Through a Glass, Darkly

Eef Barzelay’s new CD has a song called “I Love the Unknown,” which was also on the Clem Snide CD Your Favorite Music. We are big Eef fans in this house, and I have been listening to his new CD a lot. As I was singing “I Love the Unknown” in the shower one morning, I had to laugh at myself. I am about as far from loving the unknown as any person can be, and even Eef Barzelay can’t trick me into throwing caution to the wind and taking a bus to “the place with the most allure,” wherever that might be. I like my ordered existence, and I like lists and plans, and I happen to think that’s a perfectly acceptable way to live. The unknown is a scary place, full of . . . things that are unknown. Let me get my calendar out and we can schedule some things instead. The past few weeks have been particularly bad specifically because many, many things have been up in the air.

But then, there’s the end of the song, the part that goes like this:

The doctor asked him what he was afraid of,
just what was he running from?
He said, “It’s not a fear of success, nor of closeness,
but of going through life feeling numb.”

Well, that might be a little bit Fight Club, but maybe the man does have a point there. As much as I like my ordered existence, my routine, sometimes I feel as if life is passing me by and I am not paying attention. There is always something to get through, something we must do that we would prefer not to do, and so we count the days away rather than embracing the time that we have.

I learned a lot of things from my dad: how to drive a stick shift, how to change the oil in my car, how to hammer a nail. Those are all useful, but he also taught me about life and about shaking things up. I have talked before about how he would take us out of school to have a day with him at the mall or at the fair or just on his delivery route. I certainly value those days spent with him in his truck more than I would have remembered whatever I missed that day at school. When you have a family, it’s hard to say that you love the unknown, because you are looking out for more than just yourself. But my dad would never have advocated going through life being numb. He loved fiercely, he cared about people, and he wanted more for me than feeling bogged down by the life going on around me, wishing the days away until the next milestone.

When I took my new job, I wasn’t sure that my dad would have approved. He saw how hard my mom worked as a teacher, and he did not want the same for me. But I know he would have approved of some of my reasons, including wanting to be able to spend more time with my friends and family, especially in the summer. This is my first chance to catch a breath in a while, and as the calendar of our summer stretches out in front of us, so many days left to fill, I have to admit that I don’t mind that sort of unknown quite as much. I appreciate this summer more than I did when I was used to having summers off all the time. I am going to do my best to make it count.

The first time I saw my younger brother as a man was at my dad’s memorial service. At the last minute, and unbeknownst to me and my mom, he decided to share a few thoughts at the end of the service. As he stood there, sharing his thoughts and doing his best to honor our dad, I saw him as I had never seen him before, standing tall and communicating himself in a powerful way.

That’s not to say that he had never acted as a man before, just that I hadn’t had the opportunity to see him in that light. We are about as opposite as two siblings can be, and in our early 20s, we did not have a whole lot in common. I did not know the kind of person he was becoming, and I am grateful that that has changed in the past couple of years. We might not be very similar, but we have the same sense of humor, and I love how that comes out on holidays. And when we make fun of my mom for only eating half of whatever is in front of her. I love it when he praises the things I cook, because he will not praise it unless he means it. I like to hear his constructive criticism on recipes, too, even if it’s hard for me to hear, because he always has good thoughts on how to improve them. He gave us all reason to laugh on Christmas Day when we were creating our Miis on the Wii that he gave me and Mike. He let me call him and cry a few weeks ago when I was sad about Dad missing Mike’s graduation.

Most of us spend our 20s worrying about ourselves and discovering who we are. My brother moved back home to help my dad when my mom was sick, and he stayed at home when my dad was sick. He continues to be there for my mom in ways that I cannot. He is one of the people I know I can call when I need advice or need to talk. He has helped me through all kinds of problems, including house problems I can no longer call Dad about. (I called him just last week about a homework issue, and he called back the next day to make sure it had all worked out for me.) We have our differences, but I continue to be amazed at his generosity and compassion and intelligence. I am thankful for his presence in our lives, and I wonder sometimes if we will ever be able to repay him for all the ways he has helped us in the past few years.

