Vital Signs

There are some serious benefits to chronic illnesses -- not the least of which is the biannual ritual commonly known as Verification of Life (VoL). This medical procedure bears striking resemblances to an autopsy, but with the opposite objective. In regards to VoL, I am twice-blessed: not only do I have the privilege of regularly undergoing the rite, I get spectators. (This is a value-added option that comes with obtaining medical care at an institution for higher learning.) For those of you unfamiliar with the process, I shall recount for you in vivid detail my experience earlier this week.

Scene 1: After stepping gracefully onto the scale nostalgically patterned after medieval instruments historically used to ascertain the relative value of dead game, I am escorted into a plush exam room. Sitting peacefully in a vinyl covered chair, I admire the impressionistic painting of a golf course. Although lacking in artistic merit, this painting inspires greater ease of mind than the portrait of a snarling tiger hanging prominently in one of the other exam rooms. (I am not making this up.) Grateful to be in the golf course room, I extend my arm cooperatively while the friendly assistant takes my blood pressure. You may have noticed that at this point, we have two pieces of evidence intimating life: 1) adequate mass to suggest that corporeal decay has not yet set in, and 2) pulse and blood pressure readings that fit within scientifically-established parameters for likely mortality. You might also consider the fact that I have responded coherently to a litany of questions posed by the friendly assistant. Such behavior could imply cognitive function, but this is, admittedly, merely circumstantial evidence.

Although insufficient for full verification of life, these measures are adequate grounds for declaring a hypothesis: patient could be alive. Validating this hypothesis, of course, requires confirming evidence and the scrutiny of seasoned medical professionals.

Scene II: Enter the highly-respected physician, Dr. G, and his followers. Dr. G exudes competence: nearing retirement age, this fine gentleman is scrupulously thorough and keenly knowledgeable. Not to be distracted from his mission, the good doctor briefly introduces his followers,

"This is Magnolia Jones, blossoming medical student, and Dr. Happy Resident, the future of this esteemed profession."

The two spectators smile and nod as though to say, "We found your medical history highly fascinating. In fact, we shall draw on it extensively in our upcoming assignments." A researcher-in-training myself, I attempt to find satisfaction in my unselfish contribution to the rigorous education of medical practitioners.

Now that we can dispense of formalities, Dr. G begins his extensive series of scientific tests. I am greatly relieved when I manage to track the subtle movement of his fingers with my eyes. (This simple task becomes more complicated with spectators as the pressure to perform is almost overwhelming.) The doctor looks at my hands and counts my fingers -- all ten are present and accounted for. With these tasks successfully accomplished, we move on to more complicated procedures. I am asked to swallow a sip of water to highlight the gentle curvature of my thyroid. I open my mouth and say "ah" with just the right pitch and resonance, although we all wish I had brushed my teeth before presenting myself. I can tell Dr. G is building a solid case for life, but it is still a bit too early to rush to any bold conclusions.

With anticipation mounting, Dr. G confirms my beating heart and functioning lungs. Next, he verifies the presence of all the vital organs: liver, stomach, and carburetor all appear operational. But one final test remains. Dr. G. pauses and turns to the spectators,

"Ideally, you ought to have clear view of the muscle contracting," he advises, his tone emphasizing the gravitas of the situation.

"Now just try to relax," he says to me.

The next thing I know, I feel the tap of the mallet on my knee as my leg flails wildly in the direction of the doctor. The spectators attempt to suppress their amusement.

I sit up and ask the burning question that is hovering ominously.

"Am I alive?"

The spectators and I wait with baited breath. Finally, the doctor nods reassuringly.

"Oh, yes," he announces, "Alive and kicking."

And with that momentous declaration, my biannual Verification of Life ritual comes to a close. A very happy ending indeed.

