We got a Golfer!

So the birthday golf club set was a hit. Aidan loves it. And to top it off. . .he's good! His drives look like 100 yards and he almost knocked a window out. Twice. Bob has stars in his eyes. I'm sure he is channeling Tiger Woods' dad now. Fatherhood is complete.

Me, I'm thinking of college scholarships. Or better yet, a family tradition. We'll all learn to golf. We'll do it together forever. If Isabel's family can all downhill ski together, we'll be the golfing family. What a brilliant idea and so cozy. Amanda, how about a set of golf clubs for your birthday too? Mama panda is getting excited at the prospect of such respectable family unity.

"I see golf clubs as a waste of money," Amanda replied. "I'd rather have a button maker."

*

Cheers, everyone. Thanks so much for coming over to the liver blog.

With love, T

Jesus is coming to dinner

If you ever went to camp you know this skit. I'm sure I've seen it or done it one or two hundred times. It's a variation of this:

Ring. Ring. (telephone)

Regular person: Hello. . .who is this? You're kidding me! This must be a prank. You're Jesus?! And you're coming to dinner? Wow! I really need to clean up good! (Hangs up phone. Frantically starts cooking and cleaning.)

Ding. Dong. (Door bell)

Person 1 at the door: Can you please help me? My car broke down. . .

Regular person: Sorry, Jesus is coming to dinner, I'm too busy to help you. (Closes door. Continues cooking and cleaning. Some people can do this with much humor. Campers love it.)

Person 2 at the door: Hello, we are collecting donations for x,y, z. . .

Regular person: Sorry, Jesus is coming to dinner, can't you see I'm busy. (Closes door. Realizes there is nothing to cook for dinner. Really starts to panic. More humor.)

Person 3 at the door: Hi, I live next door and I was wondering if I could join you for some conversation. . .

Regular person: Come back tomorrow, I'm super busy. (Closes door. All out panic.)

Quiet. Waiting.

Regular person: Where is Jesus?

Ring. Ring. (telelphone)

Regular person: Hello? Is this Jesus? Hey, I cooked and cleaned all day and you didn't show up. Where were you?

Jesus: I came to you three times and you turned me away.

*

Ok, go ahead roll your eyes; go ahead and think it's dorky. I actually think it is as profound as it gets. Just think of all the people who could be knocking at the door. I'm thinking about the kind of people Jesus hung out with -- the ones no one else liked. The ones that laws are passed against. It seems that Jesus really loved illegal people. Last Sunday in church the Old Testament lesson talked about how Abraham saw three people and somehow knew that the three people were actually God. I thought it was interesting that he could discern this. Like he could see the spiritual realm in the here and now. The way the story read, it was like he knew immediately.

*

So we saw the movie HAIRSPRAY last weekend. Me and a van load of kids. Very cute and happy. Lots of laugh out loud material. I recommend it. Amanda is now addicted to it and we are hearing her sing the songs in a loud voice daily. And nightly. How can you not love a movie that opens with "Good Morning Baltimore." And many great actors. The frustrated social studies teacher in me was glad that my kids got a high energy lesson on segregation/integration. The best scenes were when the sugary sweet main character got detention with the "negros." Great dancing. Go.

With love, T

Two Birthdays and Tons of Interviews

It's birthday time.

Happy Birthday Trey! It's something when you're little brothers start turning 40. Ok, it's not quite 40 yet for Trey, but well, getting close. Here is a picture of my middle brother, Trey, in the command center of his house which he designed and built, along with his wife Amy. I still have a tour to give to you all. Coming soon.

Happy Birthday Aidan! Eight is great!!!!! Shhhhhhhhhhh, want to hear a secret? Bob and I got him this cute kid set of golf clubs. Guess who is most excited? (Answer: Bob) He'll get them tomorrow with Spiderman cupcakes. But don't say anything, and whatever you do, do NOT tell Amanda who can't keep a secret for nothing.

Finally, I would say, if you could only have one, just one source of information, I would say your best bet would be the Fresh Air radio interview show. The host, Terry Gross, is the most amazing interveiwer ever. She can get anyone to say anything. And she does it because she is able to honor the interviewee by understanding his/her material, nomatter if she may agree or not, which you can never tell anyway. Her interests are far and wide -- from pop culture, to politics, to I don't know, pop corn. For example, she's done several good pieces on the Sopranos.

