firstfruits

I'd plunk her down
On a blanket spread over green grass.
Newborn baby girl, squirm and coo,
So peaceful, idyllic as little one lay quiet beside
mother me, gloriously and carefully planting my beautiful garden. . .

Yeah right.

Charli--poop her pants and smile--Wusk
would look angelic on her little blanket,  
for a time.
But the real pastoral scene came in static bursts
between stoccato steps of momma feet wearing a path in the grass.

I'd begin to dig a furrow - wah!
  Pick her up
  Put her down
Plant some seed - wah!
  Pick her up
  Put her down
Finish the row - wah!
  Pick her up
  Put her down
Cover the row - wah!

Slowly, through action squished between slow stints of consolation
our first garden went in the ground.
Somehow cultivation followed frustration to lead to
Crisp color yums
from backyard dirt, sweat, and patience.

Firstfruits.

Shrove Tuesday

Shrove Tuesday (or Pancake Tuesday) is a day of confession.

I must confess that I have been away from writing.  It was nice to rest in the needed hiatus following my dissertation, but I have decided that it's time.  Time to write again.  This year for my lenten devotion I have decided that I am going to write every day.  Something.  Every. Day.  While a large majority of this stuff will be crap (that is for certain), just the idea of writing every day means that perhaps something will come out in the writing.  After all, I like to tell my students that an important tool in writing is their butts.  A butt in a writing chair got a lot more writing done than most other tools.

So each day I will write.  Starting tomorrow.  I am not going to narrowly define my topics or wrangle myself into writing things that I hate.  Instead, I am going to simply follow the intent of this blog in the first place--to focus on how today is a REAL day--a day to live life to the fullest.  Within this lenten season will come the birth of our first child and the time that comes following that.  I see it as a good time to document.

I have debated about giving up FaceBook for lent.  I toss and turn the idea.  Just this morning I learned of a friend leaving youth ministry.  I wouldn't have without the good 'ole FB; however, I have come to see that each morning as I lazily scroll through posts--most of which are simply a waste of time--that I am missing the magic hour at the start of the day.  I am missing it.

Perhaps that is my Lenten devotion this year more simply--to stop missing it.

Christmas Letter 2011

"Release the tension in your shoulders.  Now in your back . . . "  At the end of each of our pregnancy classes the teacher leads the class of six couples through a relaxation series that always leaves me feeling refreshed and a little like my legs are full of Jell-O (in a good way).  Last week at our class I was just starting to feel relaxed when I heard it.  It was getting slower . . . and deeper . . . and louder.  Ralph's breathing was starting to sound like it does each night just before he goes to sleep.  I felt the sense of panic begin to rise in my previously calm body as I realized what was about to happen.  I decided to squint through my right eye to see if the other couples in the class were noticing.  None seemed to catch on until his breathing went from loud and breathy to an all-out snore.  The peacefulness of the dark room was gone for good, as I got the worst case of church giggles in my life.

Gosh, I love being married. :)

Yes, Ralphie and I are expecting a little bundle of Wusk joy toward the end of March.  We're hoping it has Ralph's charisma and my study habits.  Each time the baby kicks, Ralph takes it as evidence of its impending athleticism.  I guess we'll just have to see.  The little one will grow up as a Sterling Jet as we just moved to the booming metropolis in August.  It is a bit ironic as Ralph and my relationship started with me talking extreme smack about his small hometown . . . I guess maybe there was more flirting going on there than any real hard feelings.

Life Lessons Learned in the "Real World" Vol. 6

·      All pants should have elastic waistbands. (I might just wear these pregnancy jeans for the rest of my life.)

·      It doesn't take long to accumulate way too much stuff. (Thanks to everyone who helped us move all our junk!)

·      The best dissertation is a done dissertation.

·      Living in a small town IS all it's cracked up to be.

·      Making sauerkraut isn't as tough as you might think.  (Thanks to my in-laws and their good teaching!)

·      Gas is expensive.  (Ralph is commuting to the Department of Veterans Affairs in Lincoln, and I'm cruising east to work at Peru State College while still helping out with confirmation classes on Wednesday nights in Lincoln).

·      Seeing the Harry Potter movie at a midnight showing is exhausting.  (Thanks to my sister for reminding me that I'm not too old to stay up late).

·      With a FULL beard and long hair Ralph resembles Joaquin Phoenix during the time period when everyone thought he was going crazy.

·      The waiting time before a baby is full of joy and excitement.

I can always tell Christmas is here as Ralph starts talking about the end of his Fantasy Football League.  How does he always make it into those championships?  Yes, 2011 has been a year of changes, and like every year, we're continuing to learn.  While this year had many turns that we didn't anticipate, I have a feeling that next year might have even more to teach us. 

new house. new job. new pant size.

new house

White siding. Just old enough.
It is just
what I wanted
all these years
quiet
old yet and new
friendly somehow
with a gathering curve out front
I sit here in the living room
six windows play frame to
the art of yellow leaves changing.
I wonder at the life
unfolding here
all the leaf changes to come
and snows to fall
and knees to scrape
and Christmas giggles at a present gone
so right
or so wrong.
I will look back
at this kitchen, dining room, sun room
and life overflowing, busting the edges
with people and things we did
and laughs we shared
and messes we made
Now it starts
just walls, just rooms, just stuff.
I'm sitting in a blank canvas
and the paints will come fast and furious
Lord, help me stop and smell the brush strokes.