A Tribute to the Village

Original image: 'Children of Mareerey' http://www.flickr.com/photos/7415626@N04/1267694021 by: LM TP

Hillary Clinton reminded us that it takes a village to raise a child. Turns out, it also takes a village to write a dissertation. Along with showering me with all manner of chocolate options, good health, a computer that works, and a sunny place to work, God has blessed me with a mighty fine village. In fact, I'm surrounded on all sides by people cheering me on. There's a mandatory part of the dissertation-writing process that requires some serious grumbling and gnashing of teeth -- but really, it's not as bad as all that. Not when your writing group provides a steady stream of feedback and encouragement and significantly demystifies the whole process. Not when you have friends who are on the other side of the PhD mountain who really get it. Not when you have family and friends who actually think you are up to the task (whether or not your are) and believe your project will change the world (whether or not it really will). Not when you have an adviser who gives you total freedom and all manner of timely support. Not when all of these people have endless capacity for compassionate listening. Not when the Lord is clearly paving the way.

Blessings to the villagers, each and every one.


(Disclaimer: I fear this will only be a temporary cessation of grumbling, but let us cherish the moment nonetheless.)

Deserted Island or How to Goose a Plunger

For the record, today was one of those days when I did not utter one word to another human being (except for a 5 minute phone conversation). And I never left my apartment except to go to the laundry room downstairs and the mailbox just outside. Furthermore, I had hot & sour cabbage soup with tofu for lunch. For dinner I opened four cans: beets, green beans, corn, and pears. Solitary confinement? Heaven? A day-in-the-life of a PhD student? You be the judge. Rest assured, however -- I did think plenty of deep thoughts.

While I can happily tolerate a smattering of these deserted island days, I don't particularly like a slew of them. After a while, my deep thoughts tend to border on pathological. I start to subsist on junk food. And I'm prone to spending WAY too much time online just to feel connected to the outside world.

Today's solitude was easily outdone, however, by my holiday weekend in Ohio where I enjoyed a non-stop party with my amazing aunt and a bunch of cousins. Mike and Melanie (never mind that she is on the verge of having baby #3) made the trek from D.C. with their two adorable boys. The local Taylors also joined the fun. One thing about this side of the family: they are exceptionally good at eating and talking, only occasionally coming up for air when absolutely necessary. It was a glorious respite from dissertating.

My stay was extended a day by some minor car troubles. (If you consider a completely dead battery minor trouble.) My aunt, the retired German professor, who is a renaissance woman, single-handedly recharged my battery. Instead of acting grateful for the rejuvenation, however, my little Subaru started flashing the parking lights and making an obnoxious clicking sound. And it refused to stop. An auto parts store suggested that we "disconnect the positive" for a few minutes to see if the car would reset itself. "It's really simple," they reassured us. (What? Were we not the perfect picture of auto mechanical prowess?!)

Once home, we performed this delicate operation.

Step 1: open hood
Step 2: identify battery
Step 3: wonder which part is the positive thing to be disconnected
Step 4: envision ourselves as the nuns in the Sound of Music who tampered with the soldiers' cars the night the von Trapp family escaped Austria; feel tempted to burst into song
Step 5: refrain from bursting into song for fear of blowing ourselves up
Step 6: professor aunt remembers that red means positive
Step 7: survey tool options; reject hammer, choose various wrench-like objects
Step 8: unscrew a dinglehopper, remove something else, wait ten minutes
Step 9: screw purported positive thing back onto battery with my bare hands
Step 10: car won't start
Step 11: tighten screw with wrench-like tool
Step 12: car starts!
Step 13: clicking noise resumes along with flashing lights
Step 14: completion of said delicate operation is tainted by the sting of defeat

When my cousin Hank came over, he informed us that we had, in actuality, not disconnected the battery at all. Whatever. In any case, my cousin the Superhero, performed a series of diagnostic tests and determined that the problem was connected with "remote sensors." We eventually found a Subaru repair guy who was actually working the Saturday after Thanksgiving. This helpful chap revealed the secret to calming my out of control remote sensors. "Just goose the plunger right next to the brown wire," he said. (The brown wire happened to be located in some obscure location under the dash.) Hank heroically found the switch which did indeed stop the frenetic clicking and flashing of lights. In the process, he also magically fixed the door of my hatchback that I hadn't been able to open for weeks.

