Advent III

Theme: Joy

Hebrew Scripture: Zephaniah 3.14-20, Isaiah 12.2-6

Psalm: Psalm 126

Gospel: Luke 3.7-18

We discussed how God's people are people of joy, a deep contentment that has no regard for circumstance.

O come, our dayspring from on high,
And cheer us by your drawing nigh,
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night,
And death's dark shadows put to flight.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee O Israel!

Advent II

Theme: Love

Hebrew Scripture: Malachi 3.1-4

Gospel: Luke 1.68-79

Psalm: Psalm 136

We defined love, thanks to C.S. Lewis:

1. Storge: an affectionate love as between a grandmother and grandchild
2. Philia: a friendship as between schoolmates
3. Eros: an erotic love as between lovers (try explaining that between a fourteen-year-old and a six-year-old)
4. Agape: a willful love most powerfully expressed when the object is unlovely

We talked about God's love for us in sending Messiah. We redefined Psalm 136's "his steadfast love endures forever" as "his faithful love never quits" just because it was easier for us to grasp. We read the psalm responsively with this substitution. Try it!

Advent I

Theme: Hope

Hebrew Scripture: Jeremiah 33.14-16

Psalm: Psalm 25.1-10

Gospel: Luke 21.25-36

We talked about the meaning of advent, what it means to wait. I shared this quotation with Joan and the kids:

Most of us think of waiting as something very passive, a hopeless state determined by events totally out of our hands. The bus is late? You cannot do anything about it, so you have to sit there and just wait. It is not difficult to understand the irritation people feel when somebody says, 'Just wait.' Words like that seem to push us into passivity.

But there is none of that passivity in scripture. Those who are waiting are waiting very actively...Active waiting means to be present fully to the moment in the conviction that something is happening where you are and that you want to be present to it. A waiting person is someone who is present to the moment, who believes that this moment is the moment. Henri Nouwen

We then talked about hope. Hope means not a wishful thought, but a confident faith, that something promised will happen. As we wait for Messiah, we wait with confident faith because of the Faithful One who promised him.

O come, O come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel,
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee O Israel!

The table is set

Greenery woven into an advent wreath, holly leaves emerging from clusters of pretty red berries because God is alive, and he is fruitful.

Three purple candles and a pink candle surround one tall white one, all unlit because we live in darkness.

A ramekin of flour and a cup of vinegar on the table because we live in bitterness.

A small creche, its manger empty because Emmanuel has yet to arrive.

The Word of God opened to the Old Covenant because the prophets promise us a Messiah.

A hymnal opened to "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel" because that is the song on our lips.

The table is set. Advent is here. We await you, Lord Jesus.

Tandoori Thanksgiving

Our friends Adam and April moved to Florida in August. Because of Adam's work schedule, among other things, they knew they wouldn't be coming "home" for Thanksgiving so they invited us to visit them.

It really was a no-brainer, accepting the invitation, once I heard that there would be cooking involved. I trudged up the attic stairs in search of old Bon Appetit November back issues, drooling over possible herbs to encrust the bird with and pondering exotic sides with which to surround its golden-baked carcass.

Joan and April burned precious cell minutes planning the menu before Joan announced one day that we were having Indian food for Thanksgiving.

Well, duh. There were Indians at the first Thanksgiving. And they brought food. Corn, potatoes, berries, pemmican, etc. Indian food.

Only Joan wasn't talking Indian as in Squanto and Massasoit. More like Shashi and Mujibar.

It was an intriguing idea. I love Indian food. One of our favorite restaurants is Taj India here in Birmingham. I've had some great meals there. I just don't know how to pronounce most of the stuff and I especially don't know what goes into it.

Also, I'm not so stuck on traditional Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving is my all-time favorite holiday, but Joan and I once caught the stomach virus from hell on a Thanksgiving weekend so for several years we did anything but traditional. We did burgers one year, barbecue the next. Anything but turkey and cranberry sauce. That's all I have to say about that.

So following an uneventful 9-hour drive to central Florida, we were barely in the door when Joan began parsing out recipe printouts and little plastic bowls of spices. Without further adieu, here is the complete menu and the responsible chef:

• Papaya Chutney (April)


• Walnut Chutney (Brian)


• Sheer Kurma (Joan)


• Chana Masala (Brian)


• Navratna Korma (April)


• Palak Paneer (Brian)


• Curry Chicken (April, recipe from a neighbor)


• Rice Roti (Joan)

Sparing you the details of what goes on in a frantic Indian kitchen, this feast ROCKED! Absolutely rocked. Not a dud dish in the bunch. I can't speak for the others, but some notes on the dishes I was responsible for:

• The masala in Chana Masala is a base of tomatoes, peppers, garlic, and onions that would have made a pretty good salsa were we doing a Mexican Thanksgiving. However, it is fried in oil until it becomes a paste, and then it is brought to boil just before the chana (chickpeas) are added. This base would be excellent with some lamb in it.


