Advice for a Broken Heart

Free Advice for a Broken Heart

Take it for what it's worth

You know how, if you have a baby, you suddenly notice how many babies are gurgling, cooing and barfing out there? The babes were always around - just not on your radar. For me, it's been the same with the death of a husband. I knew one widow under age 50 before Sean died. Now, I know about a dozen. I've received several messages via Facebook from friends of new widows asking, "What do I tell them?" I remember asking the same question of my friend, Rev. Jeff. Jeff served as an Air Force Chaplain in Iraq (among many other places). During one of Sean's operations, he sat with me in the surgery waiting room and told stories about helping families after a son or daughter had died serving their country. I asked Jeff, "What do you say to them?" He said, "I believe God gives me the words. But mostly, I listen. Mostly, I'm just present."

 Presence. If you know someone who's hurting (don't we all?) your presence is the gift. To sit or stand shoulder to shoulder with someone, even offer a hand or a hug... these are incredibly powerful gestures. You don't need the "right" words to help. In fact, your "right" words may be exactly wrong for the person you're trying to comfort. The fact you listen is what's most important.

Now that I've trashed words, let me perform an about-face and offer advice (Hey, it's my blog!).

I wanted to pass along a note I wrote to a Facebook friend (one of the many "friends" I don't know) in hopes it might help someone else. Keep in mind, this is top-of-the-head stuff, and not an exhaustive treatise on counseling the newly bereaved. Please, do add your own advice in the comments section.

Question:

I lost my husband Dec. 28 2010. How do you handle the loss of a husband?

Answer:

I'm so very sorry to hear about your loss. It's a horrible thing to lose your spouse. That's a big, big question. I'll give you a few ideas that helped me:

1) Reading. I'd suggest "Getting to the Other Side of Grief," and "A Grace Disguised." Excellent books. One of them was recommended by a widow with whom I've had healing conversations. Also, grab a book about something you've always dreamed about doing, because you need hope for the future. For me, it was a travel book. For you, it could be something different.

2) Get a good counselor. Even if you only go 3 times, 6 times, whatever... it helps to have a trained professional who'll mostly listen without presenting his or her own history and problems. Hospice could probably recommend someone if you need a referral, and many Hospices run grief support groups.

3) Don't think too far ahead. I've learned I can bite off about a week at a time.

4) Find support from other widows/widowers. Widows truly understand what you're going through. Find someone who was widowed several years ago, and ask how her life has changed since those early dark months after death. I just met several widows who are at least 5 years past their husbands' deaths, and it was incredibly hopeful to hear how well they and their children are doing.

5) If you belong to a faith group, seek support there. If you've ever considering joining a church, synagogue, etc... now's the time.

6) Get outside. Notice what's happening in the yard, the woods, on the beach. I sometimes imagine my husband's a bird, or has sent a bird, to remind me he's still "out there somewhere."

My heart goes out to you - really. Just know it'll get better. You're still alive - don't feel guilty about being alive.

Peace and love to you,

Dawn
 P.S.:  I just returned from dinner after writing this post, and one of the guests was a woman who was widowed 10 years ago when her daughter was 5 years old.

Marae Day

Marae Day

Maori elder, Janice, and I press noses (hongi)

At Home with the Maori

I rubbed noses with several people today. It's how Maori – indigenous peoples of New Zealand -greet you at their wharenui, or meeting house. I took part in a visit to a Maori Marae (meeting place) arranged by Settlement Support (a program of the local YMCA http://www.migrantsupport.org.nz/ ). It was like being part of a class field trip, only we arrived in cars instead of a big yellow school bus. Also, no one got a time-out for being naughty.

Adults from at least a dozen countries- including Germany, Iran, Italy, Poland and Japan – gathered with Kiwis to experience Maori culture. We met at the Wairoa Marae near Tauranga. Traffic from Highway 2 zipped past on the other side of the fence as we started the ceremonial entry. A few dozen women shuffled across a gravel courtyard for the karanga (exchange of calls), led by a Maori woman who responded to the song of another elderly Maori who was dressed in black, wearing a  greenstone necklace. The caller sang: "Haere mai." (welcome), plus a bunch of other words I couldn't understand. It was still beautiful. Our main guide and Maori elder, Lou, said one reason Maoris conduct these ceremonies in their own language is because, "If Maori were a person, he would be on life support. We need to speak it as much as possible." (A government report dated 2010 said almost one-quarter of Maori can hold a conversation in Maori – about 4 percent of total New Zealand population). http://www.socialreport.msd.govt.nz/cultural-identity/maori-language-speakers.html

Shoes off to enter the wharenui

Everyone removes shoes before entering the wharenui. You're supposed to bow your head as you enter. One of the elders told us we were bringing not only ourselves inside, but also our ancestors and those we've lost that we're grieving.

Sitting in the wharenui (the women always sit in back), listening to speeches and songs, sitting, standing, then sitting again, felt like church. The elders told us Maori are a very spiritual people who believe in the sacredness of their land. One of the elders I pressed noses with, Janice, told me she's visited Spokane 3 times. She spent a month on the Wellpinit Reservation http://www.spokanetribe.com/ She and the Spokane Tribe shared meals, songs and dances. "Spiritually, they were very similar to us," said Janice.

Inside the Wairoa wharenui

Lou, Maori elder

Lou explained the significance of the carvings lining columns inside the hall. One was for Pakeha, or foreigners; one that featured stingray and fish spoke to the identity of the Hapu (clan) as people of the water. My favorite pillar included a carving of the local Maori's sacred mountain, Mauao (pronounced Mow-ow). That's the hill that kicks my Pakeha butt each Friday morning when I run with the Mt. Joggers. The colors of green and blue on different column stand for the bush (woods) and water. "The Wairoa River," said Lou. "That is our identity. We believe the physical has a spiritual dimension to it. The blue here is the creation story – Sky Father, similar to the American Indian story. Green is Earth Mother. We respect beauty day by day. We're glad to have the sun, and glad when it rains..." Lou said decisions among Maori require community consensus. The community decided their own youth should carve the column designs, instead of employing more experienced craftsmen from outside the group. So while the Wairoa wharenui's carvings are not as intricate as others throughout the country, they're special to this hapu.

We lined up before morning tea to say thank you and perform the hongi, or pressing of noses. After you've gone nose-to-nose with Maori, you're considered whanau (family) of the marae for the occasion.