Hank subscribes to the "you can toss a man a fish, but it's better to teach him to catch one himself" philosophy. Suspecting that I could find myself in a similar situation at some future point, Hank grabbed my finger and showed me the mysterious plunger switch. "Now goose it!" he commanded. Goose it? Huh? I tried to imagine what a goose would do with the silly switch. My dumbfounded look must have resembled that of a person who is prone to unsuspectingly leaving car lights on for prolonged periods. "Just push the button - HARD!" he barked. And goose it, I did!

Should my doctoral aspirations fall apart, I'm pretty sure I'm now qualified for a level one auto mechanic's license. A very comforting thought indeed.

Popular?

Today I hit the pinnacle of my social life.

I now have 101 friends on Facebook.

Imagine that! Lil' ole' me, socially inept, perpetual wallflower, third-wheel extraordinaire -- has hit the magical three-digit mark. Of course, people who are truly cool will quickly meet and exceed my meager statistic, if they haven't already. (And if you are a generation or two younger than me, the popularity bar is much higher -- somewhere in the mid-500s.)

But for a moment, let's just pretend that I'm popular.

No more juice

This is my brain on dissertation.

Photo by Petoo http://www.flickr.com/photos/22155732@N00/469759384

This and That

My latest gimmick for getting my proposal written resides in a cheap kitchen timer. I set it for 45 minutes (which is often the longest stretch of time in which I can sustain focus) and work until it goes off, at which point I set it for 15 minutes of blissful "do whatever you want" time. Lately, it has taken me the entire 45 minutes to write one paragraph. I won't even begin to calculate how long it will take me to write the entire dissertation at this rate. Eek! Instead, I will use the remaining 11 minutes and 42 seconds to make random comments. Here I go!

A note on the election: Like many Americans, I was enveloped in the warm fuzzy feeling of democracy in action when I cast my ballot. It was a gorgeous fall day and living in a free and peaceful country felt particularly delicious. My giddiness turned to solemnity as I listened to McCain's remarkably gracious concession speech. Then there was the historic moment when Obama took the podium as our first African-American President-Elect as the cameras panned thousands of jubilant people who were witnessing the unbelievable become reality. I wouldn't wish his position on anyone -- given the perilous circumstances of the present, it takes a double-dose of audacity to think that anyone could manage the job. Still, I just hope and pray that he will exercise wisdom and statesmanship. And I marvel that despite all our flaws, America remains a country where transitions of power are smooth and peaceful.

Additions to my "less-effective" list: 1) accidentally flushing my contact lenses down the toilet, 2) writing a check for over $600 to my voice teacher to pay for my $15 lesson (thankfully, she didn't cash it)

Favorite comfort foods at the moment: 1) "tension tamer" herbal tea, 2) homemade hot and sour soup (chicken broth, ginger, garlic, lime juice, chili sauce, green onions, and mushrooms), 3) a plain old McDonald's hamburger with the little hamburger patty, minced onions, lots of ketchup, and a pickle, 4) caramels

Strange dreams: Although I haven't spoken Russian in years or even thought about Russia lately, I dreamt in Russian the other night. Go figure! My brain really must be in overdrive these days.

Number of great workouts of late: zero

Number of days sick with apparently the same bug: approximately 18 out of the last 30!

On that note, I bid you all adieu and return to my regularly scheduled program of dissertating.

Less Effective

When I was a missionary, "less effective" was the euphemism of choice to describe those moments when we made a mess of things. It was a nice way of saying "that was one of the dumbest things you could have done/said, but there's still a sliver of hope that you'll do better next time." The subtext: Perhaps, someday, you'll even approach effective!

