Across the River Now

Dear David,

Look at your children. Aren't they gorgeous?

I know I'm supposed to be in bed sleeping. There is a sixteen-hour drive ahead of us tomorrow, after all.

But I know if I don't write this down tonight, it will probably never happen. And sometimes there are days I never want to forget. Today was one of them.

I don't have time to retell everything. Let me just try to say the most important things.

I woke today, to the temple bells ringing, eight steady chimes.

I ironed Caleb's shirt and braided Olivia's hair. (It was so delicious I took my time and made it last.)

And then I took them to the house of the Lord.

They were shining when I picked them up.

We went to the brickyard and and the blacksmith and the print shop (my personal favorite). We ate ice cream and bought souvenirs.

In the evening, we sat under a cloudy dark sky and watched a cast of hundreds sing praises to our God and King. We all wept to be so blessed, and when they lit up the temple, Ethan looked at me knowingly and smiled. He knew it was coming all night.

Tomorrow we take our own trek west. Across the prairies, towards you, towards home. How I am dreaming of the reunion.

As I sat there tonight looking at that glorious temple on the hill, I thought about how that is the very word of all my beliefs and all my faith. Reunion. Reunion here and hereafter. Reunion with each other and with that God that gave us life. Reunion after all. Reunion at last.

We're coming home.

A Letter from Parley Street

Dear David,

I cannot get over the feeling here.

All day long I thought about how I would tell you about it all, and never could think of a way.

I think it's because a miracle happened here. The hand of the Almighty God rested right here, on this bend in the river. And you can still feel it. It is throbbing in the air and hanging in the trees. It's baked into the red bricks and shining off the mullioned windows. I can feel it humming along my skin and catching in my throat. I can hardly breathe when I think of the staggering amount of faith it took to walk away from here and into the wild west.

My heart is overflowing.

After a day of pioneer games and musical productions and stops at the tin shop and the little bakery, we ate our dinner on the lawn next to the wagon sheds. Afterwards, we took a quiet walk down Parley Street, the same street that the wagons rolled down as they left their beloved city, and straight into the Mississippi.

We watched the sun set in the west and thought about their sacrifice, thought about how truly vast and terrifyingly unknown it must have felt then, looking westward, with all your world condensed into a small wagon behind you.

The children are feeling it too. As we walked back in the dark, they talked about eternity, about creation, about "after this," and about God's perfect plan. Each in their own way--Caleb shy and reverent, Olivia waxing poetic, Savannah asking questions, Ethan smiling up at me the whole time. You would have loved it.

They are in the other room now, gathered around Caleb's iPod watching Arthur, giggling, and if you were here you would be laying next to me listening to my heartbeat and wondering about the miracles of your own life.

We are so blessed. Did you know?

So blessed, there is no way to tell it all.

All my love,

Ap

A Letter from the Riverbank

Dear David,

Once upon a time there were words to go along with these pictures.

Twice actually, there were words.

I retyped my post after I lost it the first time. It was clever both times. I wish you could have seen it.

Now though, I've given up.

Just know that after we dropped you in Chicago, I drove our beautiful children all the way across Illinois, and passed thousands of acres of cornfields along the way. (Much to my delight. Oh those rows!) We made it to Joseph's beautiful city last night in a reverent gloaming and slept up on the hill next to the shining temple.

Caleb said the prayer last night when we went to bed. It was so tender it would have broken your heart. He finally stopped when he ran out of synonyms for gracious and kind. You know how he is. And especially last night, after being to Carthage, and driving the road next to the mighty Mississippi, we were all feeling the spirit of this sacred spot of land.

Today we will churn butter and fire horseshoes and eat a picnic lunch among the ghosts and memories and bricks of Nauvoo. And here on the banks of the Mississippi, I will mother my children in this lovely, holy city where my mothers once mothered theirs.

Love you, darling,

April

The Art of Seduction

Late last night, after the fireworks, I was trying to seduce David.

"Wanna make out?"

I'll admit it wasn't my best effort. He changed the subject.

"What was your post about?"

I handed him my phone so he could read it.

Then he said, "Three out of the last four posts have a picture of me."

I may have a little obsession going and admitted as much to him. He smiled.

"I'm glad you're writing again." And he nuzzled my neck to prove it.

