Wish You Were Here

To Whom It May Concern (you know who you are):

First of all, you were missed.

Second of all, you missed out.

See how that works?

I told David that spending a week anywhere with us should be temptation enough, but seeing how that is clearly not the case, it occurred to me that maybe I haven't made the argument strongly enough. And so for your consideration, here are my top ten reasons you should pack up your sunscreen and your beach towels and your reservations and your hesitations and be here next year.

1. There is no better place to be a child. Period.

2. There is no better smell than sunscreen and salt water. Period.

3. There is no better feeling than sand below you, sun above you, and kissing in between. Exclamation point!

4. There is no better sound than to hear your children shrieking in delight as you fly across the waves together. Parentheses. Unless it is hearing the waves crash behind you while you snuggle them around a warm fire. End parentheses.

5. There is no better delight than the little curl of anticipation that comes from cracking a new paperback on the beach. Comma. And the magic world that its words will weave around you. Comma. And knowing that nothing is going to interrupt you.

6. There is no better weight than wet eight-year-old boy wrapped in a towel and snuggled under your chin. Sigh. In quotation marks.

7. There are no better dreams than those you have in a beach house because real life has never seemed farther away. What is worry. Question mark.

8. There is no place with greater evidence of God's love. This sand, crushed for millennia just so you could build castles with moats and turn your children into sandy merpeople (semi colon) this coast split and torn by cataclysmic events just so your children could throw themselves into the surf at the edge of the world (semi colon) this sun which fired the sky last night in hot oranges and brilliant fuchsias just so you could stand there with your mouth ajar in wonder.

9. There is no better sight than our long line of bicycles trailing down the boardwalk at dusk, headed towards the park, the pier, chocolate donuts with sprinkles, and hot chocolate if we're cold. Another exclamation point. I'm feeling exuberant.

10. There is no better place to count your blessings. Ellipsis. They are as numerous as the grains of sand at our feet.

You think I'm exaggerating.

That's impossible. You cannot exaggerate the joys of this kind of living.

This morning as I type from the most perfect view in creation, the sun starting its long graceful arc across the sky and warming my back, I cannot imagine anywhere else I'd rather be.

The girls are all laying as they have for six days, heads together, wearing their sunglasses and floppy beach hats. They gossip and laugh as Olivia dishes everything she knows about junior high to her younger, adoring cousins. Don't worry. Savannah, with her perfected eye roll, never lets it go to her head. Soon they will grab their boogie boards and scream as they jump in the ice cold water, and I've heard rumors of a dance routine performance they've been working on. You don't want to miss that for anything.

Caleb and David are beside me reading. Their toes have disappeared in the sand, while their heads have disappeared into the world their authors created out of nothing. Ethan is napping in his beach chair. The hair on his legs has turned golden. It's not too much to say that I see that as one of my greatest personal accomplishments.

Soon I will go boogie boarding and amaze everyone, especially David, who is the only one I'm trying to impress anyway. And then I will lay in the sand, press my ear to the earth until I can hear its slow, steady heartbeat, and take a well-deserved nap. (It's hard work being a world-class anything...boogie boarding is no exception.)

As usual, my thoughts this week have been about magic and miracles and creation--the millions of years and enormous effort that had to be expended for me to be right here with those most precious to me. I am humbled by that knowledge.

And I have no doubt that if I ever make it to that mansion in heaven, it will be beachfront property.

Join me here.

Surfer Girl

There is a Sunday night dance party happening in the other room. It's a natural outgrowth of cousins in close quarters.

Olivia just came up with a new dance move, named appropriately "The Olivia." She says it could be a trend.

My mom texted us today asking how Newport is.

It's hard to complain.

Sun, surf, sand, and some of the finest boogie boarding you've ever seen. Done by yours truly. I'm seriously considering adding it to my resume: "Enjoys reading, writing, quilting, and is a world class boogie boarder." I like the sound of that.

Do you want to know the best part?

I've never been hotter.

Today I caught the biggest wave I've ever ridden and David kissed me so hard it made us both dizzy, which caused him to sway and lose his balance, and consequently caused me to end up unceremoniously on my butt in the sand. I told you, hot.

My brother, who had the good fortune of witnessing the whole thing, said sarcastically, "Wow, that was almost like the movies."