• The paneer in Palak Paneer is milk curds. I used this recipe, and quite honestly, this was the most frustrating part of the whole process. I wasn't sure what I was after and couldn't tell whether I was doing the right thing, though I did an awful lot of stirring. I believe paneer is Sanskrit for "much patience required."

This was truly one of the best Thanksgiving experiences of my life. The food, the fellowship, the challenge, and the end result were a recipe for success.

Shashi and Mujibar would be proud.

Nanny goes home

Sixteen months ago, Nanny's doctors told her to get her affairs in order following a severe internal bleeding episode and subsequent diagnosis of terminal liver disease. The situation was tenuous and I immediately flew out west to say my goodbyes.

Sixteen months ago.

Since then I've been in regular contact, either by phone or e-mail, with Aunt Becky and Aunt Sandra. They both discouraged visits due to Nanny's decline and fear of having Evan and Lora see her in such shape. We weighed the options and acquiesced but her demise hung over our heads like a dark cloud. For sixteen months.

About a month ago, Aunt Becky called Joan in desperation. Times were tough, she needed some relief, and felt like the kids might brighten the place up. Evan had a couple of in-service days coming up at school so we flew out early on a Saturday morning. Having said my goodbyes sixteen months ago, I wasn't looking forward to having to do it again, but sometimes you can't get around the hard stuff.

We had a great visit. Nanny's mind was sharp, she ate well (for her condition), the kids kept the farm hopping, riding the golf cart and chasing the dogs around. On Tuesday morning, Evan and I flew home. The next Tuesday, Joan and Lora flew home.

On Wednesday night, Aunt Becky called to tell us that it was just a matter of time. Shortly after Joan and Lora left the day before, Nanny had become unresponsive. Aunt Becky asked if we wanted a call if she died in the night. We told her we did.

At 2:00 a.m., the phone rang.

I had been aware that this moment was coming. For sixteen months. When it came, I was blown away at how profound one death could be. We've lost more than 2800 soldiers in Iraq. More than 2900 people died in the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001. Two-hundred-fifty thousand people died in the Indian Ocean tsunami in 2004. None of those deaths affected me like the death of a frail, eighty-one year-old woman in the basement apartment of a farm house on the Eastern Plains of Colorado.

Appropriately, Nanny died during an uncharacteristically heavy autumn blizzard. She would have loved that. It was almost morning before they took her away. We changed airline reservations three times because the blizzard so impacted the schedules at the funeral home and the cemetery.

Which was not a bad thing.

Nanny had asked me, sixteen months ago, to preach her funeral. I had been thinking about it since. For sixteen months. And I had yet to write a word.

Granted, procrastination is one of my hobbies. But sixteen months? You'd think that with that amount of time I'd have come up with something. But I didn't. I couldn't. I could not even begin to write a eulogy for someone who was not dead. Every cell in my body screamed No! each time I tried. So I gave up. I knew when the time came and I was under a deadline I could do it. At least that was my hope.

So on Saturday I hunkered down at [local chain coffee shop that's not Starbucks] and wrote. On Sunday we flew out.

On Monday, we met with the hospice chaplain to go over the service. Nanny had fallen in love with her hospice caregivers and wanted the chaplain to have a part.

On Tuesday, we had a private visitation at the funeral home. Granddaddy insisted that he had to see her one last time before we buried her. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done.

I've always hated the funeral home visitation cliche "doesn't she look gooood?" but in Nanny's case it was true. She had withered to nearly nothing but she looked so much better than the last time I had seen her, two weeks before. Then, when she was lying in her bed, I hugged her and kissed her forehead and told her, "I'll see you again." She smiled at me and said "I know." I knew I would never see her again in this life, and she did, too. It was such an easier goodbye than the one sixteen months before. None of us knew how much time she had left then and it was painful and emotional. Two weeks ago, it had been hopeful. Tuesday it was painful again.

It was a large room with just a few of us - Granddaddy, Aunt Becky, Aunt Sandra, Uncle Connie, Joan, the kids, and me. Some of us had brought things to place in her casket and I took mine up just before we left. I lost sight of the hopefulness I'd felt two weeks earlier. A measure of finality overwhelmed me as I touched her bony arm; her cold cheek.