Bottom of column depicts Mauao

Several of my Kiwi friends have been on a marae for a tangi, or Maori funeral. I asked Lou how long they lasted, and what happened during that time. He said funerals last 3, maybe 4 days. "Everything else stops," he said. "A funeral has greatest priority. The respect we give to our dead takes precedence over all other things. We could've had a wedding scheduled – it would be canceled for a funeral." It reminded me of what the dean of my home church, St. John's Cathedral, told me while I was arranging Sean's memorial service. Bill said funerals took first priority. "I won't officiate a wedding for just anyone -they must be connected to the church," he said. "But I will do a funeral for anyone."

During a Maori tangi, women sit on the floor near the casket, while men sit in chairs. The community gives speeches, rubs noses, then shares kai (food), traditionally cooked over hot stones in a hangi (earth oven).

Lou, the elder, said he'd once arranged for a tour group to visit the marae when a Maori died. Suddenly, the field trip was off. Lou gave the group a choice: They could postpone their visit, or attend the tangi (funeral) instead. The group chose the funeral. Lou said, "They were flabbergasted even though they didn't understand the speeches. They appreciated the way Maori grieve over their dead. The women wail – it's a public expression of grief. With Westerners, all their emotions are bottled up." I remembered my own stoicism during Sean's funeral. "Yeah," I thought. "Sounds about right."

It's not all hangis (traditional meal cooked in the ground) and kapa haka (performance art) for Maori in Aotearoa (the Maori name for New Zealand). According to Wikipedia:

The Māori face significant economic and social obstacles, with lower life expectancies and incomes compared with other New Zealand ethnic groups, in addition to higher levels of crime, health problems and educational under-achievement. Socioeconomic initiatives have been implemented aimed at closing the gap between Māori and other New Zealanders. Political redress for historical grievances is also ongoing. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M%C4%81ori_people

If you spend enough time in New Zealand – maybe longer than a week – you can't help but learn about the document that founded NZ in 1840 – The Treaty of Waitangi. It's an agreement between Maori groups and the NZ government. The elders we spoke with said you can't learn about Maori culture without some knowledge of the Treaty. It gives Pakeha (non-Maori) rights to be here, and is designed to safeguard Maori culture and resources. It's controversial – Lou said his hapu is in talks with the government about the loss of their land. He said his community once owned 20,000 acres. Now, they have 300. They're seeking an apology and other redress – (return of land? Money? I'm unclear on that one) from the "Crown" (government).

If I've learned one thing during our world tour, it's that becoming culturally enlightened (or trying to) makes you hungry. Good thing the soup was on: Our group was welcomed to lunch with traditional song and dance. The marae visit was so informative and enjoyable, I wondered if I should make an effort to learn more about native culture in the U.S. when we return to Spokane. It's easy to take for granted what's right before you.

Identity Crisis

Identity Crisis

Grand Canyon, July, 2010

I was sitting at Lindaman's cafe in Spokane about a year-and-a-half ago when a friend asked a question that's been following me around the world ever since. I'll get to the question later, but first, background: In early October, 2009, my husband, Sean, lay in room 549 of Sacred Heart Medical Center, after being transferred from the Intensive Care Unit. Sean was still battling after-effects of Necrotizing Fasciitis – also called "flesh-eating bacteria." The mystery infection (we'll never know how he got it) nearly killed him. He was pumped full of fluid (more than 20 pounds worth), drugs that knocked him unconscious, and placed on a ventilator for two weeks. He endured several operations, including two skin grafts. He was, as several nurses put it, "a train wreck."

Sean re-learned to swallow, eat, sit up and stand – with heaps of help from hospital staff. His kidneys had shut down. He'd spend 3-4 hours, 3-5 days a week, hooked to a dialysis machine.

During this time, I spent anywhere from a couple hours a day to nearly all day, every day, at the hospital. I was spinning plates, as I've always done, as a chronic, unrepentant multi-tasker. But I didn't pick these new plates. My plates adorned the walls of our home, with their splashy colors, flowers and rooster patterns. I chose the ceramics carefully and packed them from Portugal and Italy. This new set of spinning plates was different: cracked, chipped, and plain white, they smelled of alcohol. Some plates were even stained. They were heavy and slippery and would crash to the floor, littering my exit routes with broken shards. I sure as hell didn't choose these pieces. Still, I had to spin them, until Sean died of surgical complications, 4-and-a-half months after entering the hospital. White hospital plates - gone. Sean - gone. Part of me - gone.

Finally, to the question that's been dogging me. Maybe it's chasing you, too: Who are you? During the conversation at Lindaman's, Paul said, "Before Sean got sick, you guys traveled a lot. Now, you can't go anywhere, because you're tied to the hospital. What does that do to your sense of identity?"

I stopped slurping lemon-chicken Thai soup, struck by my friend's intuitiveness. I used to think of travel as something you did, not "traveler" as someone you were.

Do we understand our identity pyramid before losing a building block or two? Lose your job – remove a block. Lose a spouse or partner– remove 6 blocks. Leave your home, your friends, your neighborhood – remove, remove, remove. Who are you?

I recently attended a church preschool playgroup where the leader, Bonnie, told us mums to pair up and ask our partner: "Who are you?" It was the only question we could ask, over and over: "Who are you?" Bonnie was trying to illustrate how the Devil challenged Jesus's identity during 40 days in the desert: “If you are the son of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread.” If you are... Who are you? I sat with a 27-year-old Cameron Diaz look-alike who asked me the question over and over. It was disconcerting, trying to craft answers beyond, "I'm a mother, traveler, daughter, runner, friend..." At the end of the exercise, Bonnie summed up the Christian perspective: "Above all, we are people loved by God." Hmm...sit with that for awhile...

You have time to ponder this identity question if you sit in a hospital's critical care unit watching IV fluids and medicines dripping (from 14 different bags), listening to machines humming and monitors beeping, while the person who had been the rock of your family lies unconscious. "If he's here, who am I? Single mom?" You grasp the impermanence of nearly everything – what was your life – healthy spouse, intact family, a home, a job, a routine...all we have and say and do...falls like leaves from a tree. One more gust of wind, and – poof – gone. Death hands you a dusty black box with a new stack of cards. They all read, "Who are you?"

Fiona's sand art along the Great Ocean Road, Australia

I grabbed Paul's question about travel and identity and ran with it – literally. This time, I chose to leave much of what and who defined me: I quit my job, rented my house, left friends and family and donated or sold at least one-third of what I owned. I left behind my good jewelry, including the flashy wedding ring Sean gave me. Any material clues about who I am would have to fit into 2 suitcases so the kids and I could circle the globe. No one I meet en route can see my "real" home, car or wardrobe.

