In Honor of the Lunar Eclipse

To walk outside and discover moonlight fills the sky always fills me with serendipity, as if God says, "I have something for you!" And I, as though I have never seen the moon before, look up and smile in rapt wonder.




When I was a little girl, one October evening, squeezed between my mom and my grandma in the front seat of a car, I watched a gargantuan golden orb rise over the skyline. I don't think the moon could have possible have been as large as I remember it.

Flying into New Orleans above a cloud cover, I saw a full moon reflected on the clouds, creating a light show that rivaled the twinkling city lights of the Big Easy as we descended.

Driving to Louisville one evening, I watched the moon and the clouds play a celestial game of musical chairs, creating the most awesome study of light and shadow. I video taped some footage. (That, unfortunately, was accidentally erased.) From KC to Louisville is about a 7.5 hour drive -- sometimes boring -- but that night the time zoomed past.

One winter evening, a full moon shone upon the frozen water of Blue Springs Lake, casting everything in silver. A man-made lake, the east portion of it has dead trees rising above the water, which cast eerie shadows upon the silvery frost.

Nestled just so along the tree line, a new moon was barely visible in the darkening dusk, but at its bottom was the slenderest sliver of orange.

Time Flies

I have not posted here for almost a month. I was so full of ideas back in January -- felt like I had something to say everyday -- sometimes more than one thing to say.

Then life happened: substituting high school English/Spanish (¡Olé!) for two weeks, finishing a newsletter, dealing with a crashed hard drive. (Both mine, and my computer's!) I am so out of condition to put in an eight-hour day, to be on my feet ninety percent of that time, to keep up with the flurry of activity that surrounds teenagers.

I taught an American Romantic unit, covering some of my favorites: Thoreau, Longfellow, and Whitman. Spanish classes watched cultural videos, preparing for a language arts fair project. Fortunately, the Spanish teacher next door had a student teacher who helped the students check their workbook assignments. All went well, and I enjoyed the students.

Still, Thursday morning, I heard those long-familiar, poetic words: "Snow Day!" I have never appreciated a day off so much!

A month later, the newspaper has gone to the printer, and the hard drives in question have been restored. Here's hoping the blogging ideas begin rolling in.

For Buddy

Today my husband and I went to the funeral of a former student who lives in a community about an hour south of Kansas City. He was one of our favorites, but time has slipped past us, often at break-neck speeds, and it has been years since Jim or I had seen or spoken with him.

I was sorrowed when I heard the news but unprepared for the grief I felt when I arrived at the funeral home. He was a young man -- only 46 -- with two grown sons and grandchildren. Way too young to die.

Seeing his sisters (whom we also taught) and other former students brought a flood of memories: Friday night football games, taco parties on Super Bowl Sundays, taking the freshman class to Worlds of Fun, Jim's driving a school bus to Colorado on the senior trip, working on the school newspaper.

Jim and I left the school district and moved to Kansas City after Buddy's senior year. We kept in touch regularly at first, but then job demands and our children's activities kept us busy, drawing us away from these special people who had been such a big part of our lives.

The last time I saw Buddy was at a football game in a Kansas City suburb. I don't remember why we were there or what teams were playing, but I do remember a tap on the shoulder, and I turned around to see a bald-headed man grinning from ear to ear. For a moment it didn't register, then I recognized the once curly-headed boy I'd known was standing before me. I cried, "Buddy!" and gave him the biggest hug.

I wish he had been there today, so I could have hugged him one last time.

Overload

This is how I feel!

The Rest of the Story

In several posts lately, I have mentioned my grandson's stillbirth, but I have been remiss in not telling "the rest of the story."

Brock would have been five this past November, and I often think of him, but God has been good to me and has blessed me in many ways:

• with a strong support group at my church and former school and across the world through my online writing class and Literary Mama
• with two beautiful granddaughters who have given my whole family great pleasure
• with a sweet, generous husband who loves and supports me and works hard to provide for his family
• with two handsome sons who have become responsible, personable young men
• with a wonderful daughter-in-law whom I love and value greatly
• with the greatest sister in the whole world Oh! How we laugh!
• with my parents who have enjoyed longevity of life and reasonably good health
• with Jesus who is my Lord, Savior, and Friend
• with His Word to comfort and guide me.

Though life can be hard, God is always good. So, I just want to set the record straight. I am at peace and filled with joy.

Full of Smiles

Recently my colleague and dear friend Michael described me as being "full of smiles." I do love to laugh, and since my last few posts have been on the sober side, I thought to lighten things up, which led me to think of my niece's November wedding.

Beth is an amazing young woman, and she married a great guy Brian Bell. I love their alliterative names so much I wrote their first and last names on their Christmas gift tags!

The wedding and the reception were both elegant and lovely. Tiny white lights woven through ficus trees made the reception room twinkle with the magic of a fairy tale.

Here is my favorite video clip from the weekend! While the quality is not the best, it's good enough to remind me why I'm full of smiles.

Writing Ironies

This week my essay A Kite in November about my grandson's stillbirth is among the writings featured as Literary Mama's 2007 Favorites.

When it was posted in November, a friend complimented me, saying, "You must be proud." I was pleased to be published at a website like LM because I know the staff's integrity and expectations of excellence. But proud -- no -- that does not describe how I feel.

Even now, to be included as a favorite, I don't feel proud. I am touched that my colleagues think highly of my piece. These are writers who have PhD. after their names. They have published books! They have agents! These women give me something to aspire to, as writers, mothers, and women, and while I am proud to be associated with such a fine organization, recognition for this particular writing evoked a different emotion.

If I had written about something less intense, some circumstance with a happy ending, I image the elation and euphoria of being published would have me smiling for days. But there is an entirely different feeling related to this. This experience called to be written to offer hope to others, to give a voice to the sorrow, to experience the catharsis, to honor my grandson and his parents.

While I'm glad to be recognized, I know that to write deeply, we write of our losses, yet we'd most gladly escape the losses that provide opportunity to write deeply.

There in lies the irony of writing.