We saw a dead sparrow, and a few thoughts on prayer

We went to breakfast on Saturday morning (the peach pecan muffin at Panera was outSTANDing) and Harper happened to spot a dead sparrow on the sidewalk. She asked if she might take it home and preserve it in some way,  and I demurred by saying that taxidermy is a complicated and exacting science that I was not ready to tackle just yet. Then I told her about the verse in the Bible (it is Matthew 10: 29--and yes, I had to look it up) where Jesus says not a sparrow falls to the ground apart from the will of God.  I love the idea that God in his omniscience is so interested in the small birds and other details that most of us miss. Although, imagine how sad it would be to know all of the details.

So we managed to go almost a week without the kids knowing about the bombing in Boston. Then our pastor mentioned it first thing in his sermon on Sunday. Harper whispered, "What happened?" So the husband jotted a little note on the picture she was drawing. I asked her (and Hudson) later that afternoon if they had any other questions about what they had heard. They were very interested in the fact that the FBI was involved. Hudson seemed to think that if Finn McMissile had been in Boston, the bombers might have been thwarted even sooner.

I was thinking about how, when one of these tragedies strikes, there is lots of bad theology everywhere. Most of it relates to prayer. I learned most of what I know about prayer when I worked at a children's hospital. I learned that sometimes children suffer and die, even when they are fervently prayed over. I learned that sometimes children get well, even if their parents haven't acknowledged that there might be Someone in charge of it all. I realized that we can't possibly pray against all of the crazy contingencies. That we can't predict the gene mutations and psychiatric quirks and bacterial infections gone awry.

We also can't predict the madmen. Which means we can't pray against their madmen evil.

I realized that when events like Boston (and Connecticut and Denver..) happen we should very quickly acknowledge that God is sovereign. That sometimes He intervenes. That sometimes He stays His hand. That we can never know to pray, "Dear Father, please keep my kids safe from a tortured kid with Aspergers and lots of ammunition today," or "Please, dear LORD protect me at the finish line from an explosion, " or, "while I watch this movie about Batman would you keep me safe from harm."

We can't possibly pray away the vagaries of individuals who are bent on destruction.

Which is why it bugs me when people who survive things like this start claiming a special mercy from the Almighty. I think the right response in these events is never ever, "Well, God was just watching over me," because it makes it seem like He wasn't "just" watching over that guy whose legs were blown away. A better (and more biblical) answer is always, "The LORD gives, and the LORD takes away. Blessed be the name of the LORD."

Does anyone remember a few years ago when that bridge collapsed near Minneapolis? I remember that for a week or so everyone was talking about bridges and specifications and things that we generally take for granted. This was something I already thought about every time I crossed over a bridge, especially one that crossed over water. How would I get out of the window? How would I get all three kids out of their carseats? How would I get the four of us safely to shore? So now, every time we cross over a bridge of any type, I pray something that goes like this:  "Sovereign God, in your Soveriegn will, could you sustain this bridge until we get across? Also after that? Because I don't want the people 4 cars back to fall into the Old and Lost River either and have to decide which of their kids to get out of the carseat first...." And usually by then we have crossed the Old and Lost Rivers and are on solid land and I whisper a "thank you for mercy, " and I try to remember to think of the families who lost someone they loved when that bridge in Minneapolis collapsed. Although sometimes one of the kids will then complain about someone looking at them or WHEN will we be HOME and I will want to say, "Don't you even UNDERSTAND what just happened? That bridge HELD and it could have collapsed?? GOD is merciful, and all you can do is COMPLAIN???"

So, I started this a week ago and never finished. I suppose we can never be finished pondering the mysteries of God.

The kids all passed their belt tests. Helena did so very daintily.

Also, that fever and rash I mentioned (that was actually two weeks ago today) was a touch of the streptococcus, diagnosed just today. Our very first kid antibiotic prescription. We made it almost 8 years. Not bad. Merciful, even.

The reader.

This boy and I (finally) finished our journey through Teach Your Child to Read in 100 Easy Lessons today. It has been, in the words of my favorite former Defense Minister and poet, Donald Rumsfeld, "a long, hard slog." Not because Hudson has been an unwilling participant (although we have had our days of Extreme Reluctance), but because finding the time to sit down with him, while it is quiet, has been a challenge. The last 20 lessons or so felt like we were swimming through molasses, to be honest. But now we are finished. Hooray!