Handling an owl in S. Africa- Nov., 2010

Before I arrived in South Africa, I called my friend, Heather, telling her how to spot us at the airport (we hadn't seen each other in 13 years): "Check for the haggard-looking mom screeching at 2 small children," I'd said. "Oh no," she replied. "I told my friends you used to be a TV presenter in the States. They're expecting someone glamorous." Good luck. I didn't bring that chick on this trip.

Instead, I show up in each new locale, meet new people, and only have myself and 2 unpredictable kids to present. I consider what I'm not: wife, worker, well-known in this community. According to many yardsticks (do metre sticks exist?), I'd probably fall short. Low on the status scale. I've traded titles and trappings for flexibility and freedom. I've kept what I need and want, as long as it's portable: mothering, running, writing, traveling, reading, reality shows on my iPod (I don't actually need that last one, but I'm hooked!). I choose to spin these plates. And if you're game, I'll spin them with you while you answer the question for yourself: "Who am I?"

Short & Sweet – Kiwi Readers

Short & Sweet – Kiwi Readers

I'll always remember New Zealand as the place my kids learned to read. Fiona knew a couple or three dozen words before we arrived, but wasn't reading sentences. Finley knew the alphabet. These days, I wonder how long it'll take before Finn catches Fiona in reading. Both kids read aloud almost every night – it's their homework.

Here's an excerpt of what Finley's reading, from Pussy and the birds:

Pussy is hungry.

Pussy is looking

for a bird.

Here comes a bird.

Here comes Pussy.

The bird is up in the tree.

The bird is safe.

The birds look down at Pussy.

Naughty Pussy!... (3x,. I had to help with "naughty")

Fiona read Good-Night Little Brother:

"I don't want to go to bed," said little brother.

"OK,"said big sister.

"Just put your pyjamas on to show Teddy."

"I don't want to go to bed," said little brother.

"OK," said big sister.

"Just get under the blankets to show Teddy."...

...I won't leave you with cliff-hangers: The birds escape death after Pussy falls asleep. And Little Brother falls asleep. I see a pattern. Or a hint. Good night, Little World. I'm getting into pyjamas and going to sleep.

Interesting text about literacy education in NZ here: http://www.readingonline.org/international/inter_index.asp?HREF=/international/king/

Can You Relate?

Can you Relate?

The NZ New Migrant Experience

Group from "Relating Well in NZ" class

I spent most of today in a room with three Germans, a Brit, a Latvian, a South African and a Kiwi. It sounds like the set-up to a joke. It's not - we were part of a class the New Zealand government sponsors called, "Relating Well in New Zealand." http://www.relate.org.nz/ It's designed to help migrants understand Kiwi culture and adapt to their new country. Even though I don't plan to make NZ my home, we're here now, and I want to learn as much as possible about this place while we're in-country. At the very least, I'd gather material for a blog entry.

Something happens when you start planting roots in paradise - it starts to lose its luster. A young British woman, Joybelle, said she'd backpacked around New Zealand on holiday before deciding to relocate. "What you see when you backpack is totally different than when you live here." She was surprised that the Kiwis who'd helped her when she was a tourist were unavailable or disinterested when she moved to NZ. Joybelle's been here six months, seeking a position as a primary school teacher. "I could leave," she said. "I either have to have a job or a man to keep me here. The beauty of the country is not enough to hold me."

Other newcomers said they had visited New Zealand and fallen in love with the place. A German woman, Waltraut, said, "We love New Zealand. We have a lot of friends already. We're very happy."

But like so many major life changes, repatriating is a process: First comes falling in love, and the honeymoon. Then, the crisis phase creeps in: Reality smacks your noggin like a two-by-four (only in NZ, it's called a "four-by-two." Maybe it's because we're upside down). You're here, and you have no job. Or people are cliquey – friendly, but not inclusive. You have nice chats and few dinner invitations. Or it's just not what you'd imagined. Then, comes the adjustment and reorientation phase – you recognize the differences, and change. Finally, comes acceptance. You're the one who decided to move to an island at the bottom of the world – you take the bad with the good. The cockroaches with the kiwi fruit. The monsoonal rains with the sunshine. The sausages with the snapper (I'm not too fond of sausages, and they're dispensed like Pez candies over here). The phases are similar to what you experience in a marriage, or after divorce or ...after death. I can relate.

Our instructors, a South African named Naudeen, who's lived in New Zealand 12 years, and a 5^th generation Kiwi, Barbara, said the disillusionment phase often doesn't happen until a year or 2 after immigrating to a new country. That means my chances of continuing to bask in the honeymoon phase are high. This is comforting. I talked with a couple Germans at the class whose outlook remains positive: "What's the worst that can happen?" they said. "We return to our home country."

Meanwhile, migrants puzzle over why it's tough to wrangle a Kiwi dinner invitation. Is it because food's so expensive here? Naudeen offers a theory: "I think it's because people are time poor. It's easier to meet in a cafe." To be fair, the kids and I have been invited to locals' homes and have issued invitations ourselves. But we've experienced a disparity in the NZ invitation column compared with what happens among our Spokane circle. The fact our American friends have freezers full of ready-at-a-moment's-notice warehouse club (Costco) food makes entertaining practically mandatory. It's as if someone said, "You've got the Costco card - now go forth and feed the masses."

What else is different about New Zealand? We made a list.

Kiwis are:
Helpful

Friendly

Cliquey

Practical

Relaxed

Hard workers

Resilient

Egalitarian (titles don't matter as much here as in our home countries)

Care taking (they have a strong social safety net (also called the "Nanny State" by locals): No one goes hungry

Boozy (they like their liquor)

Other Differences?

Dangerous roads/drivers (Kiwis will pass on anything)
Lack of central heating in homes

Children are prohibited by law from staying home alone until age 14

Goods and services are more expensive (ex: milk's around $6/gallon, U.S.)

Bi-cultural: Maori culture's intertwined with Pakeha (non-Maori) culture (according to the hand-out we received, Maoris comprise 16% of the population)

Spending time outdoors is very important
That Kiwi accent!

Geographic isolation

Two other differences I'd add: You drive on the left side (not the "wrong" side, but the left side), and take shelter from the sun's harsh rays due to lack of ozone layer. I buy sunscreen by the liter.

Barbara explained why Kiwis are pragmatic, stoic and egalitarian: New Zealand was settled by many second, third and fourth sons, who, unlike Number One sons in England, didn't inherit property. They journeyed to Aotearoa (the Maori name for NZ) in the 1840's believing it was more settled than it really was. After traveling 12,000 miles, they couldn't hop on Air New Zealand and jet back to the old country. So they sucked it up, built homes and towns, and convinced the natives (Maori) to sell their land. Hence, the Kiwi can-do attitude and distaste for bureaucracy (although I question that last part when I think of the painful visa application process cooked up by Immigration NZ. Maybe they save red tape for foreigners). Barbara said Kiwis are wary of anyone who blows their own horn:

"If someone becomes a 'tall poppy,' we chop them off, because we grew from humble beginnings."