Although I've been home from my mission over ten years now, I still struggle with effective living. As evidence, here's a few recent examples:

- I must have been very, very tired after attending a rip-roaring Halloween party on Saturday night 'cuz I didn't gain consciousness until 10:24 a.m. Sunday morning. Even when I try, I can never sleep past 9:00 and I had set my alarm -- to no avail. Since church starts at 11:00 and the chapel is a 20 minute drive from my house, I threw on some clothes in a mad flurry and rushed out the door (taking time to put on my brand-new, albeit very cheap, earrings and necklace). Of course, I was supposed to teach a lesson for the 2 year-olds in nursery and naturally, I had planned to prepare it in the morning. Nursery was crazy -- especially my pseudo-lesson -- but we all survived. When the last child was handed over to her parents, I went to put on my coat. But alas, my coat was nowhere to be found. It eventually occurred to me that I had left my coat in the chapel and the woman I had been sitting next to might have picked it up. Sure enough. My coat had gotten tossed in with the pile of the other family's coats and was now at her house -- with my keys in the pocket. So, my poor friend had to drive back to the church to deliver my coat and keys. Whew! Finally I could go home and restart the day. But as the crowning touch I discovered that a) I had a rotten banana in my bag leftover from last week's nursery snack and b) both of my new earrings and fallen out at some point and were gone and lost forever. Less effective!

- Last night, I cycled 10 miles on my stationary bike -- while I munched on chocolate. (I'm not kidding.) Less effective!

- On a particularly frustrating and treacherous writing day, I managed to sit in front of my computer for several hours and wrote one paragraph. Less effective!

My grand conclusion: I am effectively inept. Three cheers for those of us still struggling with the fundamentals of earth life!

Fun and Entertainment: Idaho Style

Thanks to a soon-to-expire, free airplane ticket , I semi-spontaneously dashed off to Idaho last week for a quick visit with my sister and her family. What else was I to do with a looming deadline for my dissertation proposal, an article still not submitted for publication, and a bunch of student work waiting to be graded? That's right. Escape. (Besides, I hadn't seen the kids for nearly a year!)

All interested parties were happy with the idea. ("Aunt Anny, it's so much better to have you here in person than just hearing your voice!) However, my brother-in-law reminded me that I always seem to visit at the wrong time of year. People flock to Sandpoint, Idaho (population 624, not counting wildlife) in the summer for glorious biking, hiking, and boating or in the winter for skiing. But in October when it's too cold to be pleasant outside, but not cold enough for the snow to fly, you're left with few options.

Undaunted by the scarcity of conventional recreational opportunities, we managed to have a rip-roaring time nonetheless. Here's a list of the top 11 ways to entertain yourself in Sandpoint in October. (Yes, we did every single one.)

11. Watch a kids' soccer game in freezing, windy weather
10. Change diapers for a very darling, wiggly 11-month-old
9. Practice the piano with a very darling, dramatically stubborn 8-year-old
8. Build super cool lego ships with a very darling, smart 6-year-old
7. Read books and cuddle on the couch with a very darling, adorable 3-year-old
6. Eat 100-calorie snack packs at midnight with a very capable, interesting, and exhausted orthodontist and his equally capable, interesting, and exhausted wife
5. Decorate a haunted cookie castle
4. De-junk a closet
3. Play a cut-throat round of "Duck, Duck, Goose" for Family Home Evening
2. Spend an hour with the kids dancing to a fuzzy version of "Lawrence Welk" on PBS (a regular Saturday night tradition)
1. Cheer as the baby takes his first steps

October in Sandpoint works just fine for me!