new job

I bought a lime green lamp.
Somehow that one thing gave me vision.
For the new office of
professor Wusk, not quite yet.
Three classes this fall
three this spring
new faces
new meetings
And I can talk about this from my gut
I fit in the classroom
back home somehow
I shift weight though
in the meetings
wondering how I fit
here in a candyland of words and spinning wheels
yet
thankful for a flexibility
that allows my hope and wondering thoughts
I know this will be my job
the longest job I've ever had
While I've been there awhile, It's like I've only
just put my toe into the waistband of a new pair of jeans.
I wonder at the fit still.
I know this will feel different in a bit.
But for now at least, I like the color, the fade
in this, my place of work.

new pant size

It was only last week when the first
stranger asked if I was expecting.
Yes
I am. Delighted.
Thank you
For noticing.
Anticipation stacked on anticipation
this normal thing
not seeming so normal
when it's your insides
squirming through
these months of changes
uncomfortable and yet more comfortable than ever
the one thing I've always known
myself to want
And yet I wonder, Why?
But when I remember myself--with all my thoughts and foibles--
my beginnings just this way
I can't imagine an excitement
more intense in hue
than this waiting
and wondering
at the slow change that will be the change
from all I've heard.
I want to meet him or her.
And I will never, even for a second, think/feel/know
the immensity of this.
As we walk through it like it's normal
buying a crib
playing the easy escape
owning simply a consumer role
and sometimes for entire days
forgetting just how close we are
to gravity changing.

not mine

my decision

made

a person

and yet

not me wholly

but in part

I see a little man

two and a half

a middle name we planned

realize he wouldn't have been

necessarily

if I moved somehow different. . .

shaking hands

would not have been

if I moved somehow. . .

lost job

would not have been

if I moved. . .

lukemia

would not have been

if I. .

or rather, if I didn't

what if

all were mine?

my son, my patient

my lost job

my loneliness

my prayers

way leads on to way

so

how do I pray?

he's his

a person, on accident?

not quite, I know

but wonder

my decision made

a person

and he's sick today

so I forget how sick this makes me

and pray

for what's not mine

cold coffee

My grandpa used to drink cold coffee in the afternoon--at least that's what somebody told me. A warm pot in the morning, cold on ice after lunch.

He was a big man in my memory, and I'm not sure how much I'm piecing together from pictures, and how much is real. I was only nine when he died.

But I do remember Key overalls with Kodiak chew in the front pocket. . . and in his lip. His shock white comb-over would blow up like a gusting flag in the breeze and then settle back down all in one piece. When he would come in the house and take off his tall mesh-backed John-Deere hat, his hair would flop out crazy like Doc's on Back to the Future. Grandpa's one-handed quick smooth over assured him it somehow looked better. It didn't, not really.

I wish I could remember more.

One memory has clear colors. It was in the early morning, and stood the bottom of the stairs with a window at my right hand side. I bounced down the stairs that morning never thinking--

Mom said he died the night before. Next I'm sitting on the counter at my grandma's house in town. Dad comes in and hugs me, crying--only one of two times that I can remember. Maybe he has more, but I only know two for sure. I wonder how hard it is to lose your parent. I wonder how you go on when everything has to be so rough-edged. I wonder if Dad thinks he's like his dad. Does he miss him? What were they like together when Dad was little? I wonder. Were they friends, or was it more--I'm the parent, you're the kid. I wonder if Grandpa had the same scarred, thick hands.

I only see glimpses of this man who was my Grandpa. I can't really say I knew him enough to know him now. Once I met an old guy in Auburn who drove an old white pick-up with wood boards in truck bed. He put it together who my grandpa was, and he looked off a little and smiled. "Ole Elmer," he said, "Elmer was a good 'ole boy. He'd come in to town and play cards 'purt near every day. . . Elmer was a good 'ole boy."

I don't know a whole lot about this man, but I like cold coffee too. Ralph and I haven't played cards in awhile. Maybe we should.

For July 1

Today I lived a real day.

It hurt. Walking in color.

Not the daily gray that I usually

Step, step through leaving no footprints

or echoes

Today I lived a real day, and emerging

I sit on the totter edge of difference.

My breath has been short, my guts turning

Thoughts bouncing, jumping, squirming

My anxious thread of existence

Taut.

Trying to guess at the text, the dialogue

Of the “conversation” coming

The words, the realities like a Jell-O fluff casserole

That I must push myself through

To emerge here.

In the now.

In the middle of this real day where life sprung

Zesty and sharp.

And on the other side of this huge serving

verbal tennis match

Where I stop---

Realizing the ball is out of my court--

He surprises me with his grace, in soft return.

His humanity

His ability to set emotion aside

And not to hide behind the easy way

Wet in corners his eyes smile,

In a way that make it okay

This horrible thing I’m telling him.

The words punching

Kicking

Scratching

His best intentions and life’s work.

That I wish I could will myself into

Costume me up for our real shared passion

I tick through the words. . . a slow cadence

From a hidden pool, leaked

They’re out—

And I’m naked.

But instead of punching back with his own river

Of words that punch from the azure spring of rage

That’s there if he rides in default

But he shifts gears

Melts grace over me like a warm butter quilt

That’s far too fancy for me.

It’s comfort scratches, but I sit. . . soaking.

Knowing he’s given his best

Though undeserved

It’s given.

Today I lived a real day.

And I’m tears, and I’m wrung out, and I’m alive.

A little broken. . .

Yet thankful.

That dialogues play out creative

Unforeseen, unexpected, unwiched between

All that is predictable.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow I shall pray again.

For today’s answer was so beautiful. Real.

Courage was mine. Grace was Yours.

And I give You thanks.

For smiling at me through his eyes.

As the two of us lived a real day today.

Meeting at a faintly lined crossroad

on this Pilgrim Journey.

I throw away my Kleenex

Balled and transparent as

tomorrows line up.

I look past them right at today

And my hope sits

Shiny

Quiet

Listening

In the real day, today.