And so, on Father’s Day, I want to honor my dad by saying these things. Look, Dad, your son is taking great care of us all. I know you are proud of him. I wish you were here to see it.

Almost every morning, I come downstairs and find my travel mug cleaned out and draining beside our sink. It is especially difficult to open, and Mike knows that, so he opens it almost every morning and cleans out yesterday’s coffee. It’s one of my favorite morning things, to turn the kitchen corner and see my mug sitting there. I appreciate how Mike takes care of the little things, and as we have been searching for a house, I see how much of that falls on him as well. Mostly because he has more time, but that doesn’t mean I appreciate it any less.

Looking for a house is difficult - when we bought this house, it was kind of like choosing my wedding dress. I “knew” that was the right dress, and we “knew” this was the right house. This time around, things are a little bit more complicated, and we have been weighing what we want and who we think we are more than we did the last time. We think we have settled on a house, though. We are going to go look at it again tomorrow and probably decide for sure. We are thankful to have people who are helping us make a good decision, but it also makes me miss my dad.

We went to one of the older theaters in town to see Indiana Jones today. It just seemed right, to see it without stadium seating or big fancy surround sound. I wouldn’t call it the best Indiana Jones movie (that’s Raiders, of course) or my favorite (that’s Last Crusade), but it was good, uncomplicated fun. Parts of it were a little overly silly, but I enjoyed myself and had a good time. Also, it was only $8.00 for both of us. I bet you paid more than $8.00 for one ticket! My dad has been on my mind lately because of this movie coming out. I don’t know exactly when I saw my first Indiana Jones movie, but I think that it was when we rented the VHS of Raiders and Temple of Doom one time when my dad and I were both sick. Seeing them when we were both sick always made Indiana Jones feel like something special that my dad and I shared (in between puking our guts out). (Temple of Doom did not exactly make me feel better, let me tell you.) The first time I saw the trailer for the new movie, I cried a little bit, because it made me miss him and because it was weird that there was another movie and he wouldn’t be here to see it. I think he would have thought the same thing I did - fun movie. A little bit silly, but fun.

I just finished The Off Season by Catherine Gilbert Murdock, and while I didn’t like it quite as much as I liked Dairy Queen (I never wrote about that book, but I thought it was pretty fantastic), the ending really got me. Now, those of you who think that you might be interested should probably stop here, because I’m going to be quoting from the last paragraph of the book.

All gone? Okay then.

But the thing is, Dad’s not too fond of easy lives. Probably jealous, for one thing. But he’s also seen how a tough life can make you stronger. It got Win and Bill all the way to college because they worked so hard at football. It got Win fighting for his survival. That’s why Dad agreed to take Brian on last summer, because Jimmy Ott wanted Brian to get a work ethic and Schwenk Farm grows that better than anything. And Brian did learn how to work hard, and all season he started as QB thanks to us. But I guess he never learned those other kinds of toughness, like how to stand up to your so-called friends, and how to defend those people who really are your friends even if they’re unpopular or poor or the wrong size. I think what Dad was saying that night–although I’m not sure because I’m never going to ask him–is that Brian’s life has been too easy, and that maybe, just maybe, I deserve someone better. Someone else who’s strong enough to take on a whole herd of trouble when it comes their way.

Now, of course, in most ways Mike and I have easy lives. We have all the benefits of people who live in this country, and we have a home and we never have to worry about food and we get to go to the movies and see Indiana Jones just because we want to. But at the same time, we have faced a herd of trouble here and there, and it has had his challenges. And as I finished this book the day before he graduated, I thought about the man I married, the man who stood up for me against his family, who reinvented himself in order to better provide for us, who was strong for me when my daddy was sick. I wish things had been easier for him, and I wish some of those things hadn’t happened to us. But I am proud to be married to a man who can take on a whole herd of trouble and come out stronger for it.

On a lighter note, how about some pictures?

I like to call this picture, “Spent four years prostrate to the higher mind, got my paper and I was free.” Special thanks to my brother for taking pictures that day. Also, it explains the veritable cornucopia of pictures of pretty girls. (Just kidding. I mean, there were lots of pictures of pretty girls. But that’s because the education department is pretty much all female.)