Presidential Temperament

While I have reservations about both presidential candidates, I am increasingly moving towards this position: Although I disagree with some of Obama's positions (namely, his tendency towards widespread government intervention), I believe he is fundamentally competent, well-intended, intelligent, and reasonable. McCain, on the other hand, has some swell ideas, but seems to be fundamentally temperamental and impulsive (the downside to being a maverick). And that worries me -- a lot. George Will, a conservative columnist, expressed it this way in yesterday's Washington Post:

Conservatives who insist that electing McCain is crucial usually start, and increasingly end, by saying he would make excellent judicial selections. But the more one sees of his impulsive, intensely personal reactions to people and events, the less confidence one has that he would select judges by calm reflection and clear principles, having neither patience nor aptitude for either.

It is arguable that, because of his inexperience, Obama is not ready for the presidency. It is arguable that McCain, because of his boiling moralism and bottomless reservoir of certitudes, is not suited to the presidency. Unreadiness can be corrected, although perhaps at great cost, by experience. Can a dismaying temperament be fixed?

Perhaps. But the White House does not seem the ideal place for such an experiment.

(Here is the link to Will's column.)

Bonding with a Six-Year-Old Boy

The following is an approximate transcript of a deep conversation I had with my nephew tonight on the phone. (To preserve confidentiality, the name has been changed.)

Michael: Aunt Anny, you're a pickle brain! [giggle, giggle]
Anny: You're a tuna-fish head!
Michael: You're a stinky foot! [chortle, chortle]
Anny: You're a pudding brain!
M: You're a chicken head! [snicker, snicker]
A: You're a cream of mushroom soup brain!
M: You're a peanut butter brain! [chuckle, chuckle]
A: You're a ramen noodle head!
M: You're a stinky elbow! [laugh, laugh]
A: You're a . . . uh, uh . . . uh [at a loss for words]
M: (whispers in grave seriousness) Aunt Anny, let's keep our names for each other a secret.
A: O.k.
M: (whispers) It'll be part of our special friendship.

A Case for Blinking: Sarah Palin and the Vice Presidency

When it comes to politics, I am a Republicrat – or if you prefer, a Democrican -- one of those pesky, non-committal Independents. And lest anyone accuse me of being a secret agent of the “Liberal Media,” I am writing solely from the position of a genuinely concerned and conflicted citizen.

It’s no secret that the entry of Sarah Palin to the Republican ticket has stirred up the race in unforeseen and powerful ways. I think Palin is gutsy and smart. It’s refreshing to have a counterpoint to the Hilary Clinton motif of a strong, politically savvy woman. But charisma, passion, and grit don’t necessarily make a person ready to be Vice-President, let alone President. Yes, Palin’s “inexperience” troubles me. But not as much her rhetoric. I find the following excerpt from her recent interview with Charlie Gibson particularly distressing. (http://abcnews.go.com/print?id=5782924)

GIBSON: Governor, let me start by asking you a question that I asked John McCain about you, and it is really the central question. Can you look the country in the eye and say "I have the experience and I have the ability to be not just vice president, but perhaps president of the United States of America?"

PALIN: I do, Charlie, and on January 20, when John McCain and I are sworn in, if we are so privileged to be elected to serve this country, will be ready. I'm ready.

GIBSON: And you didn't say to yourself, "Am I experienced enough? Am I ready? Do I know enough about international affairs? Do I -- will I feel comfortable enough on the national stage to do this?"

PALIN: I didn't hesitate, no.

GIBSON: Didn't that take some hubris?

PALIN: I -- I answered him yes because I have the confidence in that readiness and knowing that you can't blink, you have to be wired in a way of being so committed to the mission, the mission that we're on, reform of this country and victory in the war, you can't blink.
So I didn't blink then even when asked to run as his running mate.

Come now, Governor Palin. You didn’t blink? Perhaps you didn’t question your deep commitment to the country, but didn’t the call to serve cause you to quiver a tiny bit? Honestly – who is ready to step onto the world stage as leader of one of the most powerful and complex nations on earth at a time when the country (not to mention the world) is transitioning precariously into the 21st century? If this position didn’t cause you to shake in your boots, I’m worried about your judgment. Granted, humility is unappreciated in today’s political climate. It might not be politically expedient to admit apprehension. But how about a response something like this: “Of course, I wrestled with this decision. I carefully considered the implications on my family, my state, the nation, and the world. In the end, I made the decision to serve and feel confident in my ability.” Instead, you didn't even blink.