Wednesday was a brisk day, sunny, but breezy. She'd requested a simple graveside service, which is about all that's allowed at the national cemetery where we buried her (Granddaddy is a veteran). We lined up our cars at a staging area, awaiting instructions from the cemetery staff. When our time came, we were lead to a small chapel, open on one side, with only six or eight chairs. A good many friends of Aunt Becky and Sandra, the hospice staff, and some friends Nanny had made during her short stay in Colorado were there. I was really anxious about speaking because of the difficulty of the viewing, but I made it fine. The hard work had been done in the coffee shop, on the plane, and in Aunt Becky's home office on the computer.

I shared a little of who Nanny was, read some of her favorite scriptures, and addressed each of us as a family. I felt it important to give us all permission to grieve. I'm convinced we have Egyptian blood in us because we're all experts on denial (de-Nile, get it?) and I wanted to address that. Also, Nanny was not perfect. She said and did things that hurt us and we said and did things that hurt her and I wanted to acknowledge that. I closed with one of her favorite poems, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, by Robert Frost, and the hospice chaplain prayed.

Later, we went to find her grave, which I almost wish we hadn't. The cemetery had done maybe twenty funerals that day, all in one section, with no sod, no marker, nothing but red dirt. Place, though, is important to me, and I've seen the grave, I know where it is, and if I never make it there again I have no regrets.

Godspeed, Nanny. I'll see you again.

Birmingham or Bombay?

The Watkins aren't your typical suburban family as far as running around goes, but we do our fair share. Joan leads a small group on Monday night, I led (past-tense, more in a bit) one on Tuesday, Evan has drum lessons on Wednesday, and Joan's writing team meets on Thursday. Lately the schedule has improved as obligations are met and fall by the wayside. We've tried to be selective about how we replace time commitments that have freed up. I've enjoyed the change in schedule.

So it surprised me when Joan added a yoga class a few weeks ago.

Her friend April teaches the class. It didn't really affect me at first because it meets on Tuesday, same as my small group. Joan made arrangements for the kids and went her way and I went mine. I could tell that she enjoyed herself but my experience with yoga (read: none) left me without a clue as to what she enjoyed about it other than she started breathing funny before getting out of bed in the morning.

She was excited when my small group drew to a close because she wanted me to join her for yoga. I thought, What the heck? as we usually encourage our kids to try different things. The class starts at 5:30 and it's a stretch to get there on time from where we are (stretch, get it? Man, I kill me...) so Joan picked me up at my office. Traffic was horrible and we were running late, but April called and said she was running late, too, so I relaxed a bit. Big mistake.

We arrived at the dance studio and I strolled leisurely into the restroom to change from my baggy old man chinos and yellow polo shirt into my baggy old man shorts and a yellow mission trip t-shirt. Wash my face, check the hair, perform the miracle of turning Diet Mountain Dew into water, and man, I'm ready to yoga.

Joan met me in the hallway. "Will you come on, they've already started!"

What? Started? I thought April was late. Well, apparently not. But we were. Which meant that I, Brian Watkins, yoga-novice squared, was banished to the front row empty mat, nearly in the center of the room.

I was not happy. Joan took to her mat and began funny breathing with the rest of the class. A smooth jazz soundtrack wafted at a much lower jazz-worthy volume than I'm accustomed. April was slinking around whispering instructions. In Latin. I had no one to look at, since everyone was behind me, and I could faintly hear the whine of dork meters alarming throughout the over-the-mountain suburbs at my yoga futility.

I was uncomfortable, I must say, in not knowing the lingo, or the positions, or the motions, being late, out front, etc., etc.

April: Now take a deep breath in through the nose down from your xyphoid glottus and let it out slowly through the nose, compressing your maximus platypus into your occipital flywheel and touching your lateral rhomboid to your left shoulder.

Brian: Uh, is there somewhere I could put my keys? Did they disinfect this mat after the last occipital flywheel was compressed on it? Aw, man, I think my maximus platypus is going to sleep. Has anyone ever died of mortification during a yoga class?

Then I saw my way out. April brought her baby to class and the little doll was beginning to fuss. As I tried to figure out how to keep the blood flowing through my legs while sitting on my keys, I visualized myself scooping baby up and rescuing us both to the higher ground of the hallway, away from the raging torrent of exhaling xyphoid glotti. A perfect plan. Probably some resistance from April, but if I picked my opening correctly I could be halfway to the door before she knew what hit her, my lateral rhomboid aglow with new flowing blood.