"Me too. Though the first chance I get, I've got to clean up that sidebar."

"Are you going to change the banner?"

I nodded, wondering how I could get him to nuzzle my neck again.

"And change the name?"

My eyes opened. Whoa. Tread carefully now. "No," I said, warning in my voice.

"But aren't you done having regrets?"

Poor man. He can't stand the thought of me being the least bit miserable. Even worse when it's my own doing.

"No. And this blog is the answer to those regrets."

And so I rehearsed it again. About how my greatest regret is the way I treat the people I love, how I don't say the things I should and how I always say the things I shouldn't, how I leave the most important things out, and only remember to include things about taking out the garbage and picking up the clothes. This blog is the answer to that. So that they will know for sure how deeply and fiercely I loved them, how awed and amazed I was by them, how carefully I watched them and how constantly I thought about them and how completely I measured and treasured my life by them.

The other regret, of course, is that I never did any writing, that I was too scared and too overwhelmed and too utterly terrified to even try.

"But did you ever explain that?" he asked, "About the two regrets?"

"Yes," I said, "and it's implied in every post I've ever written."

"I think you should make it a subtitle."

"A subtitle?"

"Ya, 'The Two Regrets: and then what you just said.'"

"You mean that paragraph I just said?"

He nodded. I grinned at the thought of a two hundred word subtitle. And it just got funnier and funnier until I laughed and laughed, loud enough for the whole house to hear.

Which turned out to be quite seductive.

Bombs Bursting into Tears

Turns out, the children may know the way to the park, but the way home is a little more sketchy.

Savannah got lost on her way home. She got hot and mad and made a stormy, dramatic exit.

And then got lost.

Which took the wind out of her sails.

I felt for her. Because I love a good dramatic exit myself, and it is shame to have it spoiled. All by yourself.

David found her tear-soaked face just one tree-lined street over.

She sobbed into my neck, and dang if it didn't feel delicious.

(And really, if you're going to be lost, this lovely little town of sugar maples and lawn ornaments is the place to do it. All's well that ends well.)

Speaking of spectacular endings, we went to a patriotic concert in the park before the firework show at Chippewassee Park. (I am so not making that up.) Could there be a more classically Midwestern thing to do? At the end of the concert they played all the songs of the armed forces, Army, Navy, Coast Guard, Marines, and Air Force. And as they did, in turn, little old men with their white hair and hunched backs rose out of their plastic and nylon lawn chairs to stand while we clapped.

And dang if I didn't start crying myself.

I wanted to clap all night, roar really, my thanks, my deep gratitude. I wanted to kiss each and every one of them.

And then we sang America the Beautiful, and I could only choke out the prayer at the end.

God has shed his grace on all of us.

The Island

It is the fourth of July.

I am sitting in the backyard at my in-laws house with green on every side. Life is teeming around me, burgeoning, crawling, bursting, making the most of summer. It is July and there is nothing to lose, see? David is reading next to me. The kids packed a picnic and went to the park. They know the way. They will come home sweaty and happy and smelling like grass and monkey bars.

Lake Huron gave Lake Michigan a run for its money this week. We spent two days on Mackinac Island (love those back-to-back silent consonants), biking and exploring and swimming and fudging and kiting. It was idyllic in every way. Even the sleeping was divine. We'd wake to find the children eleven hours later still breathing heavily, cheeks pink, limbs askew, childhood dreams and damp island air swirling around them, the deep, wide lake keeping watch from the window.

We rode our bikes for miles, around the island, along the rocky northern coast, past the spot where the British landed in 1812, down past Devil's Kitchen, and back into town. We got off and walked our bikes to the top of the island and screamed and laughed our way back down the steep, tree-lined trails to the water. We saw Skull Cave and Sugar Loaf and Arch Rock, which look exactly like they sound, though Ethan told me in confidence that Sugar Loaf doesn't taste like sugar.

Every afternoon we'd strip in the trees and cool off in the clear, cold lake, wading out past the rocks until we found Huron's sandy bottom. We'd swim until we were frozen, Ethan and I giving up before the others, and then drip dry on the warm white rocks.

There were a couple afternoon hours spent reading and dozing in the cutest library you've ever seen...it has a back patio with two adirondack chairs just on the edge of the lake, facing a red lighthouse, if you can believe it.

