jelly!

You would think after thirty-six days without sugar I would know better.

This afternoon, in the middle of rushing around, I realized I had not yet eaten lunch.  So I did what I always do in such situations:  I made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

As I mashed the two pieces of bread together, I had a sixth sense that something wasn't right.  But I couldn't put my finger on what it was.  Did I miss something on my to-do list?  Was I supposed to be somewhere?  Had I forgotten one of my kids again?

Then, as I bit into my sandwich, it dawned on me what was wrong: jelly.  I had put  sweet, sticky, sugary jelly on my sandwich.  Sometimes, I think I will never learn.

amelia

Today Amelia turns 17.

I always thought it was fitting she was born on the first day of spring; it suits her somehow.  (Mark wanted me to "hold it in" just a little bit longer so she could be born at the exact moment when winter turned to spring.) 

The year Amelia was born was cold and snowy.  I know this because I remember the doctor telling me many pregnant women went into premature labor during snowstorms.  I knew there was little hope of that.  And I was right.

I can't say what the weather was like on the day she was born.  We took the subway to the hospital and when she finally arrived it was well after midnight and much too dark to see anything outside.  Nor did I particularly care.  But the day we brought her home was nice.  Not warm, but sunny.  In the cab we heard "The Girl from Ipanema."  I remember looking into her "perfectly round face" (the doctor's words, not mine) and thinking, "She could be the girl from Ipanema if she wanted to."  Except for the tall part.  I knew even then there was little hope of that.  And I was right.

That first spring is something of a blur to me.  What I remember most are the good things: taking long walks in the park, sitting in an outdoor cafe while she napped; sizing up playmates at the playground; staring into her perfectly round face for hours.  And smiling at the grace of God.

Sometimes I wonder when, exactly, she grew up.  When did I stop counting her age in weeks and months?  When did I lose track of her exact weight and height and her shoe size?  When did she stop needing me to pick her friends and arrange her playdates?  And when did I stop dreaming Ipanema dreams for her?  (Have I?)


One thing is for sure from that day to this, from birth to age seventeen:  there are few people who can make me laugh the way Amelia can; few people I would rather spend the afternoon with, walking through the park, sitting in an outdoor cafe, staring into  her beautiful, still perfectly round face; smiling.

It's like a ray of sunshine on the first day of spring.

frog fail

Watch this:


I feel for that frog.  I really do.  That was the way I used to eat potato chips.  I would wait patiently until just the right time--say four o'clock in the afternoon--and then I would pounce with all the gusto I've got, shoving both fists in my mouth to make sure I was getting them all.  Really, is there any other way to eat potato chips?

a not so good day

For starters, it's Monday.  Need I say more?

Add to that the fact that we set our clocks back over the weekend so it was pitch black again at six o'clock when I tried to wake up the first time.

Add to that it's raining and has been for the last three days.

Add to that my basement is completely under water.

Add to that my day is already full and it's not even nine o'clock in the morning.

What do you get? A not-so-good-day.

grace, part deux

After several readings of the parable of the prodigal son (or the parable of the two lost sons as Tim Keller would say), I am relieved to find that Jesus reached out to the Pharisees as much as he did the tax collectors and prostitutes; older brothers as well as younger; good do-bees and bad do-bees; people who  are good at fasting and the ones who might have eaten a conversation heart while they were doing the laundry yesterday afternoon.

grace

I am a Pharisee.

I used to poo-poo the Pharisees that always seemed to show up in the gospel stories, laughing at the way they would flaunt their piety and nitpick over the tiniest details of the law, and especially at their stubborn refusal to see that Jesus was who he said he was.

But now that my sugar fast is going into its third week, I find that I have become one of them, the way I flaunt my piety (have you read my blog?  Did you know I'm fasting?) and nitpick over the tiniest details (if there are really 46 days between Ash Wednesday and Easter and Jesus only fasted for 40, does that mean I can cheat six times?) and especially in my stubborn refusal to see that grace is just what it says it is: grace.

looks like we made it

I always feel like celebrating on March 1.  At the very least, I feel as though I could break into a couple of bars of  "Looks Like We Made It," because that is exactly how I feel.  Winter is nearly over; the end is in sight.

A friend who hails from Florida says that only a New Englander could see a partly cloudy day, with a high of forty-six degrees, as a harbinger of spring.  But I do.  For me, this time is like the moment before a child is born; the pause before life begins.  And I am excited.

I know that we will probably get a few more inches of snow, and a couple of bitterly cold days--I am, after all, from New England.  But that's okay.  Because even on the worst of days I can tell myself the best is yet to come.