The facilitators asked us to envision our own dreams by using markers and crayons on a large sheet of paper divided in three sections: 1): "Where am I?" 2): "Where do I want to be?" 3): What's stopping me from living my dream? Initially, it seemed like a kindergarten assignment, but it forced us to tap our brains in a different way. When you're a chronic list-maker, creating a drawing (even one that looks like your five-year-old's artwork) can be clarifying. I'll just post my picture here and let it speak for itself (I think it's saying, "Get thee to an art class!")

Note: the brown mounds aren't mountains, they're heads

Much of the discussion focused on networking. How do you get involved? Find a group. Naudeen said,, "For every interest you have, there's a group. Go join one." Or five. Between two running groups, church, a mum's group, singles group, widow's group, volunteering at school, and starting to date, my dance card is full 

Am I, as today's course was called, "Relating Well in New Zealand"? Sure, but I'm still on a quasi- holiday, because I'm not working (I am, however, responsible for two small kids, and they require heaps of effort). I'm a short-timer, which means the rose-colored glasses are likely to stay put. Is the strategy of joining groups to meet people working? Well, I ran with my Hash group tonight, got exercise, had fun and some nice conversations. One woman I hadn't seen for several weeks even invited the kids and me to her home for dinner Friday. That's something I can relate to.

World Church

World Church

Whatever Gets you in the Door

The kids and I attended services today at St. Mary's Anglican church in Mt. Maunganui http://mountanglican.org.nz/. We'd been worshipping at another Anglican parish in neighboring Tauranga (Holy Trinity), but I've missed the simplicity of the traditional service and decided, for today, to return to the smaller church. Also, St. Mary's is just 5 minutes from the house, and HT is a 15-20 minute drive. We were running late. Practicality and punctuality (if you count being 5 minutes late as punctual) won.

Several dozen people sat on cushioned powder-blue pews for the 10 a.m. service at St. Mary's. It was a mostly white-haired crowd, sprinkled with a few under 50's and even a 15-month-old baby with a thatch of dark hair and gorgeous long eyelashes. He crawled around the carpeted floor, charming the crowd during prayers. Finley made friends with another 5-year-old boy – they ran to the parish hall to play ball. Fiona sat quietly in the children's corner and colored a picture with the caption, "On the second day, God made the sky and the water." She wrote around the page's perimeter: "I love Fiona I love Finley I love Mum I love Dad." Fi asked before the service if Sean had gone to church with us. "Yes, sometimes," I said. A lapsed Catholic, he said he mostly came for the cookies. That last part was only half a joke, but as my Aunt Leslie says, "Whatever gets you in the door..."

We've walked through open doors of several different Anglican churches during our world tour. For me, it's as much about connection as it is worship. I want to taste the familiar not just in the form of wine and wafer, blood and body of Christ, but also in the guise of Christian hospitality. I expect church people to welcome us, because that's what church folk do. It's what Christ did, right? We've been applauded as visitors, eaten countless biscuits, drank liters of coffee and tea, attended a potluck as the sole guests, fielded invitations to groups, outings and classes. I expected these things would happen. I need connection. Whatever gets you in the door.

The American Church in Paris

At the American Church in Paris, http://www.acparis.org/ we met Haiti's bishop in the sanctuary and several other Americans at coffee hour. At Westminster Abbey in London (where Prince William and Kate Middleton with marry next month) http://www.westminster-abbey.org/, a woman sitting behind us complimented my children's rare show of quiet respect. She said, "You have the most beautifully-behaved children." I looked left and right to ensure she was talking to me. "Thanks," I said. "Scooby Doo helps, too." Fi and Finn had been watching Scooby while wearing earphones. Whatever gets Mom through the service.

Westminster Abbey, London

At Holy Trinity in Kalk Bay, South Africa, Fiona and Finley attended Sunday school. It was November, and the kids were practicing for the Christmas pageant. Fi and Finn were excited about the possibility of becoming flying angels, strung up on a wire. "Sorry, guys," I said. "We won't be here for Christmas." We were there to see the parish priest perform a rendition of The Butterfly Song, complete with arm motions and bum wiggles:

...If I were an elephant, I'd thank you Lord by raising my trunk
If I were a kangaroo, You know I'd hop right up to you
If I were an octopus, I'd thank you Lord for my fine looks
But I just thank you Father for making me, me

Holy Trinity, Kalk Bay, South Africa

More musical memories from Holy Trinity, this time in Tauranga, New Zealand http://www.holytrinitytauranga.com/ : It's the first Anglican church we've attended where a rock band, not an organ or piano, sets the tone. A drum set and electric piano sit on stage. A large woman leads the band, swaying and singing while pushing a hand through wavy brown hair. We sit in theatre-style cushioned red seats in an auditorium.

Holy Trinity, Tauranga, NZ

A simple wooden cross hangs above the stage, potted ferns on either side. Beside me, an elderly woman sings in falsetto: "Glory to you, Lord God, high above all else." Her hands jut in the air like Superman. Several rows ahead, on the other side of the aisle, a 20-something Indian woman catches my eye. She's stunning in a yellow-and-white sundress, black cardigan and long, silky black hair tied back in a ponytail. She dabs her eyes with a tissue. Is she crying? In front of her, I see four older folks in the "Superman" pose. I look at the church program to make sure we are, in fact, at an Anglican church. We are. It's an evangelical Anglican Church. I'm still trying to learn what that means beyond the obvious: No evidence of pipe organs, vestments or pews. 

Holy Trinity, Tauranga, NZ

The Book of Common Prayer is apparently reserved for the traditional 8 a.m. service. I do know HT offers Sunday school each week and a singles group. And the people are awfully nice. Even though it doesn't have the high-churchiness of my home parish, St. John's in Spokane. I could probably do this for awhile. Also, they serve coffee and biscuits after the service. Whatever gets you in the door.

It's impossible not to compare world church experiences to "our" church in Spokane. We are blessed with a massive Gothic cathedral, stained glass, enormous pipe organ....beauty that rivals the cathedral we visited in Paris. I started attending St. John's for the architecture. stjohns-cathedral.org/  The stone, the glass, the massive wood doors – beckoned me inside. But I kept opening those doors because we found community - friends, mentors, people of all ages genuinely interested in our family and helping us grow as Christians. They've watched my children sprout from belly bump to babes to boisterous kids who run the aisles like they own the joint. They cheered with me when Sean left the rehab hospital for a few short hours to attend the Christmas pageant. They wept with me after he died. And all along, they cooked, cleaned, comforted, babysat, visited Sean in hospital and prayed for us. They're praying still. I am so looking forward to reuniting with my church family.