I 

It was fun to look back and see what was going on when I finished it with Harper.

 On another reading note, Blogger will not let me add any more library books to my sidebar list (a fact which I only discovered after typing in around 30 titles, which did not show up. Which made me bitter.) so I need a new system. Maybe even a new blog, just for lists of books we've read, categorized in a way that might be useful to me and maybe even you. It's a good idea. Let's see how long it takes to make it actually happen. 

We've stayed home every day this week. Hudson had a fever on Monday, then a weird rash on his torso on Tuesday. He's fine now, but it is raining and it just seemed like so much work to figure out an indoor activity that doesn't cost lots of money. So the kids played out back with an umbrella, then they came in and practiced their heel kicks and hammer fists on boxes.They have a belt test in Taekwondo tomorrow. I really hope Hudson and his 36 pounds are going to be able to break the board.

The shirt Hudson is wearing in these pictures was what he bought for himself with the $10 the Grandparents Pate sent for Valentine's Day. I would have chosen differently. Thus far, I have mostly been able to convince him it is a staying at home shirt. It's interesting that he loves Ninjago even though he has never actually seen the show. How in the world did little boys even know what they were supposed to like before mass marketing strategies were emblazoned across t-shirts and Lego sets?

We got rid of cable a few months ago and I have not really missed it, other than an occasional late night longing for House Hunters International reruns. I still watch a couple of things free on-line, and the husband has bought a couple of things on itunes. I find I read more now, which is good I suppose.

We got an electric pencil sharpener. Finally.

Harper is learning to write in cursive. I am learning with her because I have always been dissatisfied with my cursive and, thus, I print. I think nice handwriting is something of a lost art. It's not the most important thing, of course, but since we have so much time on our hands, we can spend some of it on things that might just add a little unexpected beauty or creativity to our learning. 

We spied a yellow-crowned night heron in a ditch in our neighborhood on Tuesday. They are pretty common in Houston, but it was still exciting. I have almost driven off the road several times in my zeal to identify birds that are flying overhead:  "Is that a turkey vulture or a Cooper's hawk? CAN ANYONE SEE WHAT COLOR THE HEAD IS? (jerk the steering wheel) WHOA! THAT WAS CLOSE! WAIT--IS THAT A SCISSOR-TAILED FLYCATCHER UP THERE ON THE POWER LINE? HARPER? (jerk the steering wheel) WHOA!THAT WAS CLOSE!"

Making friends with the good

I've mentioned before that I am a lazy perfectionist. This is a troubling confluence of personality traits, as you can imagine. A few months back Mrs. S reminded me (as she was reminded by Mr. S) that perfection is the enemy of the good. That might not be the exact quote, but it's the right idea. It's freeing to embrace it.

I've been putting it to practice. The painting of the Big Year birds has commenced. John James Audubon would, every year on his birthday, toss an entire year of bird sketches into the fire, challenging himself to do better (more perfect) renditions in the coming year. I really wanted to toss my initial efforts into the fireplace as well, but then remembered that we don't have a fireplace. So, I shook hands with the good, and put my paintings in frames instead. Then the husband hung them on the wall above my reading chair.

Tree sparrow, Northern cardinal, mockingbird, and roseate spoonbill. I was particularly unhappy with the mockingbird, because I see them so often in our backyard and wanted to be able to paint what I see. As Jane Eyre laments, "I imagine things I am powerless to execute."

Here is Harper's purse that she wove on her lap loom. She embraces a lack of perfection in her work. I could learn from that. One day this week, I'll take pictures of the stuffed birds she is sewing. The fleecy brown scissor-tailed flycatcher came along with us to church yesterday and sang along with a very joyful, high pitched voice. He didn't seem to mind that one of his button eyes was hanging by a thread.

We hosted our dinner club on Saturday night. We had to improvise with our small tables. Not perfect, but good. Thanks to my friends, the salmon was not a disaster. Thanks to our friends, the conversation was rich. We are rich in friends. I'm thankful they put up with me.

How they sleep.