Would you like to see what Mike’s cake looked like?

Yes, that is a sea turtle with a graduation cap on. Our friend Deb is awesome. She came up with that idea and executed it awesomely.

Mike would like for me to tell you that he beat me at Trivial Pursuit. Which is fine. I enjoy a good friendly competition. My hat is off to him. He should definitely be proud. After all, while I was getting questions about Confederate generals (which I answered correctly) and retired NHL commissioners (which I did not), he was getting questions like the following:

What tune did Jim Weatherly originally pen as Midnight Plane to Houston?

Midnight. Plane. To. Houston. Yeah. He got a pie piece for that. How about this one?

What does the W mean to roving WLAN computer users?

W? Roving? What could that be? Certainly not wireless! Except, yes it is. Another pie piece for Mike.

What fraction of Africa’s rainforests can be found in the Democratic Republic of Congo?

Now, I know what you are going to say here. That could be a difficult question. But let me assure you, as we will discover in just a minute, the number questions are never really that difficult if you are thinking. Unless they are questions for Kari. And this was a question for Mike. And, indeed, the answer was . . . one-half. Another pie piece. This was one of his more difficult pie pieces.

What Democrat cringed in horror at his half-brother’s role in Pumpkinhead 2: Blood Wings?

I actually knew this one from my Quiz Bowl days. Mike guessed correctly, but I thought that everyone knew about Roger and his drug/alcohol problems. Obviously drugs and/or alcohol would lead to one making a movie called Pumpkinhead 2. Another piece of the pie for Mike.

Speaking of numbers and how they work in Mike’s favor, here is a nice little question:

How many winning seasons were fans of the New Orleans Saints able to enjoy, from 1967 to 1986?

Well, let’s see what we’ve got here. Really specific dates? Check. A team not historically known for winning? Check. That can only mean one thing! Zero! And, indeed, the answer was zero. Another piece of the pie for Mike. (Sorry, Scott, for bringing up such a painful subject.)

And, finally, my personal favorite question from this batch:

What U.S. State lost 30,500 hogs to 1999’s Hurricane Floyd?

Hey, Mike, remember when I was in college and there was a hurricane coming through North Carolina and we went to Kelly’s apartment for a hurricane party and then nothing happened to us and then Eastern North Carolina flooded and we felt awful about it later? You do? You mean to tell me you remember Hurricane Floyd hitting North Carolina? Dangit. I guess that’s six pieces of pie, now, isn’t it?

In our house, there is some debate about whether the final question should be selected before or after the card has been perused. Mike insisted that I choose beforehand. So I chose History, often a difficult category, and he got a question about a president of our country who was also, I kid you not, the founder of UVA. He won. But, you know, that’s cool. I’m not bitter.

If you need me, I’ll be on a midnight plane to Houston. (MIDNIGHT PLANE TO HOUSTON, YOU GUYS. HE GOT A PIE PIECE FOR THAT! HURRICANE FLOYD! I will have my revenge.)

I don’t like to brag, but . . . in my hometown there is a restaurant that serves the best cheeseburgers in North Carolina. The Charlotte Observer says so. I would link to the article, but, unfortunately, it’s not available online. Here’s a quote from the article on the best cheeseburgers in the state, written by Tony Brown and published July 18th, 1997:

Best in the Carolinas

Johnson’s Restaurant, U.S. 64 East, Siler City

Clyde Leonard Johnson built this unassuming little family restaurant on the Siler City bypass, about 20 miles east of Asheboro, and started making the best cheeseburgers in the Carolinas on July 19, 1946.

It’s now owned by his son, Claxton Johnson, who can be found most days in front of the grill, making the burgers the same way, from beef ground fresh on the premises every morning.

Balls of meat are squashed flat on a grill with a metal spatula. Velveeta cheese, cut on a specially made block of wood that is the same size as a Velveeta loaf, is allowed to melt through little holes in the meat so that it burns slightly on the grill. A dollop of hot dog chili, mustard, onions and toasted buns make this a crunchy-chewy piece of cheeseburger paradise.