Although, of course, you should never ever have just one source of information (you know, propaganda and spin). BUT if and only if you could have only one -- say you're really busy -- it should be the Fresh Air show. The podcasts are great for on the bus or walking.

Anyway, today I heard parts of these interviews:

Sekou Sundiata
A spoken word poet who died last Friday and I never even heard of him until this interview, and he is amazing. He told the story of how four friends came forward with matching kidneys to donate to him, when he needed a transplant. FOUR! They had dinners together to discuss who would be the actual donor, and then all agreed to be back up donors for eachother, should something go wrong. He spoke a poem about his kidney transplant recovery that I tried to google, but with no luck.

Victor Bout
I never heard of this guy either until today. A Russian arms dealer who arms every one, every faction, every government -- including the U.S. Dept. of Defense. Including Islamic extremists. Including all sides of almost every conflict I've ever heard of: the Congo, Angola, Bosnia, Colombia. And then his planes are used to airlift aid missions following the conflict. (Don't worry, not LWR, we usually never airlift stuff.) He is the most wanted man in the world, next to Al Kaida leaders so of course the interview was not with him actually, but with two journalists who just wrote a book about him.

Birthday pictures coming tomorrow. Cheers!

With love, T

Connie Reconstructed

Sorry this slide show moves so fast. I'm trying to figure out how to slow it down, with no success. T xoxoxo

The Haiku I'm working on

HOT YOGA

Salt sweats into eyes.
Slow motion reach, twist, and drip.
Wringing out toxins.

*

I'm working so gotta go. . .

With love, T

P.S. Bob says this is a really weird dispatch, what's a haiku anyway, and no one is going to know what I'm talking about. Haiku? Haiku!!! It's a Japanese style of poetry writing that counts syllables. I learned it in elementary school. Must be the superior Minnesota public schools. (Just kidding!!) Really, it oozed out of me during hot yoga. T

LaVonne

She is a felon and I've been thinking about her a lot lately.

I never met LaVonne, but Bob knew her because her kids were in his summer program last year. Bob hired LaVonne as the craft coordinator. She did a great job, Bob said. He needed help because a lot of kids from the neighborhood were showing up.

They sent her to prison because of some kind of a welfare technicality. Welfare fraud. Too much food on the table or something like that. She actually served her whole sentence. Kids without a mother that whole time. They paid their debt to society, kids-n-all. She says she knows she did something wrong and she's sorry. I'm not exactly sure what is wrong with feeding your family but that's just me.

It looks like some people go to jail for stuff like this. While another person got pardoned by the President of the United States of America for outing a CIA agent, jeopardizing national security, and then lying about it. The President said the sentence was excessive. The judge, who was appointed by the very same President's administration, was baffled. But I digress.

Oh yes, back to LaVonne. LaVonne is now back with her kids and still trying to figure out how to put enough food on the table. She's trying to get a job and dog gone, now she has a felony record so who's going to hire her? Not to mention the indignity. Not to mention her kid's indignity.

Bob really liked working with her at the summer program. And was glad there was money in the budget to hire her for a few weeks. Amanda worked as LaVonne's assistant in the craft room. LaVonne said she did a good job.

Then like magic I came across this brochure about a program to earn a certificate to become a public library clerk. It seemed perfect for her. LaVonne was interested and had already begun to figure out the bus routes to the College of St. Catherine in St. Paul, where the training would take place. (This is where I got my Leadership Certificate.) Bob would serve as the advocate in case that nasty felony thingie came up in the application process.

Poof.

The parish decided that their files were just a mess. What they needed was an administrative pastor to clean up the office. And that's what they got.

LaVonne and her kids were out of our life.

I really do believe that ministry happens in spite of our human decisions. But sometimes I still cry over stuff like this.

With love, T

The Lakes and More

Lake Calhoun, Minneapolis, Bob and Mom Speirs

Lake Calhoun, Minneapolis; the boat I will have one day

The Little Tin Dinner, what I've been craving and what we had.

Lake Calhoun, Minneapolis

Lake Calhoun, Minneaplis;
the Tin Cup Cafe serves Alaskan salmon, Minnesotan walleye, wine, beer and has free WiFi

They came in handy. Mom Speirs' spare set of eating utinsels were safely stashed in her purse, saved from a fateful flight to Vancouver several years ago.