I think I got a record number of comments on that last post! Most of them from the two Mrs. B's being smart. Have I mentioned how thankful I am to have Friends Who Think? Because I am.

We met a group of friends in La Grange, Texas, yesterday afternoon for a gathering. I forgot the camera, which makes me sad. Mr. D told the husband that La Grange is the setting for the musical "Best Little Wh*rehouse in Texas." It was not chosen for that reason. It was chosen because it is about halfway between Houston and Austin/ San Antonio, where three of the families have moved in the past year or so. There was a rope swing over the Colorado River, and I partook. Is that even a word? It was peaceful, swinging like a pendulum over the river. I also saw a red bird on the opposite bank, but without binoculars I couldn't make a positive i.d. So, obviously I need some binoculars. Which, coupled with the fact that I overheard Mr. S having a conversation with another of the husbands about the merits of speed walking over jogging, means that we are officially a group of geriatrics. BRING me my BINOCOLARS Reginald! I am going for my daily speed walk/bird watching jaunt!

I don't have much more to write today, but thought I might document how each of the kids sleeps. Harper wraps her head in her pink blanket like a turban. It covers her eyes just slightly, and she takes a corner of it and lightly rubs it between her index and middle fingers as she falls asleep. She insists the closet door be closed, the ladybug constellation nightlight be turned on, and also the turtle night light in the hall. The Huffigan Johnigan has the blue blanket, which he scratches lightly with his fingernails while also (still) partaking of his thumb. They listen to the Baby Einstein classical lullabies cd that my friend Tara gave us when Hudson was born. Helena likes for all of us to do the motions to "The Grand Old Duke of York', then put on her Chapstick, then be tucked in, then kissed multiple times, then have her cd put back on the first song so she can go to sleep, also with her ladybug constellation nightlight and her door left open, please Mommy. Then she rolls over on her side, pops her two fingers in, and pinches a bit of sheet between the thumb and index finger of her other hand. 

Harper used her lap loom to weave herself a little purse over the weekend. I'll try to post a picture tomorrow. Last night as I was tucking them in I told them about Shakespeare and the  "sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care." Hudson kept asking HOW exactly sleeping is like knitting. And I just told him to close his eyes and he would see.

Now that they are all snug in their beds, I should be in mine. Knitting up the ravelled sleeve.

The Innocence Project, part 2

Part I is here.

There will be nary a photo today. Just a cringe-inducing story.

Every Saturday afternoon, the husband gives me an amazing gift. He tends to the kids and sends me off so I can be ALL ALONE. Sometimes I do errands. Sometimes I go somewhere and eat a cheeseburger or a piece of cake or maybe ice cream. Sometimes I take long walks. Usually, I go to the library and I sit and read or write while occasionally looking out the window at the ducks. So a few Saturdays ago, I had just arrived at the library and was looking for a book (Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson--I still have yet to start it because it is number four in my current stack) when I happened to overhear a conversation a dad and his son, who appeared to be about 9, were having with the librarian at the help desk. The dad said, "We've had a book on hold and we can't seem to figure out where it is." Then he said something else that led me to believe the book was for the boy. Then he said the title of the book. It happened to be a book I read in college that has an innocuous sounding title--a title that might sound like a book for a nine year old boy. Except the book is actually the story of a writer living in New York during the very hedonistic, drug soaked, yuppie intensive 1980's. NOT for nine year old boys. REALLY not. I'm wondering if he has some loopy English teacher who is trying to be "progressive." (I committed some sins of this nature with my high school students the first year I taught. I put a couple of books I had never read on the summer reading list because I knew were considered "classics". On the Road. I told 15 year old boys that they should read On the Road. I would do that differently if I had it to do over.) I debated whether or not to intrude. I walked up and down a couple of stacks. I found and checked out my book. They are still standing there. I decide to say something:

Me, to the dad: "I am so sorry to be eavesdropping, but can I ask you a quick question?"

The Dad: "Uh, sure?"

Me: "Is Bright Lights, Big City like, assigned reading at his school? Because it's really not a kids' book."

The Dad (blushing): "Oh, NO! Actually that one is for me. I'm in this reading group and it's our next book."

(Wince with me, won't you??)