Then my conscience got the best of me. Sure, I could quit, but I'd let Joan down, and April, and for all I know all the other nose-breathing mat monkeys. But most of all, I'd let myself down. Avoidance has been a coping mechanism of mine for a long, long time. I come from a long line of avoiders, almost professionals, certainly with the consistency and passion of a calling. I briefly thought of that and remembered how hard I've tried in the recent past to break some of those old habits and chains. About the time I convinced myself to stay, Joan poked me and whispered, Watch April. April had laid baby down and was now showing us the moves she wanted us to make. Having someone to look at helped me catch on to what was happening. Nothing was beyond my ability to handle, stretch-wise, and before I knew it time was up and the mat monkeys were rolling up their mats (alas, without disinfectant. I guess that answers that.).

Joan, April and baby, and I crossed over the mountain to our favorite Indian restaurant. I ordered some Lamb Jalferizi that was hotter than a two-dollar pistol. Set my maximus platypus on fire.

Ah, that's a language I understand.

United 93

Last night I had some time to myself so I decided to go to a movie. I don't go to many movies and I don't usually go just to be going, so I intentionally wanted to see United 93. I don't recall knowing that it was even being filmed. I became aware of it when it was released and I read about the controversy it generated. Too soon after 9/11? Trivializing a tragic event? Exploitative of the victims and their families?

From the very beginning it was apparent that this was no ordinary movie.

The director, Paul Greengrass, had his work cut out for him: The story is familiar. The outcome is known and it is not a happy ending. And I believe he handled it magnificently. He didn't have to try very hard to get the audience emotionally involved. To the contrary, his main job was not to patronize us with maudlin sentimentality and false drama. And so he presented the story with just the facts. No opening credits. No intrusive soundtrack. Fade in to terrorists praying in their hotel rooms. Cut to airport arrivals. Rudimentary security checkpoints. Gates. Op Centers. ATC towers. Boston ATC loses contact with a plane. Controller thinks he heard hijacker's voice but he can't be sure. Smoke from the World Trade Center. Small private plane? Contact lost with another plane. Where is the military? Where is the president? Can we engage these hijacked planes?

What he successfully did was take me back to that day. The disbelief. The confusion. The shock. Is this really happening? Another plane has hit the towers? The Pentagon? Does anybody know what the hell is going on? I became emotional as the reality of those events unfolded. The gaping hole in the first tower. The Newark controllers watching the second plane hit. The CNN camera showing the smoke from the Pentagon from a camera somewhere near the Old Executive building near the White House. He made me remember.

And it hurt.

I've never been so ready for a film to be over. To walk out into the fresh air. To see the stars. To hear my kids slam doors. To have someone cut me off on the highway. To be distracted by life again. To forget. But I can't.

The banter of the flight crew and passengers about anniversaries they weren't going to celebrate, restaurants they would never visit, e-mails they would never read, trails they would never hike. The phone calls home. Trying to reach family. Someone. Anyone. Just pray. I love you. Goodbye. The most sobering scene? Closeup of a passenger breathing the Lord's prayer. Cut to a second passenger breathing the Lord's prayer. Cut to a third passenger breathing the Lord's prayer. Cut to the terrorist in the cockpit, flying the plane. Breathing a prayer. Oh, my.

That, my friends, is my definition of art.

Random observations from this latest cinematic experience:

1. There were no big name actors in this movie. The only person I recognized was the weird old lady who worked the ticket booth on Wings (Fay, maybe?) and had buried several husbands who had all died mysteriously. I think she had one line in this movie.


2. Some of the acting was a little stilted, I thought at the time, and then when the closing credits ran I saw why. Several people in the film played themselves. Air Traffic Controllers, National Ops Center people (including the guy who decided to shut down all the US air space), military people, etc. I thought that was incredible. I hope it was cathartic for them.


3. $3.65 for a small popcorn? I don't think so.


4. I'm not ready for the digital revolution or the reality-based herky-jerky camera shots. This movie, technically speaking, was a 111 minute IMAX movie, and IMAX movies make me want to hurl. I'm still dizzy as I type this.

Culture and Cough Syrup

Birmingham gets a bad rap as a cultural backwater, mostly from yahoos that consider guys in tight pants and helmets running into each other as high art.

The Watkins, of course, know otherwise. Because of the medical and technological communities, this is as diverse a city as you'd want. We have partaken in some interesting cultural events in the past few days.

Sunday was my birthday and we went to Dreamland for lunch. Highlights from lunch: watching Evan actually eat two ribs, and watching Lora's face as she phonetically sounded out the "No Farting" neon sign that hangs above the grill.

After lunch we went to see two special exhibits at the Birmingham Museum of Art: French Drawings and Ethiopian Paintings. They were extraordinary; however, we were more intrigued by a fabric panel exhibit called Through the Eye of the Needle: the Fabric Art of Esther Nisenthal Krinitz. Mrs. Krinitz was a Polish Jew who eluded the Nazis and later told her story through a series of 36 fabric panels that defy description. This was absolutely one of the most touching exhibits I've ever seen. You can scroll through images of these panels here, but it is like watching Gone with the Wind on a video iPod. It doesn't do them justice, but unless a trip to the 'Ham is in your future, they will have to do.