St. John's, Spokane, WA U.S.A.

As a former journalist and confessed skeptic, I can't lay the case for God's existence (although I know many of my smarter, more learned friends can). I can state the case for the existence of God's people. We've found their hang-outs around the world. They worship Christ and pass the cookies. Whatever gets you in the door.

Just Mum

Just Mum

For the first time in my life, here in New Zealand, I get to be "Just Mum." I'll need to return to the work world at some point, but for now my task is raising Fiona and Finley to be decent human beings (and prevent them from killing each other or destroying the house). I'm the only parent, and, bonus- at ages 7 and 5, the kids want me around. Shortly after Sean died, a friend in Spokane whose father died when she was 6 years old sent me an e-mail. In it, she told me her mother's way of handling grief was to bury herself in work. My friend wrote, "I needed a mother, not a worker." I read that last phrase over and over again. It made sense.

So did quitting my job last year. I'd returned to full-time work when my babies were 3 and 4 months old. I was the primary bread winner, and Sean, the primary care giver. It worked for us, but I always wanted more time with the kids. This is not what I planned. Still, you do the best you can with the crap life hurls at you. Suddenly, fertilizing the garden sounds like a good idea. The corporate ladder can wait. Fiona and Finley can't.

The kids beg me to volunteer in their classrooms. I've helped twice so far in Finley's class. I sit with his school mates on a futon tucked between bookshelves. They read. I listen to such classics as: Tiger Tiger; Wake up, Dad and who could forget The lazy pig:

"Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

Cock-a-doodle-doo! Cock-a-doodle-doo!

Wake up! The sun is up."

I'm also learning about Kiwi reading and writing methods. Finn's teacher, Ms. D, personifies letters, saying things like, "Yellow yo-yo man is tricky. He has lots of sounds." Then, they practice writing. Ms. D said, "We're going to write the best story ee-vah. It's going to be a made-up story. You can pretend you're a rock star, a cat, or that you have 20 rabbits in your back yard. Anything you want. Use your imagination."

One little girl asked me how to spell "hay." "Could you use that in a sentence?" I asked. "Hay went to his friend's house," said the girl. "Oh, that's H-E," I said. That's what happens when you let an American mum into a Kiwi class. Last week, I perched in a teeny chair at a teeny table and listened to two of Finley's classmates describe their erasers. "My rubber is really soft," said girl #1. "Oh, try this rubber. It's soft, too," said girl #2. I smiled to myself, but the word "rubber" computes when you hear 5-year-olds talk about "rubbing out" their mistakes.

I took Finley recently to his class picnic and swim at Pilot Bay. My son and I sat on beach towels in the shadow of the Mount on a sunny, warm end-of-summer day and ate sandwiches among a sea of school kids, teachers and parents. I helped Finn dig a tunnel in the sand. His teacher snapped a picture that's posted on the front classroom wall. The caption, apparently written by another small fry, reads, "Finley and mum is digging a sandcastle. He is having fun with Mum." Mum's grateful to have crouched with Finn in the sand, thinking, "Yep. That's my boy." (note: Those warm fuzzy thoughts evaporate during Finley's whiny times).

Fiona's teacher told me he could use parent volunteers after swim lessons finished for the summer. They'd wrapped up by last week, so Fi dragged me into class. "You said you'd ask Mr. Parry about volunteering. Come on, Mom...please?" In a couple years, Fiona may pretend she doesn't know me.

I've held a job since age14, so filling out forms and x-ing through the line that asks for a work phone number still feels odd. So does writing "homemaker," or "mom" in the occupation blank. I suppose I could write "astronaut," "surfer," or "stripper," and no one would care (okay, they might notice "stripper").

The kids, however, care that I take them to school and pick them up after. It's not all a big Kiwi dream – it's Mum-as-taxi, "Mom, I'm HUN-gry!" and "Mom, Fiona's not listening to me!" from the back seat. Being present has rewards, too. One of my sweetest moments at school happened when I stepped into the courtyard one day about 10 minutes before the bell rang. Fiona's teacher was playing guitar and her entire class was singing Johnny Cash in angel voices:

Love Is A Burning Thing
And It Makes A Fiery Ring
Bound By Wild Desire
I Fell Into A Ring Of Fire

I Fell Into A Burning Ring Of Fire
I Went Down, Down, Down
And The Flames Went Higher

And It Burns, Burns, Burns
The Ring Of Fire
The Ring Of Fire

What a treat. I might have missed the moment if I were at a "real" job. I'm not. For now, I'm Just Mum.

I am Here

I am Here

I'm sitting on a wooden bench at a table in a large, family-sized cabin at McLaren Falls Park http://www.bayofplentynz.com/Tourism-Bay-Of-Plenty/McLaren-Falls-Park_IDL=3_IDT=1378_ID=9268_.html  I'm spending the night with 2 other widowed mums and 7 children. We've just celebrated Jared's 12^th birthday with a chocolate cake decorated to look like a soccer field. Jared would later vomit his dinner and the cake. Poor birthday boy.

I played a game of flashlight (or "torch," in Kiwi) hide-and-seek with the kids. And I've downed 3/4's of a bottle of Gewurtztraminer I bought while in Hawke's Bay last weekend. A fire is burning in the stove – it's so warm I removed my souvenir "Australia" sweatshirt and sit here in a tank top and jeans.

Another mum, Janet, tells me the cabin's made of wood called Lockwood...it expands and contracts. She says it goes "bang" in the night (thanks for the tip – I would've freaked). Earlier, Janet told me her husband, Jeff, died 12 years ago of Motor Neuron Disease. While he was sick, he wrote a book with a special computer using his big toe. "Oh," I said. Janet described how Jeff had lost the ability to talk and swallow. "It sounds like ALS," I said. "Yes," Janet said. "It was Lou Gehrig's Disease. You call it ALS in the States." Oh my God.

You cling to the present. Hold onto the gift. Think about this moment...this moment.... I am here. I am here. I am here. I'm in New Zealand. I'm in New Zealand. I'm in New Zealand. Thank you, God. I am here.

Trail of 2 Shoes

Trail of 2 Shoes

Now I've done it: Gone and bought 2 pairs of running shoes. I was only supposed to buy 1 pair, but I couldn't resist the allure of a second choice. I'm having trouble deciding which shoes to keep and which to return. Salesclerks said I could try the shoes on a treadmill. As long as I don't get them dirty, I can return them.

