Just as spring is gradually thawing the cold earth and coaxing the trees to finally trust their tender leaves and blossoms to the warming air, so I am emerging from a period of winter in my own life. You’ll notice I have “grace” in the title of this blog.  That is not primarily because I like the sound, or even the grace that the shape of the word itself holds.  I desperately need grace in my daily walk and often forget it is there for the claiming. Loss is difficult, and, having recently experienced it,  I  find myself reluctant to emerge and trust the world.  Heck, on a good day I have great difficulty with that “t” word. 

Katie Couric once said, “Life is a series of reboots,” and that resonates with me.  If you look at my path so far, “reboot” is my middle name.  So now, yet again, I am taking a leaf from nature’s tree and, with prayer, pressing forward.  It is time again to trust in God and His grace, and in myself as His creation.  Last weekend that meant I mustered up the courage to show up at our church worship team rehearsal with my violin.  Now mind you, I come from that structured, orchestral background; jamming with a bunch of guitarists and a keyboard is not really my forte.  I had no intention of putting myself out there during services, but somehow that is exactly what happened.  Did I fall flat on my musical face?  No.  I received grace in abundance as I was able to forget myself and simply become part of the music.  It was such a joy to be part of a group, contributing my talents to something worthwhile and uplifting.

God is not done with me yet.  May I embrace grace fully and bloom where He wants me, and experience the joy that brings.

I have recently experienced a loss very close to me — my Dad. Among other things I am so grateful to him for is how he helped me through his example and support to join the Air Force, where I met my husband 29 years ago and started our family. Something about profound loss makes me want to embrace the precious gift of family and love. At one point I was close to throwing the promise of that gift away, but my future husband wrote a letter to me that changed all that. It’s all in “The Letter” under “Poetry and Serious Stuff”.

It is two days after Christmas; four days since our eldest’s birthday; ten days since our first house guests arrived for the holidays.  The fresh snow outside etches our bare branches with a beauty and evenness no human hand could match.   Today is quiet and still, far removed from the rush of holiday activities. Just two weeks ago I was engaged in frantic preparations — painting, cleaning, hanging pictures, decorating.  Now, food eaten and presents opened, our youngest has come and gone, our eldest and husband soon to follow, like some unwanted rewind.  I am trying to savor the moment, but thoughts of “to dos” intrude, unwanted but not unbidden.  Soon, this year will be filed under past Christmases, retrievable through images and memories. For now, though, I will sit in our sunroom and watch the wind shake snow showers from the fir trees outside while I listen to the soothing sounds of conversation just a room away. The feel of our youngest daughter’s head against my shoulder is still fresh in my mind, and I pray that it all will be etched surely in my memory to prolong the joy and comfort I feel right now for a long time to come.

As I clung to the dock pier, I felt the canoe slowly shift under me and then David’s quick shout before I unceremoniously plunged into the water, struggling to gain my footing on the soft lake bottom. My life vest fruitlessly hugged my chin as I surveyed our green canoe neatly inverted in front of me, still tied to the dock just a foot away.

I like to think of myself as a reasonably intelligent, rational, and coordinated individual.  Add water, though, and all those sterling qualities go by the proverbial wayside. Maybe it’s the time I inverted myself in the inflated ring when I was six or the dunking I took in my teens that involved holding me under the water until I could flail my way, sputtering, to the surface. Perhaps it was that fateful spring sail on a frigid Michigan lake with my then boyfriend.  Crammed into a small sailboat designed for one, we capsized when the tiller became stuck behind him. I remember the shock of the cold water and my gasping for air, certain my life was at an end.  Of course it wasn’t nearly so dire, and David took me in hand, calm and reassuring as he righted the boat and pulled me back in.  I’ll never forget his rakish grin as he surveyed my soaked clothes and asked, “So, would you like to sail some more or head back?”  At the time, I had no idea what was so funny.  “Take me back,” I said through gritted (and chattering) teeth, my dignity and appearance both in shreds.

David is now my husband of 28 years, and I can boast of having successfully evaded small floating conveyances for the duration.  Despite his love of sailing, our military life (thankfully) kept us from living close enough to the water to own a boat.  When we were stationed near San Francisco and had access to the Presidio Yacht Club, I participated by remaining on terra firma and watching my family sail on glorious (and intimidating) San Francisco Bay from a safe distance.

All that has changed with our move to New Hampshire.  I found a home half a mile from David’s beloved Bow Lake. I urged him to buy a sailboat and promised to go with him, my traumatic memories evidently dulled over the years.  We rented a dock on the lake and used it for our canoe as we readied our bargain sailboat with the swollen dagger board (which had aborted our maiden voyage  by refusing to drop into its designated position, but I digress.)  Our lovely green canoe harkens back to the small Michigan Lake we lived on as newlyweds.  There it was a brand new apple red model that we would take out in the early evening, paddling languidly along the shore, drinking in the cool evening air —  at least that is what I remember.  Alas, it seems my memory is as faulty as my seaworthiness. Who knew water was so….fluid?  As I stood there, soaking wet and shivering next to the inverted canoe, I’ll admit my first thought was “take me home!”  David looked at me expectantly, not saying a word.  Twenty eight years of marriage will change a man.   I looked at him, my husband who loves the water.   “Well I couldn’t get much wetter; let’s go out.”