Tonight, we celebrated the Hindu Festival of Colors, Holi, at Taj India. Our reservation was at 7, and upon entering the crowded dining room our faces were splotched with colored powder. We ate from an interesting buffet. There were cauliflower pieces in some sort of batter that were tasty. Then there were disks of mashed potatoes mixed with spinach that I could have made a spectacle of myself over. There was a lemon saffron rice that was good, a couple of spicy chicken dishes, and a lamb dish that I liked.

Additionally, they offered complementary glasses of wine. The Watkins aren't imbibers by habit, but what the hay, it was free.

One word: Yuck.

It looked like white wine, but it tasted like Vick's Cough Syrup. Joan thinks I'm nuts, and I tried several times to like it, but the more I sipped the more screwed up my face became, and with the splotches of purple powder all over it I'm sure I looked like a raisin in the making.

Before the weekend, I'd never heard of Holi, but I'm glad now I have. We'll look for it next year, and it makes me want to keep eyes and ears open for similar festivals within other cultures in town.

Wine-free, of course.

Evan, Working Man

My perusal of Saturday morning's newspaper was interrupted by the telephone answering machine broadcasting BF's plea for temporary help.

BF is an acquaintance of mine: mid-fifties, never married, and, in the year I've known him, down on his luck, due to a few poor choices. But for the grace of God...

BF runs a "business" from the back of his pickup truck, waterproofing foundations for
houses under construction. He gets jobs word-of-mouth, and last weekend he had a doozy: two solid concrete foundations, side-by-side, a pretty tight deadline, and a helper that couldn't make it.

(Construction Aside: Apparently, solid concrete foundations are more deadline intensive than concrete block foundations because the excavator can backfill them immediately, whereas concrete block foundations cannot be backfilled until the walls and roofs are in place or else the walls will collapse. The waterproofer can take his time with them. I've now told you more than I know about the "construction bidness". )

BF wondered if Evan would be interested in pushing a paint roller for a couple of hours, and I wondered the same thing as I walked to his room to ask him, my houseshoes clicking across the hardwood in rhythm with the clacking X-box controller in Evan's hands.

But he was interested. I got him to call BF for details and directions to the job site, and I dropped him off a few minutes later with instructions for BF to keep an eye on him.

I must say I had mixed feelings as I drove away. Evan had already made me proud by taking down perfect driving directions to the site. This was no small feat, given that I've instructed him on how to take out the trash twice a week for the past 187 weeks. But it struck me halfway home that this wasn't some piddly little chore around the house. This was A Job. A.Real.World.Job. An if-an-OSHA-inspector-appears-then-someone-could-go-to-jail job. As I tried to pray for Evan, I was both excited and frightened for him. Excited, because of the "rite of passage" freedom that is tasted once someone starts earning his own way, a freedom I hope Evan becomes addicted to. Frightened, because I've been in The.Real.World. long enough to know what a shock it can be to someone as privileged as Evan. He goes to the pantry when he's hungry and he gets something to eat. He flips a switch and a light comes on. Every time. He turns a faucet and water comes out. Every time. I'm not sure he knows that two-thirds of the world lives on less money than the cost of the electricity to power his X-box and TV. That they work hard and still can't get ahead. Like BF, who not only operates from his truck, but sometimes also sleeps there.

It also frightened me because Evan was venturing out from under my world view. Is he ready for that? Have I prepared him enough to handle the things the world will throw at him? Have I let my obsessions that he flip a light switch off once in a while and that he put empty food wrappers in the trash can instead of on the kitchen counter and that he wash the woefully overpriced blue jeans he bought with his Christmas money at [trendy with the hip kids boutique] at least once every twelve times he wears them get in the way of preparing him for reality? It didn't help much when I got home and told Joan where Evan was and she asked me what I had sent him for lunch.

Lunch?

So I busied myself about the house, washing the windows and puttering in the garage, expecting Evan to give it a couple of hours and call me to come get him. By four-thirty, I began to wonder about him, so I drove over to the site. There he was, rolling away. I could tell they'd made great progress that day. BF thanked him for his hard work and paid him. Then BF began to make statements like "I don't hold grudges," and "I've already forgotten about it," and "it takes time to learn these things."