The molten cheese seals the top bun to the blackened burger while the gooey chili adheres the charred meat to the bottom bun. The ingredients cease being individual components and an elemental change takes place, creating a unified whole. It’s a $2.20 act of transubstantiation.

Don’t wait until the next time you just happen to be in Siler City . This is worth a special trip.

Hours: 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. Tuesdays; 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. Wednesdays through Saturdays. No phone.

I grew up eating Johnson’s cheeseburgers (and hamburgers). Not very often, but sometimes. As you can see, the hours are kind of strange. And when I was little, they didn’t even really have hours. The owner would make a bunch of patties, and when he got done cooking all the ones he made, he would stop serving. I like that. It sounds ornery. Like Luke Danes.

For whatever reason, I had never taken Mike there. So over spring break, we went by and had some of the delicious cheeseburgers. Except. He did not have a cheeseburger, even after I told him that’s what he should have. A cheeseburger all the way. That is how I ordered my cheeseburger. I let him have a bite of mine. Even though he had fries and I wasn’t having any fries! His punishment was that he had to listen to me explain that he was not having the Full Johnson’s Experience. And then we called my mom, so she could explain the same thing. Which she did. Using almost exactly the same words. Because that is how important Johnson’s is, and also that is how closely we are connected. These are some things that are important: Mom. And cheeseburgers.

Don’t worry. I will make sure that Mike receives the Full Johnson’s Experience next time. (There WILL be a next time. And next time, I will eat TWO.)

Women Watching Basketball by Marisa de los Santos

For us, five writers, it’s partly
to do with the language, little spells,
hyphenated, elegant lingo,

words swirling like whiskey in the mouth:
pump-fake, post-up, two-guard,
pick-and-roll. We are casual.

Like Whitman–who’d have been a fan
for sure, adoring and bearded,
tossing his hat in the air

for the Knicks–we speak passwords
primeval, we enter this world
and belong. With adamant hands,

we argue calls, how best
to beat the double-team, the beauty
of an inside-outside game.

And, too, it’s the players themselves
that attract us, their lives, loose-
linked fragments of story

each of us seeks and collects:
the guard’s murdered father, the tranquil
center’s Muslim faith,

ten-thousand winter coats
the rookie gave to children.
But, still, it’s more than all

that. Oh, how to explain
why you love what you love?
Picture time-lapse photography,

the certain outward opening
of flowers, one circle of petals
at a time, a smooth unfisting

called to life by notes sounded
somewhere in the clenched heart,
the thirsty root-tips, the body

of the moist earth. Exhalation
of a long-held breath. Green
stem, delicate tendon,

twisting toward the sun.
Because it’s like that,
a little, the turn-around fade-away

jumper. Though we know the ethereal
nicknames: Magic, Dream, Air,
what we want most is pure

corpus, sharp tug of tricep
and hamstring, five fingers’ grip
on the ball–hard, perfect star–

back muscles singing, glorious
climb through the air. We imagine
it this way: to dunk would be life

from the bones out, would be
to declare, Divine is the flesh!
and for once to believe it, believe it.

April is National Poetry Month. Marisa de los Santo’s new novel came out this week. And Go Tarheels!

Yesterday was Bright Sunday at my church. It was the first time we had ever celebrated Bright Sunday, which is the day (usually celebrated in Eastern Orthodox churches) when we dress in bright colors and celebrate with holy laughter the miracle of Christ rising from the dead. This website says that, “The custom was rooted in the musings of early church theologians (like Augustine, Gregory of Nyssa, and John Chrysostom) that God played a practical joke on the devil by raising Jesus from the dead. ‘Risus paschalis - the Easter laugh,’ the early theologians called it.” Our pastor explained it in a similar way. It reminded me of the party that Lauren Winner talked about in Girl Meets God, where everyone met on the Monday after Easter and brought whatever it was that they gave up for Lent so that they could all celebrate together.

In our case, we just wore Hawaiian shirts and other bright colors. It was one of those things where I wanted to tell visitors, “We don’t always dress quite so silly.”

