PB and I took a few days off last week.  We decided to drive north until the temperature was below 100 degrees.  It proved to be a long drive, but a lovely time away together.  PB is a great travel partner.  He does all the driving and lets me read out loud to him. 

Going on vacation is like jumping off a twirling merry-go-round.  Suddenly the spinning gives way to stillness with open space and time.  It’s dangerous — you begin to entertain thoughts about what life would be like without the constant whirl of work and responsibilities.  You flirt with the idea of moving to a little cabin on a northern lake and writing the next great American novel.  It makes perfect sense at the time — it only seems ludicrous in retrospect.

Turning toward home, you know you have to jump back on the merry-go-round.  There is no gradual slide in — you must begin to run and fling yourself on the dizzying platform.  It’s not long before it feels right to be spinning around again, but the initial plunge is brutal.  Still, at some point, while working up speed to jump back on, the thought crosses your mind, “Do I really want to get back on this thing?  Why not go over and swing awhile longer?”

I found this picture when going through a box of old photos. It’s a shot of my dad standing outside the old farmhouse. Both the house and the man are gone now but I’m wishing I could ask him a hundred questions about this precious portrait.

How old were you in this picture?  You played baseball?  What team were you on?  What position did you play?  Were you any good?  Who took this picture?  Did you wonder if you’d have grandsons that would play baseball?  No, I don’t suppose you were thinking about grandchildren yet.  Were you happy to pose for this picture, or were you anxious to get to the ball field?  Did grandpa and grandma go and watch you play?  Did you ever hit a home run?  Did your team win that day?  Did you play any other sports?  Why don’t I know?

This is the first year I haven’t bought a Father’s Day card.  As I walked past the cards today, I couldn’t help but hope I had picked out good and meaningful cards all those years.  I know I got it right once.  The best Father’s Day card I remember giving my dad was when I was about seven or eight.  We were on vacation and dad had cut his finger.  My elaborate home-made card to him stated that I would squeeze the lemon into his iced tea each day, so the juice wouldn’t sting his finger.  He probably got tired of drinking iced tea, but he kept ordering it just so I could make good on my pledge.  That’s what I do know.

For many years, I saw my life as a river — a swiftly flowing current, constantly moving, carrying me along.  Well-defined banks kept my life on course, but the river was rolling, incessantly rolling, ever rolling.  School activities, sporting events, concerts, homework, practices, games, musicals, friends, youth group, driver’s licenses, laundry, dating, college, cooking, parties — always a feeling of just trying to keep my head above water.  Surrendering to the river’s energy that kept me moving forward, I learned to navigate the steady stream and keep us all afloat in the family lifeboat.

What I didn’t know was that the river had a destination. 

I wasn’t even aware that the familiar waterway was actually hurrying me along to a new place.

Rivers run to the sea.

Suddenly there has been a great emptying out, a swift deposit from the river into a deep and wide expanse.  Instead of being pushed along by a demanding, coursing current, I now find myself bobbing, floating in unfamiliar waters.  The schedules, the menus, the lists, those rigid banks which were so much a part of river-life, are not necessary here.  I still feel a powerful force beneath me, but in a different sense.  My life-as-a-sea plays out as a series of waves — in and out, ebbing and flowing.  Great tidal waves of family gatherings are followed by even greater times of stillness.  I must adapt to this new rhythm of the waves and discover how to ride them in and out with grace.  I must learn to manage this new sea-life — to become at ease in vast open spaces without clearly marked boundaries, yet endless possibilities.

There’s a wideness in God’s mercy, like the wideness of the sea.

Since when did my own kids become “company”?  PB and I have been cleaning like crazy, getting ready for everyone to come home.  We vacuumed the dust bunnies along the walls, we wiped out the crumbs under the toaster, and even Bo got a bath.  PB pulled the weeds out in front of the house, he mowed the yard not once, but twice, and put aromatherapy beads in the hot tub.  I bought enough food to feed the Green Bay Packers, laid out new towels in the bedrooms and sprayed “Italian Linen” room freshener all over.  I tell ya, we’re going all out.

Didn’t they used to clean for me?  I faintly remember the days of making lists of household chores for each of the children.   Alas, we have crossed a line into a new season.  My own offspring are now my guests.

I’m ok with that, as long as they bring grandkids with them.  (Hud Bud arrives today!)

I’m so sorry. 

My deepest apologies. 

Our grandson, Hudson, is coming this week and I just want to prepare you.  There will be no holding back from posting umpteen pics of the little guy.  I will unashamedly gush and carry on about this perfect child.  If you can’t stomache the ravings of a head-over-heels-in-love Nonnie, you’d better turn the other way.  Before clicking on your link to small drop, consider whether or not you can endure unabashed bragging about Hud Bud. 

 Trying to be up-front with you.

I won’t be able to help it. 

Just so you know. 

Where in the world have PB and I been? 

These pics say it all!

What a wonderful world.

KNOCK, KNOCK. 

Hey!  Anybody home?  Anybody on the other side of this computer screen?

It’s me – Hudson!

Nonnie?  Poppa O?  Are you there?  Can you hear me?

 Turn on the Skype, I want to see you!