On the way home, I asked Evan about BF's parting discussion:
B: What was that about?
E: BF is a little grumpy.
B: Grumpy? What was he grumpy about?
E: He said I was too slow.
B (feigning surprise): Slow? Really? What else?
E: And that I wasted waterproofing stuff.
B (masking shock): Really? What does BF do when he gets grumpy?
E: He yells.
B: He yelled at you?
E: Yeah.
B: How did that make you feel?
E: I was like, whatever. I tried not to get mad.
B: But you kept going?
E: Yeah.

For the rest of the evening, Evan said things like, "I'm not trying to talk about BF, but..." as he expounded on another life lesson learned on the job site. The most substantial? At lunch Sunday:

E: I don't mean to talk bad about BF...
B: ...but...
E: ...but he doesn't think much of Mexicans.
B (recalling his own subjections to BF's Latino-disparaging comments): What gave you that idea?
E: He was always fussing about how they poured the foundation. Not very nice.
B: What did you think when he said things like that?
E: Made me angry.
B: Did it shock you that someone would talk like that?
E: Yeah.

Let me tell you, I felt validated as a parent. Joan and I grew up among some of the most bigoted people imaginable, and rather than dismissing them with a flippant "well, that's just the times they came from," we've worked hard to eradicate those thoughts, feelings, and words from our home. It hasn't been easy, but nothing worthwhile ever is.

I was so proud of Evan that after lunch I drove him to [trendy with the hip kids boutique] and let him blow most of his pay. I didn't even give him the requisite lecture about the value of money and how it is a lot easier to spend when someone else earns it and, my personal favorite, wait until you have a full-time job and have to work every day.

I just let him enjoy the fruit of his labor, and I enjoyed mine.

"It's not your birthday!"

In planning for Joan's birthday dinner Saturday afternoon, she codependently considered the children as she weighed her choices.

Evan, as I've chronicled before, is a notoriously picky eater. Painfully picky. "Why don't you wait in the car while we go in and eat?" picky. Lora is not so picky, she's just opinionated. She knows what she likes and where to get it.

Joan narrowed it down to three choices:

1. [local Italian bistro with the patio view of the traffic headache that is Highway 280]
2. [local seafood restaurant with the kicking catfish tenders]
3. [internationally-famous local rib joint]

Early polls indicated a preference for [seafood], as Joan had a craving for coconut shrimp. Evan was excited by this prospect, since he likes the chicken fingers there, though I tell him they fry them in fish grease.

[Aside: Are chicken fingers a product of poultry genetic engineering or something? When I was a child, chickens didn't have fingers. Or lips, either.]

Lora protested because seafood is on her short-list of won't-eats.

Then Joan leaned toward [ribs], which got Lora's and my attention. Yeah, a thick slab of juicy ribs with vinegary red sauce, tea sweet enough to give a zombie the shakes, and a pint of banana pudding to top it off. Lora's chant of "Ribs, ribs, ribs!" was overshadowed only by barfing sounds from Evan, who, it pains me deeply to report, "doesn't like bbq." The last time we ate at [ribs], he dodged flying sauce from my fingers while picking the onions out of a pint of potato salad with a spork, no less. Joan responded to his protests with a hearty "it's not your birthday!" but the gagging didn't stop.

Then Joan mentioned [Italian], home of the piping garlic rolls and gnarly eggplant parmesan, and the more she thought of Lora protesting seafood and Evan eating melba toast and Sweet'nLow at [ribs], she decided that [Italian] was the way to go.

Which broke Lora's heart. She lay face down on the ottoman and wailed, "I want to go to [ribs]!" She was inconsolable. "It's not your birthday!" Joan reasoned, but the wailing only got louder. I felt like crying, too, because I realized that [ribs] was now out of the question. Going to [ribs] after an outburst like that would concede all sorts of parental power to a pugnacious five-year-old, and bad as I could taste that sauce hours later in my goatee, I knew it was not to be.

So we ended up at [Italian]. Joan had a tasty loaded calzone, I had eggplant parmesan, Lora had spaghetti and meatballs, and Evan had a cheese calzone (the Italian counterpart to the cheese quesidillas he orders when we go to [local Mexican dive with the hottest salsa on the planet and tea sweet enough to rival that at [ribs]]).

"I have an idea," said Evan. "After we're done here, can we go ..."

"It's not your birthday!" said Joan and I, at the same time, as Lora dropped a fully-loaded 7-Up onto the patio floor.

Joan's Fortieth

Joan turned forty today.

It makes me old to think that I have a forty-year-old wife. And that I was around when she turned twenty. And that we've been together over half our lives. Wow.

I think for her first birthday I got her an add-a-bead necklace. Anyone remember those? Yeah, I don't think she was impressed either.