After church, we went out to eat to celebrate a friend’s birthday. Because it was cold and I didn’t want to be dressed like an idiot all day, I had brought along a change of clothes. And by “change of clothes” I mean “my Davidson sweatshirt.” That’s right! I own a Davidson sweatshirt. Because my brother went there. I am totally legit. For the record, Mike put on his UNCG sweatshirt. SoCon represent! (First Mike and I were eerily matchy with our Hawaiian shirts. Then we were eerily matchy with our sweatshirts. We were having one of those adorable couple days. I am not all that comfortable with the matchy matchy.)

While we were on our way to the restaurant, I called my brother to tell him that I was wearing the sweatshirt he bought me in honor of his alma mater’s big game. He said that, in fact, he had worn his own Davidson sweatshirt to church. (I would have worn mine to church if it hadn’t been Bright Sunday. Too bad the sweatshirt is gray. Later on in the day, I saw that my mom’s Facebook status was that she was wearing her Davidson sweatshirt. We were a whole family of matchy matchy!)

But that is not the point of this post. The point of this post is that Davidson (and, you know, Stephen Curry) managed something that I thought was impossible. They got my brother to care about college basketball. Now, I love me some college basketball. March is a wonderful, wonderful time of year. Joseph, however, isn’t all that big on organized sports and that kind of athletic competition. Not that he’s not athletic - he did tae kwon do, he ran track and cross country. He just doesn’t care for the way that sports stars are idolized and overpayed. And he especially doesn’t like how people tie their importance and mood to a team they have nothing to do with. We have had a lot of discussions about this, and while I see his point, I do truly love the game of basketball. I love competition and rivalry. It’s one of those things where we mostly just agree to disagree. So when Davidson kept winning those games, I didn’t call him, because I thought he’d be like, “Well, okay, thanks for letting me know, but you know I don’t really care.” I called my mom instead, and we squealed excitedly about the games, just like we always do.

But then on Sunday, my brother and I were talking about a game! Of basketball! He even knew that, if his team won, they would be playing my team! This is some serious progress, people. You need to root for Davidson in the future so that he and I can continue this emotional closeness.

In all honesty, I was kind of heartbroken at the end of the game. I know that my brother wasn’t deeply invested in the outcome, but it was fun to watch him have something like that to be excited about. I know that people all across the country were rooting for Davidson, but at the same time, it felt very personal, to know, as Mike and I were standing in the middle of the living room watching the last play, that my brother was watching the game at a bar with other Davidson grads, that my mom was watching at her house. All of us in our matching sweatshirts.

I didn’t call him, because I knew he’d say, “Oh, well, no big deal.” But I would have called if they had won. Because I knew he was watching.

Random House is re-releasing the Sweet Valley High series, with updated references (this means cell phones and Elizabeth writes for the website instead of the newspaper) and character descriptions (this means “perfect size four” rather than “perfect size six”). In honor of this glorious event, I would like to share a treasured photo with you. I had the Sweet Valley High board game, you see, and it was a point of contention between me and my dad. I am not completely sure about the details, but I am pretty sure that he did not approve of Sweet Valley High in general (though he did let me read them), and he wasn’t really a board game kind of guy. Card games, yes. Board games, not so much. And, finally, the game required that you steal other players’ boyfriends as you collected all the things you needed for your big date. There was no way he was going to play a game like that.

But. We had a habit of betting things for the Carolina/Duke game. At some point, we made a wager that, if Duke lost, he had to play Sweet Valley High: The Board Game with me. Duke did, in fact, lose that game. He had to play Sweet Valley High with me, complete with boyfriend stealing. And I took a picture of it. With my polaroid camera. Which I now share with all of you.

Stealing boyfriends from other players gave him physical pain. But I made him do it anyway.

Obviously, I was quite excited to read the updated version, if only to revisit good old Sweet Valley High. The Dairi Burger, a site that is rereading and reviewing old Sweet Valley High books, thinks that maybe the 80s yuppie culture won’t translate to today’s audiences. The site specifically talks about the obsession with the rich and how that won’t really translate to today’s youth . . . to which I say, “Have you SEEN how popular Gossip Girl is?” What is Gossip Girl about other than class issues and spying on the lives of rich people? And there’s the Clique series (rich private school girls) and the It Girl series (I don’t know what that one’s about, but I am going to guess people who are rich and/or famous), and . . . you get the idea.