It's a tough call. Either pair feels comfortable. I could probably run happily for hours in either shoe without blisters. This will be my first pair of trail runners. While I've bought piles of road running shoes, I've never bought a pair for off-road. I'm not a skilled trail runner. The klutz in me says, "Don't do it!" But where I live, in New Zealand's Bay of Plenty, you're hard-pressed to avoid trails. They're everywhere. I've given in, and found off-roading can be fun: You encounter new scenery, a challenge and the potential to become a better all-over runner.

The choice, though - the choice. It's Adidas versus Mizuno. Adidas costs more than Mizuno; he's flashier, with neon pink trim on top and pink and lime tread on the bottom. Adidas is the narrower shoe, which is good, because my foot is narrow. Adidas packs more forefoot cushioning than its rival.

The Mizuno, however, has qualities I like. While not as colorful as Adidas, he's splashed with neon yellow on top. The shoe's a bit wider, has less cushion under foot and still provides a solid landing. Also, he costs about $40 less than Adidas, which makes him more appealing.

I've only run about a mile on the treadmill in the new shoes, so I can't say I know either pair well. Trotting on a treadmill is different from pounding the ground. The treadmill's belt is clear of rocks, branches, dirt, grass or sheep crap. The treadmill's simply not a trail. It can never be a trail. The machine provides a cushioned test track – a mere hint of the road ahead.

At some point, I'll need to jump off the treadmill and hit the outdoors. Later (I'm not sure exactly when), I'll return to my road-running roots and settle down with a solid pair of street shoes. Something dependable and lightweight to pound mile after mile of flats and hills. Maybe I'll choose a familiar brand, like Nike. Or I'll test something more exotic first, like Saucony or Asics. Hundreds of shoes might fit my feet and my purpose. Too bad I don't have an infinite amount of money or time. Too bad I couldn't just keep running in my old shoes. I knew and loved those shoes. But all shoes eventually conk out.

I probably shouldn't stress too much over this decision.

After all, I'm not running a marathon. Not now, anyways. I'm not ready for a marathon.

I have to run...I have a date. With a man. If I can keep his name straight, I'll be just fine.

Widow's Walk

 Widow's Walk

Denise Morse, Dawn Picken, Helen Stewart

We're strangers, but I know you. We walk the same path.

It was like I knew Helen, Denise and Siobhan before we met face-to-face. I'd spoken twice with Helen on the phone. We had heartfelt conversations - talks with substance - and we didn't know each other. We're widows in our 30's and 40's, raising kids. Say that in any language, in any country, and we'd understand each other. We're on the widow's walk.

We met thanks to a grief counselor I've seen a couple times here in New Zealand. The counselor told me about a group Helen and Denise started several years ago called GAP – Grieving and Parenting. Helen's husband died in 2003 when she was 10 weeks pregnant and had a 20-month-old baby. Denise was widowed with 3 small children. The women met by chance and decided to create a support group for people with young children whose partners have died.

Turns out, the group's not meeting regularly anymore, but my calls to Helen and Denise were enough to pull 3 of the women together for coffee at Grindz in Tauranga. Just being in their presence was reassuring. "Wow," I thought: "They all understand what I'm going through." In this age of Facebook and Twitter meet-ups, I'm reminded of the power of front-and-center friends. Right here. Right now.

Part of the reason the GAP group doesn't meet anymore is the women have moved on. They have busy lives and even (get ready for this): partners. Helen and Denise are both engaged. Talk about a leap of faith. "I found someone who loves not just me, but my kids, too. And they've really bonded with him," said Helen. "The other day, Shane was bouncing my 7-year-old on his knee and she was laughing and saying, Daddy, Daddy, do it again!" That last part made me cry (it's okay, I wasn't wearing mascara). The thought of a man who'd love not only me, but also Fiona and Finley is almost too much to hope for. Initially, I told myself no dating until Finley's 18. That's 13 years away.

Then I had my own (in the end, minor) health scare, and it got me thinking: "What if I die before getting the chance to love again? What if I die before having...chocolate cake?" Yes, chocolate cake (Hey, my parents read this stuff!).

I asked Helen how she felt when she jumped back into the dating pool. She said, "It was scary at first. You think, 'Who's going to want a widow with young kids?' But then, you realize we have a lot to offer. It's different than being divorced, when you have bitterness and the ex still there, creating stress. I figure we're a good investment. Our relationship with our spouse is truly over. The 'ex' is gone."

The widows said the pain of losing a spouse never completely vanishes, but fades with time. They practice rituals surrounding the departed. Helen said her youngest child, who never met her dad, asks for a handful of his ashes to rub on her stomach when she's sad. "Where's Rob now?" Denise asked Helen. "He's in the wardrobe [closet]," said Helen. We laughed, as maybe only widows can laugh about the location of a late husband's cremains.

We all worry about our fatherless kids. Everything is viewed through the lost-a-father filter. Helen said, "I still ask myself, 'Are they doing something because their dad's dead, or because that's what kids their age do?' It gets to the point where they lose a tooth and you wonder, 'Did they lose that tooth because their father died?" Sure, that last point was exaggerated, but only slightly. You do wonder about everything that niggles your precious, scarred children. Sometimes, I even run the other way, thinking, "Oh, Fiona's not sad because of Sean. She's sad because she ____, fell, is hungry, saw a leaf..." It's reassuring to know these other women share the same concerns.

Helen told me, "You comfort them as best you can. I tell them they can only see Daddy's spirit in their dreams. And even if they dream about fairies or princesses, it's because Daddy was there to give them that beautiful dream. I believe it for myself, too. You know sometimes how you wake up and feel so peaceful? I'm convinced Rob visits my dreams to give that to me."

Yes, I know. I've been there. I'm on the walk.

The Lonely Leaf

The Lonely Leaf

I was driving the kids to school this morning when Fiona started whimpering. "She's sad about the leaf," said Finley. Apparently, a lone wet leaf had attached to the hatchback's window, and it freaked Fiona. I turned around to see her crying. Not pretend crying (which she does quite well), but real tears. Tears for a leaf? From the same girl who watched her 5-year-old Australian friend stone a bunny to death, then held the rabbit's lifeless body without a flinch or grimace?

"Fiona, what are you really upset about?" I asked, even though I was pretty sure I knew the answer. Fiona said, "The leaf is like Daddy. He doesn't have his family, either. He's all alone." My heart sank as I continued driving Oceanbeach Road in the rain. "Oh, honey, Daddy's still with us. He's in our hearts," I said, in what's become one of my stock responses to Fiona and Finley's grief. There's not much I can say to ease their pain. "But I want to see Daddy, and hold Daddy," said Fiona. She has a point. I get it. Totally.