This morning church was in the park. The camp staff from Lake Wapogasset led the service and just as I was about to think that it might be a tiny bit sappy -- even me, a die hard ex-camp staffer -- I looked at my doe-eyed daughter and remembered how the camp formula works like magic.

Amanda found her camp counselor from last year, Alisha. She was soooooooooooo excited. They have the same birthday. Something for my to-do list: call Camp WAPO and request that Amanda gets in Alisha's cabin group, when she goes in August.

Meanwhile, Aidan is just happy for another venue to play with his game boy; and to get extra free attention from members of Bob's basketball team.

Later in the day; Lake Josephine, Roseville; and Aidan's horrible once a month splurge, a lunchable

Lake Josephine, Roseville

Lake Josephine, Roseville

Topping off the day, Amanda fabricated a duct tape book bag that perfectly fits her new journal. She is signed up for a kids writing class at the local library that starts this week.

That's all folks! Thanks so much for stopping by. I hope you have a wonderful week.

With love, T

New York City Subways are for Gestating

Hello everyone and thank you for coming over the liver blog. It's so nice to have you. Today I'm thinking about what it might be like to not have a thyroid, since I am officially off my thyroid pill for 4 weeks in prep for the radioactive iodine treatment to kill any little cancer nasties that may still lurk in my throat.

The worst of it will likely be fatigue, I'm told. So here's my thyroid void coping strategy. My thought is that since I survived 2 pregnancies while working full time, I can do this too. Survived? Isn't that a quite a strong word to describe modern childbearing, you ask? For those of you who were around me at the time, you will remember that it wasn't pretty. I vowed to be one of those cute pregnant ladies. Many women seem to pull off pregnant and cute; however I could not. I was just too dog gone tired, hot and sick.

I gestated in the NYC subways for almost 18 months altogether. You see, I did it all backwards. When I was prime and energetic and in my twenties I worked as a youth director in Madison, South Dakota, where the average age was 65 years old, according to the census. While my church-based social circle was lovely, I was lonely. I needed so much more. (And how mind blowing to come across Karen, here at seminary who was 5 years old or so at that time and from that very same church, St. John.) So then I moved to NYC to be with Bob. That's when all the young colleagues at LWR were finding everything free and wonderful in Manhattan -- concerts, movies, theater, cocktails, soirees. What was I doing? Gestating. All I wanted to do was get home to Brooklyn and go to sleep.

My big belly would blend and not bump the bungle of humanity all around me. That's what I hoped for anyway, when I was pregnant and riding the subways. Being from the Midwest I didn't want to draw attention to myself. But those mean old New Yorkers always noticed my round protrusion. Subway riders always stood to let me have their seat. And I always wondered why that made me feel humiliated when it was the decent thing to do.

In hindsight I don't know exactly why because I didn't have to, but I worked full time right up to both deliveries, hence the nearly 18 months of gestation in the subways. With Aidan, I worked 'til Friday at 5:00 p.m. He was born the next day at 3:00 p.m. My colleague Jeff W. sent me a congratulatory note saying something like, "Don't you think you could've put in a few more hours before delivery?" (If you know Jeff W, you'll recognize his humor.)

Am I making it sound simple? If so then I am failing miserably in this writing. Amanda was born the so-called "easy way out" via c-section. Aidan was born via the so-called "natural" way via screaming and swearing. Actually, that was a v-bac, vaginal birth after Cesarean, which was new at the time. If this is TMI -- too much information -- sorry, but just let me get this one little point in. My child-bearning experiences remain to this day among the very most traumatic experiences in my life. I would make a horrible birthing coach, although I long to do that. I would say stuff like -- DON'T DO IT! DON'T HAVE BABIES! IT'S TOO AWFUL! YOU'LL NEVER FORGET HOW AWFUL IT IS! I VOLUNTEER TO RING YOUR PARTNER'S NECK! I WILL HUNT HIM DOWN AND MAKE HIM PAY!

So anyway, this is really my point -- our work in the field of reproductive healthcare is the most important thing in the universe. It is the foundation of all that is both human and divine. And yet, it seems to be so hard to talk about. And the conversation is cooped by the crazy uninformed extremists who can only focus on abortion and who have probably not spent a day in their life bumping bellies in the NYC subway. Or getting sewed up somewhere by someone who can't wait to get to the baseball game later.