Such uber-confidence has not always been the hallmark of American politics. In his first inaugural address (http://www.nationalcenter.org/WashingtonFirstInaugural.html), George Washington expressed his trepidation this way:

The magnitude and difficulty of the trust to which the voice of my country called me, being sufficient to awaken in the wisest and most experienced of her citizens a distrustful scrutiny into his qualifications, could not but overwhelm with despondence one who (inheriting inferior endowments from nature and unpracticed in the duties of civil administration) ought to be peculiarly conscious of his own deficiencies.

Washington, who had a depth and breadth of experience unrivaled by most of his peers, was keenly aware of the weightiness and impossibility of the task set before him. His was a wisdom tempered by the refining fires of hard fought battles and complex negotiations. When congress wasn’t properly supporting his troops, he didn’t have the luxury of sweeping in with a grand brush of “reform” (ala fire your enemies and hire your friends). He knew that it took more than a “will to win” to achieve victory against a far superior army. He recognized that uniting diverse peoples, cultures, and economies into a fledgling nation would demand patience, diplomacy, and compromise. In short, he knew the Presidency would test the abilities and characters of even the best of men -- or women, for that matter.

A fundamental facet of wisdom and good judgment is knowing what you don’t know, having at least a sense of the magnitude of the task before you. So far, I don’t see this characteristic in Sarah Palin. And that, my friends, is causing me to blink before I vote.

A Series of Mostly Fortunate Events

(My new living room -- the exotic couch pillows and cattails on the endtable are compliments of Marjorie)

When I was a child, I loved a book about a little girl who had all kinds of adventures. The story went something like this: "Fortunately, Elizabeth got to visit her uncle's farm in the countryside and jump from the barn loft into heaps of hay. Unfortunately, there was a pitchfork in the heap of hay. Fortunately, she barely missed landing on the pitchfork. Unfortunately, she also missed the pile of hay. Fortunately . . . " You get the gist.

The past couple weeks of my life have followed a similar motif.

Fortunately, my dear friend, Cherice, bequeathed me with her lovely apartment when she moved to Utah.

Unfortunately, this means Cherice no longer lives in Michigan.

Fortunately, other kind people stepped in to help me pack and move -- including Marjorie and Ramona who packed up most of my apartment and some of the busiest men from church who kindly volunteered their Saturday morning and brute strength to move my belongings.

Unfortunately, on Saturday afternoon I learned that the woman who had been planning to move into my old apartment (and thus prevent me from having to pay double-rent for September until my lease expired) would not be able to move in after all due to circumstances out of her control.

Fortunately, just as I was about to shrivel up from exhaustion, the sister missionaries called and offered to help me clean the old apartment.

Unfortunately, I now had two apartments: one that was vacant and one that was equally uninhabitable due to mountains of boxes.

Fortunately, Nan and Janice showed up at my doorstep at just the right moments to help me unpack.

Unfortunately, my new apartment -- although spacious, sunshiny, and clean -- was rather boring and austere.

Fortunately, Marjorie helped me hang my pictures and plates and provided a trunk full of home decor items to "punch up" my apartment.

Unfortunately, my super comfortable "punched-up" apartment did not come equipped with a pre-written dissertation.

Fortunately, I have close to a year to write the silly book.

Unfortunately, my laptop was nigh unto death and I could only see the screen if I was in a dark room.

Fortunately, Best Buy had laptops on sale for a very good price.

Unfortunately, my bank account took a third major hit when I received a terse notice informing me that I had failed to pay city taxes in 2005. Ouch! (It was an accident, truly!)