In case you don’t know, the Sweet Valley High series features beautiful twins Jessica and Elizabeth Wakefield, who are 16 and attend Sweet Valley High with their beautiful friends. Jessica is the “bad twin,” who is inconsiderate and selfish and boy-crazy, while Elizabeth, the “good twin,” works on the newspaper (excuse me, website) and is responsible and considerate. (I always liked Elizabeth better.) They like boys and go to parties and there are hints of sex but nothing ever really happens. Well, this one time, Bruce Patman untied the top of Jessica’s bathing suit, which I found racy at the time. But now I look at the things going on in Gossip Girl, and the bikini top seems kind of tame. Because of that, I think it’s a good choice for middle school - it has the high school drama without some of the material that makes Gossip Girl and its ilk inappropriate for that age.

Because the girls at my school love the Clique series, I have read some of them myself, and I was bothered by the way the girls in that series treat each other. When girls ask for it, if it’s not checked in, I have been known to say, “Wouldn’t you rather read a series where the girls are nice to each other?” and give them The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants instead. Because of my discomfort with some of that, I wondered how Sweet Valley High would measure up now that I am a little bit older. After reading Double Love and Secrets, I have to say that they are pretty much just as I remember them. Though Jessica is catty and selfish and conniving, she often gets her comeuppance. Additionally, the presence of Elizabeth balances out the story a little bit more, and I would be much more comfortable giving these to my middle schoolers than the Clique series, where everyone is just mean to each other all the time.

I hope, as they are updating Sweet Valley High, that they give the series more diversity. The Dairi Burger was right in that one of the major themes was class, which was a little bit more applicable in the 80s . . . I hope that can be expanded so that the series also deals with race and ethnicity as well. Overall, though, I enjoyed this trip down memory lane. I enjoyed it so much that I got out the old board game.

Much to Mike’s chagrin. Well, that’s what he said at first, but then he got into the spirit of it. He played as Jessica, the “bad twin,” and he really embodied the character. He took what used to be a simple game and added some serious scheming.

OMG! He stole my boyfriend!

And, uh, then he won. I am filled with shame. I will distract you by posting that picture of my dad again, just because I can.

The rest of the Sweet Valley High pictures are here!

This year, our church’s Lenten theme was about restoration. Every week, someone gave a focus on how God has restored some aspect of their lives - a woman who was abused as a child has now become a counselor; a man who spent many years focusing on himself is now married and he and his wife have adopted their nieces and nephews after a tragedy in their family. I knew a little bit about some of those stories, but it was very powerful to hear them spoken.

On Palm Sunday, after the kids marched in with their palm leaves and they had been put in vases at the front of the church (after brushing a little bit too close to one of the candles and almost catching on fire) our pastor preached a sermon about betrayal, which, of course, had more than a little to do with Judas. At one point in the sermon, he was talking about various forms of betrayal, and he said something about parents rejecting you because they didn’t approve of your choice of spouse. One thing I like about going to a small church is that he includes examples from the congregation, that I know that he knows our story. But I was honestly surprised at what he said . . . betrayal? I have always thought of what happened with Mike’s parents as flat-out rejection. I have taken it very personally, this rejection of me. It took a while to get my mind around the idea that it was a betrayal of how parents are supposed to act. (Also, it was probably a good reminder that this, like most things, isn’t really about me.)

On Easter Sunday, after a wonderful church service, we had a big lunch with some friends from church. As our friend was blessing the meal, he thanked God for our families and the families we create around ourselves. While family is very important to me and Mike, we don’t experience certain aspects of that in the same ways that many people do, because Mike’s parents aren’t around. Our friend’s grace was a good reminder of the restoration we see in our own lives: like Naomi, we have felt so empty, but the Lord has filled us up again.