There are candy shops everywhere you go, and you can watch your children press their faces against the glass as men in pink aprons stir giant pots of fudge and pour them onto marble slabs. And you will be hard pressed to figure out which you want to eat more. If I licked my children they would taste like the last delicious bit of a melty ice cream cone and nectar and sunshine and cold lake water, and I would never be hungry again.

Tonight there will be fireworks and a brass band on the grass and John Phillips Sousa keeping time to it all.

It is July, and we are living life all out.

It is July, and we are living like we have nothing to lose.

Under the Spell

We are here.

Thirty-four hours and eight states later, the world could not be more different.

We drove through a real live thunderstorm today. It was so strange to experience actual weather, the skies bawling up and cracking and flashing and gushing. Like they were alive.

Tonight my hair smells like campfire and the distinct scent of bug spray clings deliciously to my skin and clothes. There are bits of firework ash in my hair and melted marshmallow in the corners of my lips.

I am irresistible.

And David, caught up in the romance and magic of a Midwest summer evening, kissed me hard and promised me that someday we would live in a lake house.

He couldn't help himself. Tonight I am as irresistible as summer itself.

I laughed and told him I didn't believe him.

But the truth is, tonight, under the stars, with the quiet lake shimmering in front of us, my children snuggled in the camper with their cousins and their sleepy grins, I could believe almost anything.

The Long Pause

Ira Glass narrated my dreams last night.

Act I was a funny story about how we bought a horse that shared a room with Ethan, in Act II we took a bus trip to Hawaii, and then Act III was a heartfelt story in which Ira asked us, "So you've been here a year, does it finally feel like home?

There was a long pause. (The pauses always say more than the actual sentences.)

Then a quiet but truthful, "Yes."

Over the last year I've thought about writing a post or two. I've been tempted by your kind comments and lovely emails prodding me to post. But I needed the long pause. There was just too much sadness and self-pity to make worthwhile reading. Everything I tried to write became a tally of my blessings and a list of my grievances, then a few computations where I would add the former and subtract the latter and ultimately see that I came out ahead, but only just barely. It was tiresome, especially to me.

But somehow, over the last month, I realized it was time. I was ready. The fog had cleared. I had something to say that didn't start and end with "Wo is me." I made plans to redo the banner, clean up the sidebar, start fresh, and write a post about how David and I rode a subway, a cab, a plane, and a canoe all in one day, a post about how my kids tried to train a bunny to use a DustBuster, and a post about Olivia's music camp at which her group named their quartet "Rhythm Is Not An Opinion Quartet" because apparently, to Olivia, it is (an opinion)...and the first violin disagreed.

(There were 84 words in that last sentence, if you're counting. Phew. I may be out of practice.)

But then summer started and I've been busy with Lord of the Rings marathons and keeping the house stocked with sunscreen and clean swim towels and afternoon reading that usually turns into a drooly nap. I take my summers seriously, as you know.

And then this morning, as the sun rose over our car heading out of Albuquerque, I couldn't help myself. I couldn't wait anymore. So I'm using my iPhone (which makes me prone to mistakes and misspellings...don't point them out...the buttons are small) and beginning again.

We are on the road. Headed out of the heat and back to our much-missed, beloved Lake Michigan.

It's good to be back. On both counts.

Cue the music, Ira.

Grief and Revelation at the USPS

The beach was lovely.

In every way.  (Proof above.)

We are home.  Unpacked.  Laundered.  And trying desperately to ignore the calendar.

My new neighbor came over yesterday and told me about all the school supplies she bought and how organized she is and how ready and prepared she is and asked have I checked on this or bought that or signed up for this.  Welcome to the neighborhood.  I gave her a half smile and a nervous laugh and told her about my plan to pretend school wasn't starting.  She looked at me blankly.  Not funny.  And then I got slightly nauseated.  (Fear will do that.)  Because out here, away from all that is familiar, I don't even know what time school starts.  I have been carefully avoiding anything in my mind past July.  See how that works?  Last night, in a moment of pure panic, I asked David if we could please move back home...where everything is known and sure and easy.  He just smiled.  And then told me about his own terrors.