ANYWHO, so there's a long way of explaining my thyroid void strategy. It can't get worse than that. And now, since I got overly preaching here, and to completely change the subject, I wanted to close with a clip from one of from a favorite scene from a favorite movie including my favorite soundtrack. How sweet it is to mix-n-match cultures and values. A final scene from Bend it Like Beckham. Enjoy!



With love, T

Playdates

Doris Branch, Bob, The Rev. Lonnie Branch. They came to visit today. "We worked well together," Lonnie said about their coaching duet. They brought a blend of love and accountability to the basketball team. Game strategy and Gospel. When there was a problem with one of the boys -- an easy temper or something -- they cahooted quickly and then dealt with it together head on. "I told those boys that a white man can jump higher than they can," Pastor Branch laughed. "And white men can't jump!" This visit was a real uplift. Lonnie assured us that God has something really wonderful planned for us. It is possible to chat with anyone anymore without getting all glassy-eyed?

Tonight is the last day of summer Black Hawks soccer. Go team! It's really a wonderful thing to meet up with an organization and people who value good sportswomanship as much as good sports. And Amanda almost kicked a goal twice! "You gotta be aggressive," Bob says to Amanda. But Dad, I'm just not an aggressive person, Amanda replies. But she loves soccer still.

A typical day in little boy land out in the hall. That is when they're not all outside on the bikes.

Goodnight y'all! Love, T

Summer of 2007

So I made a deal with Amanda. She cleans out the refrigerator and I'll buy her a tie-dye kit. Summer is not easy for a ten-year-old with parents who play home health hopscotch. I bought the kit. The fridge still needs a scrubbing.

But friends, we have tie-dye! Colorbursts galore! Shirts. Pillow cases. Beach attire. Bright blue, purple, green. It's been decided that Aidan will have a tie-dye birthday party. A hand strung tie-dye clothes line has been stretched across the trees outside the window of our apartment. The toilet is not tie-dyed. Everything else is. The bathtub, bathmat, and bathtiles are tie-dyed. As are the shower curtain, sink, and countertop. Some call it a really big mess. We call it, er, creativity.

And if you could please remind me that an inadvertently tie-dyed towel somehow ended up in a basket of dirty clothes and that it needs to be removed lest we have a whole load of colorbursted laundry. Or worse yet, a tie-dyed Joanne. Yes, friends, the Minister of Dirty Cothes is back at it.

Actually, people continue to be really nice to us. We so much enjoy getting the cards and letters with prayers and well wishes. Thank you. And we even got another weeks worth of delicious meals-on-wheels, thanks to the women's group at church.

Today Bob got the cutest recycled card from the quilting group at Minnehaha Communion Lutheran Church, where he interned in South Minneapolis. They call themselves the Busy Bees. They call Bob, Bobsie-Baby. As in "Dear Bobsie-Baby, We are praying for you." Here posted is a picture of the stoles the other quilting group hand sewed for Bob as a farewell gift at the end of his internship; this group from Our Redeemer. Bob loved being with both of those quilting groups. Junk food. Off color jokes. Friendship. One day if the Bush Administration ever does find those weapons of mass destruction and the mushroom clouds and such -- the quilters will remain standing. Ideologies rise and fall. Institutions come and go. Churches merge and purge. The quilters are always there with a clear and pure vision.

And all I did was take the garbage out and ran into Val and Steve, who are also in waiting mode. Waiting. For someone, anyone, anybishop, anychurch to call them. As in phone them. Communicate with them. Snail mail would be great. Message in a bottle. Two cups and a string. They have an interview at the end of the month and I'm really rooting for them because it would be a great place to visit. Meanwhile, since the garbage had already been taken care of I kinda teared up about our waiting. "I don't want to go to places," I say to them. "I just want to be near my family." They understand because they are members of Bob's Liver Cooperative. All I was doing was taking out the trash and ended up with a free counseling session. That's how it is around here, Val said. She's going to make one awesome pastor.

Bob already is one awesome back seat mopper, giving instructions on correct swooshing methodology from the recliner. Someone's gotta do it because a visitor is coming tomorrow. The Rev. Lonnie Branch, a real gentleman from the Northside of Minneapolis who coached basketball with Bob. I'll try to get a picture.