Whatever. It was hot in my head. (Then again, it's always hot in my head. It's a gift.)

Yesterday David asked Olivia to keep an eye on her younger cousin. She looked over at him running in and out of the waves. She smiled and said, "He's fine, Dad. He's living the dream."

We all are.

As for me, what could be better than looking across the waves to find my lovelies paddling their boards along beside me, their bodies turned silver in the light bouncing off the waves. We watch as a wave builds and crests toward us, we flip our boards and kick off. David grins over at me and I am undone.

It is no surprise to me that life began in the oceans. I am reborn every time I get in one.

The Slope of the California Sky

We were home for exactly 18 hours.

Just enough time to wash the clothes, repack the duffle bags, replenish the snack box, and strap the bikes on the back.

And pick up David. (The most important part.)

This time we went west. As far as we could go, to the very edge of the continent as it were.

I know what you're thinking. This is too much. How much vacationing can one family do? Is this a blog or a travelogue? David was a little concerned as well. He worked extra long hours all week, getting caught up and getting ahead, but still felt a little guilty about missing another upcoming week of work.

It can't be helped, I said.

They're growing up, I said.

This summer is one more in a very limited number that our children will spend with us.

Gotta make the most of it.

Tonight David and I walked down a lovely stretch of beach. He was holding my hand. Delicious. It was among the nicest moments of my life. We watched the sun sink down the slippery slope of sky. As it neared the disappearance point, it seemed to speed up, falling faster and faster the closer it got to the horizon.

See? I said.

At sunrise, it seems like you've got forever. In the middle of the day, you're too busy to even notice the slow, steady track of the sun. But suddenly, at the gloaming, the sun is all out sprinting for the horizon. The colors on the clouds change faster than you can describe them. Then boom. You're standing there a little stunned that it's over. Wait. Wait!

See? I say. It goes so fast. We have to make the most of it. And even though he doesn't say it, David squeezes my hand because he knows I'm right and he feels that urgency as keenly as I do.

Tonight as we were readying for bed, David gestured for me to come see. I peeked out of our bedroom to see my children kneeling with their cousins among the air mattresses and pillows and quilts, a nearly indistinguishable mass of limbs and bodies and bed coverings. My younger brother was offering the prayer. Petition and thanks, simple and heartfelt. Their heads were bowed. Their eyes were closed. The ocean waved behind them in rhythm. My heart tugged. The earth turned.

And another day passed out of sight.

I am happy to have been here, right here, when it did.

Verde en Amarillo

Dear Reader,

Are you weary of these letters yet?

The good news is that we will arrive home tomorrow.

The bad news is that we are not there yet.

Regretfully yours, April

*******************

Dear David,

You will be amazed to know that we made it to the panhandle tonight, even before the sun went down.

Apparently there really is nothing I can't do. Make a note of it, darling.

I drove through five states today and went 855 miles (all by myself) and even the sun was impressed. It watched me all day long and then threw a little party for me as we came into Amarillo. The sky was on fire and made one of the most spectacular sunsets I've ever seen. Add the silhouettes of the huge silos in the foreground and you know my heart was thumping.

(I'm giving you fair warning that whatever welcome home party you are planning for tomorrow night, it might have been upstaged by the show tonight. I recommend a little passionate necking as one of the party games just to be safe.)

We stopped at Liberty Jail on the way through Missouri. It was tender and faith-promoting, and especially touching to Caleb. (Though it does pain me to admit that hearing the accounts of women who walked from Missouri to Illinois with their little children in the middle of winter made my cross-country driving feat seem slightly less impressive.)

From Missouri we went a different way than we usually do, and when we came into Kansas, I excitedly told the kids they were in a state they had never been in. But actually, it looked quite a bit like Oklahoma and even though it was all new, the kids lost interest pretty quickly and slept from Topeka to Wichita.

The rest of the day was miles and miles of land and sky, barns and hay bales and cow crossings over the highway. The heartland will steal your heart.

And now we are tucked in in Amarillo. The kids showered and are softly snoring. I know I made it look easy today, but to tell the truth, I am dizzy and rather nauseated. (A consequence of being both slightly carsick and popping M&M's most of the day to stay awake.) This does not bode well for the final leg tomorrow.

It's a good thing I'm amazing.

But then, you already knew that.

Always yours, Ap

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.