Today I went to the post office.  And when I was walking in, I overheard two men talking outside in the shade.  The dark haired man was saying, "...but there were 300 applicants, so I don't know."  The other man was looking at him shaking his head.  One of them sighed.  I recognized the casual clothes, the tense set of the shoulders, the lost eyes, the worried fists shoved into pockets.  I looked away, not wanting to intrude, or more likely, rip open my own wounds too soon.  It's still much too soon.  I had to suck my breath in hard as it was.  As I walked past, I thought about giving him a hug, or at least putting my hand on his arm, and telling him that things get better, telling him that things will work out, telling him that things will be hard, and then harder, and then hardest of all, but then better.

But as I stood there in line, I was overwhelmed with the knowledge that I'm still waiting for "better" myself.  Don't get me wrong.  Things are good.  Having a job is good.  Paying our bills is good.  Food on the table is good.  Roof over our heads is good.  Watching David leave the house in a shirt and tie and a smile is good.  

But it's still not better.

It's not even close to better.

And here I am about to send my kids into the great unknown, where I don't even know when school starts or if there is a bus or when recess is or if they will make friends or if their teachers will be good and kind and brilliant or if we've done the right thing by moving them clear out here where everything is unknown and most likely not better.  And every uncertainty and fear and dread I have about the enormous and looming unknown started to wrap itself into a giant maelstrom inside my chest.  I left my place in line and fled.

And by the time I got back to the car, I was coming undone.

Huge, racking sobs right there in the parking lot.

Snot and spit and tears and keening, regardless of who was watching.

And then, as I sat sobbing in my car outside an unfamiliar post office, terror and fear raging their way through my mind and heart, I remembered this quote given by the marvelous James E. Talmage, about the apostles as they faced the storm on Galilee.   

"Into every adult human life come experiences like unto the battling of the storm-tossed voyagers with contrary winds and threatening seas; ofttimes the night of struggle and danger is far advanced before succor appears; and then, too frequently the saving aid is mistaken for a greater terror. But, as came unto these disciples in the midst of the turbulent waters, so comes to all who toil in faith, the voice of the Deliverer--"It is I; be not afraid."

The emphasis is mine of course.  Because those are the words that burned their way through the haze of grief and anxiety, leaving me calmed and surprised.  Because it seems that I am making this mistake all the time these days.  Greater terror, everywhere.  When it's actually saving aid.

Oh.

And then those six words at the end of the story.  It is I; Be not afraid.  

I sat there quiet and stunned as heaven then asked me a gentle question: Who else would it be? 

Oh.

And for one beautiful, blinding moment I felt better.

For good measure, Matthew's account adds the command to be of good cheer as well.

Hear that?  Chin up.  Who else would it be?

The World Can Wait

The last two days we traded the lazy days of summer for a little bit of industry.

We washed the sheets and beach towels and cleaned out the fridge.

We spent a good thirty minutes standing in front of the game cupboard, carefully picking out the best games for life at the beach.  (The selection committee takes their job seriously.)

Savannah made four kinds of cookies and bars.  They are sitting on the counter, ziplocked and waiting for their big adventure.

Ethan and I went on a Target run for sand toys and wheat thins and sunscreen.

Caleb found the boogie boards and the beach umbrella.  (Check that big box in the corner, son.  The one labelled "salvation.")

We packed light.  Swimsuits and jackets only.  Oh, and books.  A few bags of books and we'll tie the bicycles on the back. 

In a few weeks, we will be back to rising early and kissing goodbye.  We will be back to packing lunches and practicing spelling words and reading only what they're assigned.  Add to that the anticipated pain of looking around the bus stop and classroom and the lunchroom and not knowing a single soul...and I almost can't breathe.

With the calendar looming, David and I lay in the dark discussing our options.  We listed the pros (salvation) and cons (money).  We discussed directions (north, east, west) and locations (the beach or the mountains).  We tried to figure out how capable and brave I am (on my own) or am not (as the case may be).  In the end, the choice was easy.  My children need a few days of glee, a few days of freedom, a few days of salty air and icy waves, a few days of bliss, to store away and keep for the days that are coming.

And so, I am taking my children to the beach where I intend to make the most of these summer days of mothering, when they are mine, and the world and its sorrows are very, very, very far away.