Twenty-eight years of marriage will change a woman.  I clambered back into the boat.

It has been just short of a year since we left the perfectly manicured world of our suburban home near St. Louis for our wooded setting in Strafford, NH . I had always thought of New Hampshire with a healthy dose of nostalgia, having lived here for 16 years before leaving at the ripe old age of 26.  A scant 30 years (or so) later, I’m back and am learning the reality of living with nature.

Our eight year old home in southern Illinois sat on a 1/2 acre lot, thoughtfully wooded behind the margins of our perfectly sown and maintained grass.  Underground sprinklers discreetly maintained the optimum moisture level and periodic lawn applications kept weeds and undesirables at bay.  Utility lines were underground as well, and our vinyl siding promised untold years of a mostly maintenance free exterior.  Twice a year, I would drag my dear husband out for concentrated weed abatement and shrub trimming in our flower beds.  It was quiet and predictable, and, dare I say it, aesthetically nearly perfect.

From that existence, we moved to our “vintage” 1980s cape set on three wooded acres.  Power lines crisscross our front lawn and trees abound, freely dispensing branches, leaves, and debris onto the grass below.  The woods just behind our “seasonal” pond are deep and mysterious — and littered with dead branches and years of decaying leaves, far from the neat idealized version I thought I remembered.  As for the house, this is New England, so painted wood trumps vinyl.  The deck , house, and our shed predict an epic painting project in our near future as paint peels and blisters.  Inside, the relentlessly wallpapered and bordered walls promise many months of laborious stripping, wall repair, and painting.  (I wonder why the woodwork and ceilings in each room needed to be painted different colors, but I digress.)  Early on, the reality of living in the world of the elements and exposed power lines quickly sunk in.  We experienced a multi-day power outage in our first weeks and installed something expensive called a transfer switch for our expensive new generator.  We discovered our 27 year old oil furnace was nearing the end of its natural life and that most of our windows need replacing.  Leaves overwhelmed us in the fall, along with hundreds of stink bugs that decided to move indoors, and the process of killing the crabgrass left us with a totally dead lawn in the late summer (who knew it was all crabgrass?).  We resurrected the planting bed only to find that we were running a food pantry for the local wildlife because it lacked the exhaustive security measures needed to keep various critters out. I fought the unending battle of removing lawn debris by dragging all those small (and large) branches and piling them next to the outdoor fire pit behind the house (someday we’ll actually burn them).  I think the impressive pile of wood now houses a family of raccoons.  Just today, I saw that some of our hostas had been unceremoniously decapitated, no doubt viewed as some deer delicacy.

I admit it; I am out-maneuvered and outmatched.  As my mother-in-law says, we have a “country” property, which means anything green or colorful is desirable despite its provenance, and a little wear is to be expected.  What I do know is that it has been a true delight to witness the beautiful plantings that have surfaced to mark the changing of the seasons — phlox, peonies, daffodils, lilies — the flame of autumn leaves, and the cool green of spring in full leaf.  I can’t describe the joy I feel when I go outside, look around, and think “I live here,” with more wonder than frustration.  We have grown to love the lines and quirks of our home, and will take our time in slowly making it our own.  Surely the years ahead will bring new challenges, but it is good to be home.

I don’t know about you, but I am usually a stickler about using the express lane at the grocery store.  You will not find me trying to sneak 13 items past the cashier if the sign says 12,  I don’t count multiples as “one”,  and I am one of those incredibly annoying individuals  who surreptitiously counts the items in the cart ahead of me if it seems to be a little on the “heavy”  side, though thankfully, I am smart enough not to say anything.  Somehow, though, that all changed yesterday.  After a trip to pick up a few items, I did a quick count and thought I was good to go.  Imagine my chagrin when I started unloading my cart only to find that I had hidden my six cartons of yogurt and three burritos under a package of spinach.  Flustered, I said something to the cashier about not realizing I had more items.  Her perfunctory smile was accompanied by that sceptical look that seemed to telegraph a sarcastic “right”.  In that moment, I envisioned a siren erupting above my head, bathing the store in flashing red light accompanied by a cacophonous shriek.  “Clean up in the express lane” a voice would say as two burly stockmen would drag me away to some terrible fate.  As she screened item after item, I saw that there was someone behind me; even worse.  I had brought my own bags (one small redeeming act), and started to help bag the items.  As I grabbed a loaf of bread, the cashier retrieved it from me.  “Have I scanned that?”  she asked.  The answer was no, and I imagined the two floor tiles under me giving way to deposit me below with the rotten cabbage.  “So sorry,” I mumbled, letting her finish the task.  I didn’t look behind me, but walked away hurriedly with my two bags and two gallons of milk.  When I reached my car, I saw that it had been t-boned by a shopping cart, surely divine retribution for my transgressions.  I’m sure I will eventually recover from this self-imposed trauma; with such an over-developed sense of rule following, is it any wonder that I never embarked on a life of crime?