1). Jo somehow fused the ideas of standing still and moving forward- something that our generation is having a hard time with right now.

Currently, technology and city life, corporations and progress are being villainized by many as the sickness that is killing the earth. "Pollution is caused by progress!" "Desensitization to violence and war is caused by technology (TV, movies, video games, even guns, which are rather old to be called technology)!" "Communities are crumbling because of cities and even suburbs (I mean, who has a block party or even knows their neighbors anymore?)!" "Evil, evil!!" So they say.

But then, people have been running down the past, as well. So many people think that those who farm or live in the country are ignorant and uneducated; that all bigotry comes from rural areas; that chemical farming has been the real ruin of natural resources; that intelligence only lives in cities; that the slow way is always the wrong way because inefficiency is a waste of a resource, which has to be a sin!

So, who's right? We have people running from cities and starting hobby farms who think they must be right because they have seen the corruption of the city. But they take with them their high speed internet, cable TV, iPod, iPad, TiVo and college education. Then we have kids "escaping" the country- whether the farmer's son next door or the rebellious Mennonite or Amish kids. And they must be right because they are escaping the tyranny of the small minded and slow moving- the old fashioned ways of their parents and grandparents! And they bring their fresh eyes to the city and see its delights and its possibilities!

Neither of these seems right to me. I am a city girl who is old fashioned. I currently live in a city whose population is 209,000 (610,000 metro) and it is the smallest place I have ever lived. I crochet and sew, garden and preserve, cook bread from scratch weekly and dream of one day owning a heard of goats. But I don't want to run to the country because I think cities are evil or because I think country life is ideal. I don't think all corporations are evil, money-grubbing entities (although, some of the people in them may be) and I don't think that rural dwellers are ignorant or bigotous (although there are people like that everywhere). I want to move to experience a different way of life than I have had- and to learn new skills like cheese making and spinning. But wherever I end up in life will not be perfect, will not be easy, will not be home. Because this world is not my home.

But what does my home look like? God is there. And people are there. The rest is a mystery. I'd love to see a good fantasy author like Jo try to tackle that one, though! Think of the possibilities! Maybe I'll try it myself...

Baby on Board

Well, it official- little Hamilton on the way. Actually, there will be two this year, as my sister-in-law is also pregnant. There will also be two VanderZand babies, as my sister is due the same month I am, just a few weeks before. This fall will be baby-tastic!

Eight weeks and counting. Each week I get an update from Baby Center about how big my baby is and what he/she is growing at the time. This week he/she is the size of a pinto bean and is growing hands and finger, feet and toes, eyelids and ears, nose and mouth. My husband has been using the food size equivalents as our baby's nickname for that week. Last week, he/she was chick pea, the week before, lentil. Next week, he/she will either be olive or bape (what our niece calls grapes).

Been noticing kids a lot more lately. We try to sit toward the back of church and I get to watch all the kids. Yesterday I laughed silently for about 5 min because little John, youngest son of the pastor (age 2) tried to steer little Ruthy (age 1, Burmese) back to her mother and she fell flat on her face. The funniest parts were the look of concern on John's face and the fact that Ruthy lay in the same position for about a minute without crying. I almost thought she was unconscious! Her mother picked her up and no one in the other sections was any the wiser. I think the pastor know what was up, though, because he saw me quaking with held in laughter while he was speaking seriously. I couldn't help it!