So, I mentioned that my cousin who lives in Brooklyn is expecting a baby at any time. We were very close when we were little - our moms are sisters, and we both lived in Greensboro, so we spent a fair amount of time together. He was the closest thing to a big brother I had, and I basically worshiped the ground he walked on. I am going to be an excellent aunt. (I know that is not technically the title I will have, but we have all agreed that it’s what I am going to be.) I already took baby Henry a copy of The Hobbit, because the first time I ever heard the story was from his dad. (Have I mentioned that his wife wrote a book and you can preorder it from Amazon? It’s a young adult book about horses. This is how we see if Sarah Cozart is reading.)

For Christmas, his mom gave me this picture, with a note that he drew it around 1981.

My relationship with him (and my veritable cornucopia of other cousins) has meant that I have brought a lot of expectations to the table when we think about having our own children. Mike’s sister’s children are already 10, 7, and 1, and we haven’t even gotten started, and that makes me a little bit sad. I keep pressuring my brother to start having children, but that’s partly to take the pressure off me. (I should mention that Mike’s 10-year-old niece point-blank asked me at Christmas, “Are you ever going to have kids?” I wondered if her mom put her up to it. heh.)

A couple of weeks ago, Emily and I had coffee and talked (among other things) about relationships and expectations and letting those expectations go. I wanted a better relationship with my in-laws. I wanted my dad to be around to play with his grandchildren. And tied in with both of those things is the desire for my future children to be surrounded by family. During church that Sunday, something the pastor said reminded me a bit of Anne Lamott, whose conversion prayer ended up basically signifying that she was going to stop fighting: “You can come in.” I realized that I have prayed that resigned prayer over and over in my life. You can come in, God, and help me deal with the grief over losing my dad. You can come in and show me how to handle these lost expectations. Even though I’ve been keeping you at bay, even though I’m afraid of who you might be, you can come in and show me who you really are. For me, this prayer is the most tangible way I can think of explaining what working out my salvation means like: Letting God in, bit by bit, I learn about the ways that I need him, the ways I have been keeping him out.

I hope for a safe arrival for baby Henry, and I hope that he will one day know the happiness that is playing with his cousins. And I hope that I will be able to embrace whatever happiness comes our way, whoever it is that loves us, no matter what their exact titles are. And as much as I want to be able to focus on joy without focusing on regret or what might have been, I will need God to come in and show me how that might be done.

Over the weekend, we flew to Florida for my uncle’s surprise 70th birthday party.

Now, when I tell you that we flew on a private plane to go to a surprise party at the yacht club, you know that’s not how my life normally goes, right? But it was nice to pretend that it was. What are you doing this weekend, Kari? Oh, flying to Florida in a private jet. What are you doing?

We stayed in a nice inn right in downtown Naples, which was fun. My huge disappointment, however, was that I thought we were going to have a suite, with me and Mike in one room and my mom and my brother in the other room. I spent many hours envisioning the pajama parties we were going to have: watching movies, teaching my mom to knit. That, I am sad to say, did not happen, because we were down the hall from each other. No one knows where I got the idea that we were going to be in a suite. Apparently I made it up. But doesn’t my brain sound like a fun place to be? Don’t you wish you could have gone to that pajama party?

Anyway, we ran errands and went out to eat and went to the party (he was very surprised, not least that we were there). And then on Monday, when we could finally hang out with my aunt and uncle, my aunt went with us to Cheeburger Cheeburger, because I was demanding hamburgers and onion rings. Don’t ask why. There is no reason. I just WANTED A HAMBURGER. We chose Cheeburger Cheeburger even though we know that their service is consistently appalling. Both of the locations I have been to in Naples have had terrible service. In fact, there were only about four tables that had people, which should tell you something. And there were at least five different people serving tables. But we still didn’t get our onion rings until we had almost finished our burgers. What were they DOING back there?

Anyway, as you can see from their menu, they have a 20 oz burger. And so begins our story.

Sometimes we all say things without thinking. I think this was the case when my aunt said, “Who’s going to eat the pound burger?” You would think she hadn’t met Mike and Joseph, both of whom can put away some food. Normally volume eating isn’t something she approves of, but since this she had asked, she couldn’t take it back. They were both up for it.