This year has been tough on both of us, as a couple and individually, so I thought it best to test the waters before acquiesing to the pull-something-over-on-someone crap that is mandatory on birthdays that end in zero. Her response? "Under no circumstances am I to be made the center of attention, anywhere, at any time." Rather vague, no? I abided her wishes through firestorms of protest from some of her well-meaning friends, even though they thought me either a cold-hearted bastard or a walking manifestion of male cluelessness, of which I am neither, I must say. Some people just have to learn things for themselves.

Joan had a prior obligation for tonight, so we did her celebratory dinner Saturday night at [local Italian bistro with the patio view of the traffic headache that is Highway 280]. Yesterday we gifted her with birthday bounty. Zelda is a writer, too, so I gave her a copy of A Writer's Paris: A Guided Journey for the Creative Soul as inspiration for her in-progress manuscript, and a copy of Paul McCartney's new CD, just because I heard an interview about it on Morning Edition a few weeks ago. Lora picked out a necklace and earrings from her and Evan. I think we did well. The sentiment was there, anyway.

Today, Joan thwarted an attempt at pushiness from an aforementioned friend whom I'd tried to discourage for two weeks. Said friend couldn't fathom that Joan wanted nothing more than a picnic lunch with her children on her birthday, so that's what they did, with friend and son in tow. I'm expecting an apology from friend. I'm already practicing my I-tried-to-tell-you.

Happy fortieth, Joan. From Brian, with love.

Wedding Surprise

A couple of months ago, I ran into a friend who introduced me to her fiancee. I didn't know she was dating anyone, so I asked the requisite questions such as How did you meet?, When did you get engaged?, and When is the big day?

The first two answers were somewhat predictable (went to high school together; over the holidays), but the third answer gave me fleeting pause (we're going to have an engagement party at the end of July and announce our wedding date then). I've never known of anyone doing that before but I quickly shrugged it off, mainly 'cause I'm not really hip, socially-speaking. Joan and I got married in a pastor's office one morning before Sunday school without telling anyone, so it's not like anyone is beating on our door for successful wedding tips. I just do as I'm told, invitation-wise.

So in that spirit, we received our invitation a few weeks ago and calendared tonight for the engagement party.

As five o'clock rolled around, I dressed in my best silk Hawaiian shirt, beige cargo shorts and New Balance sneaks and drove toward the merriment. After a half-hour of manuevering through a crowd of many strangers (which bothers me somewhat), most of whom were dressed better than me (which doesn't), the happy couple interrupted the kickin' blues band to give the long-awaited announcement: the date of the wedding.

After some stalling by the groom-to-be for dramatic effect, the bride-to-be broadcast We're getting married tonight! and as the band cranked back up they ran off the stage to don their wedding togs. Ten minutes later (!), a procession of a groomsman, a maid-of-honor, the groom, the bride and her father met the pastor in the middle of the room and we had a wedding!

Congratulations Molly and Ben, and thanks for the surprise.

Between two pastures

Nanny, feeling cramped last Thursday in her basement apartment, suggested we go outside and see the animals.

Aunt Sandra got the golf cart and drove her to the barn. One of the livestock was way over her species' gestational average and they had been concerned about her. She was huge and uncomfortable, but spirits were high as she showed signs of the birth's imminence: restlessness, raised tail, wandering in circles. When she pulled away from the herd and headed for the privacy of the upper pasture, we were sure she was about to deliver.

We had been out for a good half-hour in the blazing sun, but Nanny insisted on following the mother-to-be. I escorted her, hand at her elbow, along the fence line between the pastures to a front row seat for the big occasion, though there was no seat. I asked Nanny if she was ready to go back inside. No, I want to see the baby come.

So we waited. Gradually, a glistening, spindly leg appeared, with a snout not far behind. Granddaddy was chomping at the bit to help the mother, but Nanny yelled at him to leave her be. I could tell he was tiring of being ordered around, even by a sick, weak wife, but he stood firm between the mother and her pasture-mates who had wandered into her delivery area.

Then, as another leg appeared, the mother squatted down and with a tremendous push got the baby halfway out, his wet head soaking up its first rays of sunshine there between heaven and earth. Another squat, another push, and the baby landed in a heap at the mother's hind feet. Her ordeal was over.

Nanny was enthralled, relieved for the success of the new mother and proud of her own baby's confidence as Aunt Becky rushed in with a towel and began drying off the newborn. Aunt Becky and Granddaddy stood guard as the baby struggled to find his legs. Time and again, he would get his front legs under him and be almost up on his back legs, being nudged by mama, but either his coordination or his strength failed him and he crumpled back into a tumbleweed on the high plains floor.