Me (MORTIFIED, but yet, still can't stop talking): "OH!! GREAT. I just, you know, I read it in college and don't really remember much of it except that there was really just LOTS of  COCAINE? LOTS. SO much cocaine. And so anyway, I have kids and I just felt like I was SUPPOSED to say something. (at this point I notice that the librarian is glaring at me. Her eyes said something along the lines of, "Simmer down Tipper.") So, again, I'm sorry for being a busybody. Enjoy the book!!"

The Dad (even brighter red): "Um, sure?"


It was clearly not one of my best moments. I have shown my face in the library since then, and I feel like the librarians are watching me, expecting me to go all Fahrenheit 451 at any moment.

See you tomorrow! And in the meantime, don't let your kids read any books about cocaine, or I will CALL you OUT.

Crazy bird lady

Three days! Is that enough to make it a habit? At some point very soon, I am going to run out of words and also the patience it takes to post pictures from the old wheezy laptop.

I haven't mentioned the Big Year in a while, though it is still in progress. It is really going to be more of a small to medium sized year, but that is okay.  I also need to spend some time with the Audubon guide so that I don't have entries like #28 Swallow, #29 Other kind of swallow (without forked tail), and #30 Sparrow (House? Tree? Look this up) and #31 Other sparrow (black head? Or is this a chickadee?)

Anyway, we spent a few days with the grandparents Pate just before Easter, and we made yet another return to Shangri-La with my sister-in-law and nieces. Something very exciting was happening in Orange, Texas: the ROSEATE SPOONBILLS were NESTING. Also lots of herons (blue and white) and what I think were cormorants. We also took the boat ride this time. The kids really thought it was great, you can tell by Hudson's expression.Then on the way back to Houston, the kids and I decided to stop to spy on a rookery just off I-10 (east of the confluence of the Old and Lost Rivers) near Anahuac and there were MORE ROSEATE SPOONBILLS and boy, did they put on a show. My camera lens was woefully inadequate, but I have the picture of that big pink bird in flight with its long spoon shaped bill emblazoned in my mind. While we were marveling at the pink amazingness of the spoonbill, Hudson looked down from the viewing boardwalk and saw a 5 foot juvenile alligator. Then we spotted three more. Then there was a little blue heron flying by and I tried to get a picture while Helena leaned precariously over the railing, inches away from four alligators. It was an excellent day for birding. And alligatoring. And also turtle-ing:

g. 

Why indeed.

Two days in a row! Let the frenzy commence! Saturday night, I was brushing out Harper's mane before her weekly hair washing, and she invited Helena to help with the brushing. Which is HUGE progress on the Maginot Line of the sibling antagonism. Helena was delighted and as she scampered into the room where we were, she had on one of her signature bohemian layered multi-floraled, many polka dotted outfits (not, incidentally, what she had been wearing last I had seen her just after dinner) and also, she had a pair of pink and green underpants on her head like a jaunty beret. As she began the brushing, Harper whispered out of the side of her mouth, "Mommy, do YOU know why she is wearing panties on her head?" and I confessed that I did not. Helena just smiled mysteriously and focused intently on her sisterly task.

At one of the prisons near our house (this is where I pause and let you giggle uncomfortably) there are pigs that we can see (and smell) as we drive past on the highway. I have never seen any actual prisoners there actually tending to the pigs, but in my mind, they are there early every morning, and they are the Prodigal Son. There are also corn fields and cotton fields and I picture the prisoners working and enjoying the feel of the soil, and imagining a day when they will have paid their debt, and they will come out better, and not worse. And they will run to their Father, who will throw a feast. Anyway, it invites good discussions with the kids, and one day Hudson proclaimed, "Prison sounds AWESOME! Can I GO there?" after I told them they get all the water they need, three meals a day, a weight room, and also probably a library.

We went to the symphony today. There was a composition called "Playground Escapades" that was supposed to Invite an Important Dialogue About Bullying. Those trumpets and their brassy mocking! Thankfully, the English horn stepped in to save the day, as only he can. We got home and Hudson asked, "Mommy, what is a bully?" and I told him it's a trumpet player who plays over the violins and cellos.

 See you tomorrow! I think I am officially on a roll.