Joseph’s eyes frighten me here. He is seriously intense about that burger.

I stuck with a 7 oz burger. Because I am not interested in volume eating, and I have nothing to prove to anyone. (I can’t claim to be worried about my girlish figure, since I was like: ONION RINGS! MUST HAVE FRIED FOOD AND RED MEAT!)

Anyway, as expected, neither Mike nor Joseph had any trouble whatsoever devouring the burger. And also some onion rings. (And later that afternoon, they each had a bowl of ice cream. Joseph also had an ice cream cone. My mom and my aunt began to turn green just looking at them consume food.)

The good news, though, is that eating this large burger really means something. If you finish it, you get to wear a silly hat and also your picture goes up on the wall.

Wow, that face sums it all up, I think.

Still hungry, I see.

The great thing about these pictures is that you get to write a meaningful sentiment at the bottom to be posted for all to see. It’s practically the Pulitzer Prize of eating. You probably saw these pictures in the paper (how could such a momentous occasion not be written up in the paper?), but just in case you didn’t, let me repost them here for you.

Truly, it was a day to remember. Joseph and Mike achieved what mere mortals only dream of.

After that, to finish off the day, we drove around in our limo and drank champagne in our hot tub.*

(*We did not do either of those things. Instead, we flew home on the private jet. Why can’t that be enough for you?)

It’s hard to live a life filled with wonder. I get glimpses of it when we play with kids, when summer nights stretch out hot and humid in front of us, at Christmas, when I eat something that tastes amazing, when something I have been looking forward to finally happens. But most of my life isn’t like that. I get caught up in my regular routine: getting to work, cracking open a Diet Coke, processing books, going home, making dinner, cleaning the house. It’s hard to find a day of rest in the midst of all that has to be done at work and at home, and it can be hard to remember to be excited about life in the middle of summer when you’d rather be relaxing by the pool.

When I think about people in my life who have taught me about wonder, I think about my dad. It’s a well-documented fact that he was the one who was most excited on Christmas morning, but he lived like that, too, I think. He would take us out of school to go shopping for Mom’s birthday, or to the State Fair, or just to go with him to school (when he was in school after some health problems). I think he was trying to teach us about taking time for what’s important. He certainly always tried to emphasize that there were things he wanted for us much more than good grades, no matter how proud he was of our good grades (and he was very proud of them).

When it came to faith, what I got from my dad was a sense of gratitude that he was allowed to participate at all. I am sure that shaped the way that I think about faith – I am a person who likes to have answers, but when it comes to my faith, I’d rather not try to spell out each theological point. I am much more comfortable with embracing the mystery, being thankful that we can be a part of something so much bigger than ourselves.

When my dad was sick, one of the things he said was that some people see the glass as half full, some see it as half empty, but, as for him, his cup runneth over. I would like, someday, to embrace life like he did, rather than just living.

Waterdeep is a band I always associate with my dad. I have no idea if he ever heard their music at all, but I think he would have liked them, their jangly sound and their take on life. I think he and Don Chaffer could have been friends, actually, and I think he would have thought their music was pretty great. Their new song, “Good Good End,” makes me think of my dad: “I’m amazed by life, and it’s amazed by me / We’re a strange old pair, me and eternity,” is not something he would have said, but I think he would have agreed with the sentiment. What a blessing that we’re here. What a mystery that life doesn’t stop here. What a miracle that, in the end, Jesus will be waiting for us. I miss my dad, but I am thankful he has found his good good end.

You can leave right now
You can ring a bell
You can tell ‘em you think I ain’t doin’ too well
But when I stood like you
I eventually fell
So you can leave right now
Go on and ring your bell

I’m amazed by life
And it’s amazed by me
We’re a strange old pair, me and eternity
It don’t make good sense
It ain’t easy to see
But I’m amazed by life
And it’s amazed by me

It’s a long hard road
With a good, good end
And if I keep on walking on past the crooked bend
I will meet my Maker
I will meet my Friend
It’s a long hard road
With a good, good end