Suddenly, Nanny swooned at my side. She'd been standing in the hot sun for some time, her first foray into the wild in several days, and her strength was sapped. Her stomach protruded in front of her as she tried to relieve her aching back. Oh sugar, she said to me, I should never have come out here.

I grabbed her right arm to steady her, shocked by its clammy thinness. She grabbed the top of the fence on the other side, and we shuffled back toward the barn.

We were passed in short order by Aunt Becky, who, concerned that the sun was too intense for the baby, had scooped him up and headed for the shade of the barn. And there I stood, flanked between an eighty-year-old woman in the grip of a terminal illness and a newborn creature not fifteen minutes old. Neither of them seemed to have mastery over their musculature. Both of them relied on the strength of others to protect them from the elements and get them to the safety of the barn. One had just been introduced to the pasture and his new home while the other was making one of her final visits as precious time slipped away. One was on a fast track to growth and development, while the other was on a fast track to atrophy and confinement.

Aunt Becky, the new baby, Nanny, the cycle of life, and me, slow-waltzing between two pastures.

Nanny

One Sunday in late May, I was on my way to worship, alone - Joan was on a writing retreat with some friends, and Evan and Lora spent the weekend with my parents. I received a cell phone call from Aunt Becky, informing me that Nanny been rushed to the hospital in the night with a severe bleeding problem. Joan was to return from her retreat that afternoon from the airport that serves Aunt Becky's community, and she immediately changed her flight to check on my grandmother.

A phone call from Joan later in the afternoon confirmed our worst fears. Nanny had undergone emergency surgery to patch a blood clot in her chest cavity, as well as cauterizing an ulcer, and that recurring problems with her liver weren't helping matters. I met my parents with a heavy heart to pick up the kids. I would have to explain to the kids Nanny's situation as I told them why mama wasn't coming home as expected. It was a tough night.

But Nanny pulled through, and a week later she was back home in the apartment in Aunt Becky's house that she shares with Granddaddy, her husband of sixty-three years. Nanny slowly improved, and last Wednesday week I booked a plane ticket out out west for mid-July to spend some time with them all.

Then Aunt Sandra called last Friday week.

Nanny's internist called her in to reveal results from earlier testing. After giving her the results, he sent her home to "get her affairs in order," which is 21st century medical euphemism for "your condition is terminal, and we've done all that we can do."

Aunts Becky and Sandra were understandably devastated. As were we, 1800 miles away. Joan and I broke the news to the children and spent the next several nights crying and praying Lora to sleep. Evan slipped into a quiet funk. Joan began planning for the inevitable, a bit morbidly premature perhaps, but that's how she copes. I, on the other hand, was my usual cool self in a crisis, slowing to a glacial pace of life. I did have enough synapses firing, though, to realize that sticking with my planned visit in mid-July just might be too late.

So I flew out last Wednesday.

I wasn't quite prepared for what I encountered. Nanny had gone down considerably since I left her last November. She is so frail, and forgetful, and weak. She is already a shell of the woman I knew as grandmother.

She has been diagnosed with non-alcoholic cirrhosis of the liver, caused by hepatitis-C she picked up on a mission trip probably thirty years ago. She will slowly bleed to death.

To talk with her and Grandaddy is to wrestle with paradoxes. At times they are at peace with her passing, yet at times grasping for hoped healing. At times they are complimentary of her doctors, yet at times angry at them for undiagnosing her problem for so long and mis-medicating her. At times they are grateful for the phone calls from friends who have been informed of her condition, yet at times they bristle at the intrusions and displays of "premature" grief. At times they brag on the care Aunts Becky and Sandra give them, yet at times they complain about their lack of privacy.

At times Nanny reverted to her benevolent-controlling ways, yet at times she couldn't remember who she had just spoken with on the phone, or wanted to argue about whether she had taken her medicine. At times she giggled like a schoolgirl at her clumsiness and forgetfulness, yet at times she despaired as she struggled to remember a friend's name.

I was a paradox as well, oscillating from being frustrated at hearing the same stories for the hundredth time to being melancholy over her dementia. At times I was ready to return home to my world and its challenges until I realized that once I left that place and time it would be lost to me forever.

It would take a lifetime to explain to you what an impact Nanny and Granddaddy, Aunt Becky, and Aunt Sandra have had on my life, both positively and negatively. Neither aunt has children. I am the first-born grandson and the only one that is still in contact with them. Neither can I express the relief I felt walking into the house last Wednesday to find Nanny still alive. I had made it. On time. I got four good days with her. She may not remember them, but I will. I hope to get back to see her again before she goes, but if I don't, I know that I did my best, I did what I needed to do, I said my good-bye, and I will see her on the other side someday. I pray that I will mean to someone what she means to me.

Happy Independence Day, Nanny.