We stop for a light at the intersection with Golf Road, and I pull a composite photo from the sleeve of my day planner. It features a series of photos of Sean, me and the kids - at the Oregon Coast, home, in Italy, on the job shooting video and in a photographer's back yard. The last picture's one of my favorites. We're sitting near a tree. The kids are ages 3 and 1. Both are holding pine cones. Fiona's mouth is open wide, smiling, and Finn's is closed. He looks stunned. The same friend who shot that picture when Sean was healthy would later assemble this composite after he died (thank you, Barb). 
 
The pictures were enough to pluck Fiona from her despair over the lonely leaf. "That's Daddy at the beach. There's Daddy working at a wedding," she said. "Look, Finley, that's you when you were a baby. You were so cute!" Fiona returned the picture and told me to keep it safe. By the time we arrived at school, her attention was focused elsewhere: "I can't wait to play my ukulele today," she said.
Finley had grabbed the lonely leaf from the car window. He ran to a bush near school. "Here you go," he told the leaf. "You can be with these guys." "Now the leaf has a family again," said Fiona.

Let Him Lead - Lessons from a Dance Class

Let Him Lead

Lessons from a Dance Class

"5, 6, 7, 8....you're going to push the lady over your arm clockwise...then take 2 steps forward, and back."

I'm at the Papamoa Sports Centre, listening to instructor Paulina lead Ceroc dancers (from Wikipedia: "Ceroc is partner dance best described as a fusion of Salsa and Jive, but without the complicated footwork...The name 'Ceroc' is said to derive from the French "C'est le roc" (it's roc). http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ceroc  

I've just finished my very first beginner Ceroc class. I'd never tried partner dancing before, not the kind featuring dance steps with names. The closest I've come lately to any kind of choreography was a Zumba (exercise) class. Part of the reason I'm a runner is it requires little coordination (and even then, I don't always get it right – I commit one or two face-plants each year when my shuffling feet trip me). You've got the premise: clumsy runner attempts dance class. Hilarity ensues.

Only that wasn't quite it.

At first, I'm mostly confused. I hear Paulina, a lithe brunette wearing a deep-vee pink top, black pants, low-heeled shoes and a microphone headset say, "Lift, right, lift, right..." Is she telling me to "lift" my right foot? No, no..."lift" is Kiwi for "left." Of course. "Left right, left right..." I shuffle through a series of moves: the "Closed Neck Break," "Catapult," "Breakthru," "Manhattans," sprinkled liberally with a move called out as "Return the Lady," which I think means spin back to where I started. Six women and six men practice one move before adding the next. The women move clockwise around the circle to a new partner after a round or 2 of practice. 3 or 4 partners in, I'm paired with Paul, a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair wearing a black button-down shirt and black pants. His aftershave isn't cloying, but it's enough to make me wonder if I'll wear the scent when we're done. Paulina turns on the music, and Justin Timberlake's "Sexy Back" starts thumping.

I'm bringin' sexy back.

Them other boys don't know how to act.

I think it's special what's behind your back.

So turn around and I'll pick up the slack....

I'm trying to remember when to spin and where to step when Paul says, "You're trying to lead. You have to let me lead." Oh. Novel idea: Let him lead. Do I let anyone lead? Am I willing to let anyone lead? Heck, when you haven't a clue where you're going, it makes sense to leave the driving to someone else. I've sat in the driver's seat so long, I'm not sure I know how to be the passenger. Or the female dance partner. My flatmate, Amy, who invited me to Ceroc later told me, "I'm usually the one in control. I have to be, at work [she's a CEO]. This is the only place I can switch off my brain. You have to concentrate to get the steps." She's right. As soon as I started thinking about this week's calendar, I missed an instruction. No more of that. Just the steps, ma'am. And let him lead.

"5, 6, 7, 8. Step back, Closed Neck Break... Catapult....return the lady. Manhattans... going, forward, and back...."

My class ends, and I practice the series of moves I've just learned with two gracious guys who compliment my beginner's pluck.

I sit to watch Amy and other dancers in the intermediate class.

"1, 2, back, over and down, return... over and 2, back... lovely. Take her out and over 2, back... Lovely. Just go forward, guys, and hold..."

Paul misses a step, falters a bit. That makes his dance partner, Amy, wobble. They laugh, then rotate effortlessly through a series of spins and dips.

"Return the lady. And forward and back...over the ladies, around, so guys go right, then left, forward."

Ceroc. C'est le roc. C'est une idee (It's an idea): Let him lead.

http://www.dancefusion.co.nz/ 

You Can't Get it Here

You Can't Get it Here

10 Things I Miss about Good 'Ole U.S.A.

It's not until you leave your home country that you realize what you'll miss. Naturally, what (rather who) you miss most are people you left behind – friends, family, neighbors and acquaintances with whom you have a shared history. Those folks aren't replaceable. I won't include them on this list. Instead, here, in no particular order, are 10 items, features or systems either in short supply or nonexistent in places we've traveled: *Note: item #9 is particular to New Zealand and Australia.

1. Large, straight highways
   America's famous for its multiple-lane highways (called motorways in many other English-speaking countries). The highway system makes long-distance car travel speedier and easier than other places we've traveled. The highways are lined with free public toilets (called restrooms in the U.S.). Bonus.

      2. Plentiful petrol stations

Americans have a knack for placing gas stations anywhere, including the middle of nowhere. Not so in many other countries, including New Zealand. En route from Napier to Taupo today, I saw a sign that read, "Next petrol, 131 kms." That's 2 hours of twisty mountain driving. Or an eternity if you leave town with a quarter of a tank or less (thank goodness my flatmate had warned me about the lack of re-fueling options, so I was fully tanked).

3. Window screens
   It's the same scenario whether we're in France, Spain, Ireland, South Africa, Australia or here in New Zealand: No window screens. Everyone leaves windows and doors open to catch a breeze. They then comment about the high number of flies in the house, and walk around unleashing toxic clouds of bug spray. Sean and I once stayed in a charming white-walled room on the Italian island of Elba. We left the windows open to let in the sea breeze, along with a swarm of buzzing mosquitoes. I set about like a crazy woman, jumping on the bed, whapping blood-suckers with a magazine. My extermination attempt resulted in dozens of bloody streaks on once-white walls. Now, that's romantic.

4. Water and ice dispensers in refrigerator doors
   I've seen one refrigerator that dispensed water, in New Zealand. I haven't yet stayed anywhere that had the luxury of ice-on-demand. When I find that place, I'm parking myself in front of the fridge with an ice bucket and mixing up a batch of frozen margaritas.
   