Fortunately, I happen to enjoy rice and beans and consumed them for three days straight, thus saving oodles of money that might otherwise have been spent on groceries.

So you see, all's well that ends well!

Grad School Angst

I've enjoyed a stretch of mostly stress-free days this summer. Nights, however, are a different story. Often I have dreams that are -- well, stressful. For example, the other night I dreamt that I was desperate for a haircut. My regular stylist wasn't available, so I had another woman in the shop cut my hair. When I gave her my card to pay for the cut, the charge rang up as $150. "Why didn't you tell me it would cost this much?!!" I exclaimed in my dream. And then sobbing, I wailed, "But I don't have that much money!" Very stressful indeed. But not as stressful as last night's dream. Last night was a new version of my recurring concentration camp nightmare. In the dream, I was a prisoner fearing for my life. There were hundreds of us held captive under the watchful eye of brutal guards. Our job? We were housed in a library and were forced to study all day, every day. Given my present vocation, it doesn't take a therapy session to interpret that dream. Do you suppose I've been a student far too long?

A Mother's Prayer

Depending on who you ask, I have either the best or the worst job in the church. I consider it the best. I'm the nursery leader -- which means each Sunday I get to spend two hours playing with some of the youngest congregants while their parents teach other classes or attend the adult meetings. Instead of having to sit reverently for long periods of time, those of us in the nursery (on a good day) attempt to sit reverently for approximately 2 1/2 minutes while one of the adults gives a short sermon appropriate for two-year olds. The rest of the time we play with toys, go for walks outside, color, sing, dance around with scarves, blow bubbles, and have a snack. Who wouldn't love a worship service like this?!

Believe it or not, we do occasionally get a child who does not love it. Not at all. I suspect it has something to do with being thrust into the arms of strange grown-ups in a room full of strange children for an indeterminate amount of time. It's like being in the slammer -- when the door shuts, you can only peer at the outside world through a small window and there's no escape. Your mother is on one side of the glass and you're on the other. In such dire straits, even your very own bag of fruit snacks is small solace.

Eighteen-month old Katie (not her real name) had been inconsolable in nursery for two weeks. We tried everything and occasionally, she would get distracted for 30 seconds only to burst into tears the moment she remembered her misery. Most children eventually resign themselves to their fate after a few minutes, but not Katie. Her heart was broken. Her mom tried staying with her in the nursery room, but the moment Katie lost sight of her, the tears started again.

Last week, Katie's mom dropped her off and told us she had been talking to Katie about nursery, assuring her that she would indeed come back for her. Then she left us a very sad little girl. Katie cried for a few minutes until I managed to distract her with a toy. To my surprise, she played with the toy for several minutes. Eventually, I even put her down. It was obvious that Katie wasn't feeling 100% secure or happy about the situation and she needed plenty of reassurance. But for most of the two hours, Katie was reasonably happy and when she got sad, she was consolable. I'm not sure if 18-month old children are able to make a choice to be courageous, but this was one brave little girl. Of course, I attributed Katie's relatively successful day in nursery to her naturally becoming accustomed to nursery like most kids do. I also thought she might have decided that I was an o.k. adult. Probably, these were factors, but I discovered the most important reason when her mother picked her up. She was pleased that Katie had done so much better and said, "I've been praying all week that she would be happy in nursery."

No wonder. The faith of Katie's dear mother, God's love for little children, Katie's natural responsiveness to heavenly comfort: this is why Katie was able to be brave. If the Savior is aware of sparrows who fall, He certainly cares about little girls who are scared to go to nursery. And if He cares about that, He also cares about the seemingly trivial concerns of grown-ups. All we have to do is let Him know.

Photo by hlkljgk - retrieved from www.flickr.com/photos/52473526@N00/911016819 on August 2, 2008

Tales from an urban center with small town charm

I add now to my collection of small-town tales, a story from a visit to a very large city with my dear friend, Carol Lynn.

From browsing travel guides and websites, we learned that Toronto loves to boast the largest, tallest, most anything in North America – e.g. The tallest free-standing building, the largest southeast Asian market, the largest Greektown, etc. But we think Toronto must be the friendliest city in North America. Repeatedly, we were approached by perfect strangers who asked if they could help us find something. The workers at the hotel were kind and gracious, as were the servers at restaurants, etc. We had a great impression of the city – clean, quiet, safe and filled with well-groomed and polite people. (Although we’re certain some people must have a different opinion of Toronto, we choose to maintain our happy caricature.)


We stayed at a lovely Marriott Residence Inn – our nicest hotel of the trip. The room was truly tastefully decorated with every amenity and the breakfast buffet was impressive. We did have to get used to the idea of paying $30 for parking, but after discovering that free parking does not exist in Toronto, we conceded.

Opera on the Subway

We walked along the harbor and then took the subway to Greektown. A man was sitting next to me on the subway. He was a big, burly, black man with hair that was nearly shaved off except for a Mohawk strip down the middle. Dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, the guy had an Ipod and appeared to be really getting into his music. We were subtly (or not so subtly) staring at him wondering if this guy was a wanna-be hip hop singer or just mentally unstable. But then he started to make some gestures imbued with grace and passion, a look of sheer ecstasy on his face – like he was really being carried away by the music. When we exited the train, he started to sing, a gorgeous sound escaping his lips. Carol Lynn boldly tapped him on the shoulder and asked, “Are you singing opera?” (She had recognized the signs and symptoms of a true opera singer). He smiled and said yes – he was on his way to a rehearsal for a Handel opera. Carol Lynn complimented him on his voice. He thanked her and mentioned that he had decided to stop worrying about people thinking he was crazy on the subway. Wow. After walking a couple blocks, Carol Lynn realized we might have been able to hear the guy really sing. We regretted not following him and asked several friendly Torontonians if there was an opera theater in Greektown. (There wasn’t, but they were amused by our request.) One woman – after an enthusiastic round of “welcome Americans!” – brought us a free newspaper in the hopes that we could find it. Although we didn’t find the theater, we did find a Greek bakery and enjoyed a delicious custard pastry served by a woman who called us “love.” (Thanks, love!)

A long walk

We then walked to the India Bazaar. I had read that it was the largest Asian market in North America and imagined a big market with all kinds of interesting things. Plus, it looked relatively close on the map. Periodically, we asked someone for directions and each time the person assured us that it was a 10-15 minute walk. At least an hour and several miles later (in the sweltering humidity) we arrived. On the way, however, we had some interesting encounters. For instance, I visited with an elderly gentleman sitting in the shade with his dog. When I complimented him on the dog, he told me that she loved the cold, but the heat made her very tired. She was 14 years old, after all. He explained that his air conditioner was broken. When the repairman came to fix it, he had discovered a nest of bees inside and refused to tinker with it. “That’s why we’re outside,” he explained.


We also wandered through various neighborhoods with residents from all over the world. We passed by a park where small groups of elderly Chinese men were intently playing a game resembling checkers. We saw a cluster of children (presumably from a daycare) that was the most multicultural group of children we had ever seen outside of picture books designed to be politically correct. We passed a block of stores devoted to Middle Eastern goods and stopped for a moment in an Islamic bookstore. When we finally arrived at India Bazaar (which turned out to be a couple blocks of shops carrying goods from India), we were hot and tired. We walked into a store jam-packed with stuff and strongly smelling like incense. Instead of music in the background, they had a yoga tape with the soothing voice of a man speaking English with a pronounced Indian accent. “Become very aware of your body. If you are wearing anything tight, loosen it. Now relax every muscle from the top of your head to your toes. Just breeeathe.”

Breathe we did – and promptly found a bus that would take us back to the subway station.

(Photos taken by Carol Lynn, the artist)