   

   NZ: Line-dried

5. A clothes dryer I can freely use
   Most homes we've visited have had clothes dryers, but they were reserved for special occasions, such as the visit of a soon-departing widow and her 2 small, dirt-seeking children. Or a visit from royalty. Electricity is so expensive in many countries people have sought refuge for their damp shirts, pants and undies on a (gasp) clothes line. I was especially delighted when our ex-pat American hosts in Sydney explained their rationale for bucking the system. The wife told me, "We bought the best dryer we could find. One that actually dries the clothes. I don't do the clothes line thing. The clothes are crunchy, they get rained on and sometimes, crapped on." Hmmm...hadn't considered bird crap. I will say I've hung several loads of wash on a line and haven't yet died or gotten ill from wearing crunchy clothing. No crap yet, either, but I'm sure my time will come.

6. Cheap gas
   Try paying the equivalent of $6/gallon, and the price is still rising.

7. Cheap food: 
   I'm looking at my latest grocery receipt, converting litres to gallons and NZ dollars to U.S. currency. It's probably better the cost of items takes some figuring, or I'd be screaming in the grocery store aisles. Here are U.S. equivalents I've recently paid:
    -1 gallon of reduced-fat milk: $5.25
   -1 bunch of celery: $2.70
   -1 pound of nectarines: $2.00
   -6 ounces of hummus (take your average-sized coffee cup and divide it in half): $1.90
   What wasn't on the shopping list this time? Meat and fish. You can buy snapper fillet for around $13/pound, chicken breasts for $7.30/pound, and lamb loin chops for around $8/pound. These are "sale" prices at one popular store. And New Zealand produces heaps of milk and lamb, which are the sold worldwide for whatever the global market will bear. That leaves Kiwis paying relatively high prices. Also, food is subject to GST (goods and services tax) of 15%. If you're dining out, expect to pay $15 for a lunch salad in a cafe, or $6 for a grilled chicken salad at McDonald's (I should've priced a Big Mac, but I don't eat them...) Keep in mind, the U.S. dollar is trading (as of this writing) at around 73 cents to the New Zealand dollar, so Yanks get a price break. Locals don't.

8. Cheap gas station coffee
   I'm a fan of brewed coffee found at U.S. gas stations, mixed with a shot or 2 of hot chocolate from the ubiquitous machine. Forget pump coffee dispensers: many petrol stations in other countries employ clerks who double as barristas. A cup of BP or Shell coffee in NZ costs around $3.00.

9. Black People
   Admittedly, hardly any African-Americans live in my town, Spokane, Washington. But there are seriously no black folks around here (maybe they're hanging in Auckland. Wait a minute, that was Oakland (California). My friend, Jean, who recently visited, remarked that "Auckland" in Kiwi sounds like "Oakland." Maybe that explains the lack of cocoa-skinned folk...they're in Oakland. It also explains my addiction to the reality TV show, "The Real Housewives of Atlanta." I wanted to hear dialect and see finger snaps. Sista, girl...get me a sista. Lionel Richie and his band performing in NZ just increased the percentage of black people here by about 400%.

10. An overall low cost-of-living. 
    This varies widely throughout the U.S., so Californians, disregard this item. If you live in Spokane, you know what I'm talking about: 4-bedroom homes for an average $200,000, cheap (relative to most places) utilities and 16-ounce tubs of hummus at Costco for $6.

This is not necessarily a gripe, just observations. Every country has its charms and its shortcomings. You get one thing, give up another. It's late – time to pour myself a $2 glass of milk and turn in. Right after I throw the laundry in the... Forget it. It'll go on the clothesline tomorrow. Birds, beware: I'm watching you. And if the price of poultry climbs any higher, I'll eat you.

What a Feeling

Oh, What a Feeling – Lionel Richie in New Zealand

The kids and I just returned from seeing Lionel Richie in concert near Napier. It's about a 4-hour drive from our home base in the Bay of Plenty. I'm still on a high. Makes me feel like I'm back in college. Just as powerful as the music was the experience of talking and dancing with Kiwis who stepped above and beyond open-air concert politeness. The venue was the grounds of a winery. You bring a picnic, a blanket, a chair or 2 and dancing feet. We stood, ran and danced on those feet all night. Our closet neighbors included Sue, John, and their friend, Christine, whose husband had died 6 months ago. It breaks my heart, because I know what she's going through.Year One post-mortem: grief, pain, numbness. I told her I was sorry about her loss, and that I'd been widowed, too. Music blared too loudly to say much else. Maybe we didn't need to.

I balanced Fiona on my shoulders and danced. I thought, "What a shame I can't carry both kids at once. I need a partner...my husband... to lift the other child." Right about then, Christine hoisted Finley on her shoulders. Her kindness made me want to cry. Which is what I did, minutes later, when Lionel played the piano and sang, "Still." (I do love you...still) I flashed back to our home in Spokane, to the baby grand piano Sean insisted we ship cross-country from Ohio because it's been in the family for generations. I used to play "Still" on that piano, and Sean would say, "Sounds nice, honey" (I must not have plunked too many wrong notes). During the concert tonight, I could see the piano, feel the keys, hear the sound of Sean's voice. With Fiona still on my shoulders, I started to cry. I figured no one could see me - it was getting dark. Christine did. She walked to my side and put an arm around me. She stood there, holding me, while I cried. Her friend, Sue, gave me a hug and said, "It's okay. You can let it out." I had known these people all of 2 hours.

The song ended, and soon we were "Dancing on the Ceiling," "All Night Long." The feeling of joy, the happiness of being alive, of swaying, shimmying and shakin' it in this beautiful place with Fiona, Finley and strangers who took time to touch my heart... the feeling is indescribable. It's joy. Pure joy wrapped in a late Kiwi summer night, lighted by a full moon.

The kids spent most of the night running races, playing tag, turning endless cartwheels. I stood at the side of the concert area watching their boundless energy while Lionel sang, "Hello." (Fiona asked me during each song, "Is this 'Hello?' When is it gonna be 'Hello?'" I guess my kitchen concert made an impression). 

I wonder where you are...and I wonder what you do.

Are you somewhere feeling lonely [yes]

Or is someone loving you? [no]

Then came the rhythmic reprieve: Thank God for "Brickhouse." It's one of my all-time favorites. Perfect way to mush up melancholy. If you can't shake it to "Brickhouse," your "groove thang" must be busted.

Near the concert's end, Fiona said, "I like this music. I thought it was going to be bad, but it was really good." Yes, honey. It was. What a feeling.