Uh oh, gotta go, the kids are fighting over how not to walk across the wet kitchen floor.

And this is how we are doing the Summer of 2007.

Take care everyone. Love, T

What I'm Reading

Passage to India by E.M. Forester

Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim by David Sedaris

One is about the cross-cultural contraption of extreme politeness. How massive hospitality and power can inadvertently convolute relationships, even with best intentions. I mean, you should have seen what the Indian guy, Dr. Aziz did just to escort these two English guests to the local caves. Hired servants. Hired other people's servants. Borrowed silver. Went into debt to have food on hand at all times because he had heard that "the English like to eat every two hours." The two ladies just wanted to see the "real India." They were trying so hard not to be typical Ango Indians, aka British Colonialists. They had no idea what all went on to produce this day trip to the caves which ended up in disaster. I love Dr. Aziz and his version of reality, which is like mine. He just kinda makes it up as he goes. Works for him (and me), but not for the Brits.

The other book is how dog gone funny honest impoliteness can be. I think David Sedaris is hilarious, but he's a little raunchy so don't read him if that's not your taste. But he's not gratuitous raunchy, like he doesn't just make stuff up. He tells stories from his life and makes very painful moments actually laugh out loud funny. He can pack about ten principles of human nature into one paragraph. I think it's his way of healing.

Both books show how truth is often tragic. I suppose that's why we want so badly to avoid it if at all possible. Truth, that is. As usual, I'm about 15 years late and saw the movie Passage to India just a couple years ago and loved it. Put it on one night while washing the dishes. Not one single plate, cup, or fork got clean as I couldn't take my eyes off the screen. Like whatever happened in the caves, the movie mesmerized me right from the onset. Saw it again with Bob. And will probably see it a third time now after finally reading the book.

Take care everyone. Hope you have some relief from the heat. With love, T

A Friend on the Radio

When I was driving the kids down to Rochester last week for the Open Heart vacation I heard a friend, Virgil Wiebe, being interviewed on the radio. Our families spent last Fourth of July together in the local park, three legged races and all. Virgil and his wife Susan took a similar route as we did. NYC to Baltimore, as Susan took the same relocation package I did. She with Lutheran Immigration and Refugee Service. Me with LWR. We moved on to St. Paul. A year later so did they for all different reasons.

ANYWHO -- So a couple years ago in a late night channel surf, Bob and I came across Virgil. Turns out he's a munitions expert, especially regarding such little lovelies as cluster bombs. Virgil describes them as like the plastic Easter eggs. Thousands of millions of Easter eggs that open up with thousands and millions of bomblets inside. They may detonate immediately. Or they may detonate days, years, or decades later.

Go Virgil! In all my doom and gloom of late, just wanted to make mention of someone who is doing some fantastic work.

With love, T

P.S. Latest ipod download: Killing Me Softly by Roberta Flack

Medium

Warning: This dispatch may be too weird for normal human beings. Permission is granted to exit outta here immediately and come back tomorrow. And we missed church today, a day when I probably needed it most.

4 a.m. this morning and it was another liver. Friends, I now think I am channeling another liver. Not Bob's this time. Let's just call him, say, Louie. I got up and started reading his caring bridge site. And I got sick and couldn't even finish it until this morning. Maybe it was the heat in our apartment. The ammonia build up on the brain. The corpse. The MELD score, which we didn't even get to. But here's the weird part. I've been thinking that I want to figure out Bob's MELD score. What it was last December. That's how they rank transplant recipients, based on a whole bunch of tests and vital signs, I suppose. Too many bad livers and not enough good liver donors make MELD scores super important. Competitive. Life giving or not.

So, let's say Bob's liver decided not to regenerate. I always wonder where he would have been ranked on the MELD score. High, low, long wait, short wait. Where would we have been? To console myself I have always believed that he would've ranked high and would've been granted a new liver immediately. But you know, people do die waiting for new organs. It doesn't always work out.

And why is this important to me? I don't know, but I think somehow Louie's new liver is bringing some resolution to that. Like, Bob's liver gave us a great big tease and won out in the end, still having some kind of hold over me at least. Louie beat his liver.

I just want Bob's liver to know that we *were* willing to give it up. We were not going to just let it run all over us forever. It can't rule us.

Don't get me wrong. An original liver is always the best. Of course. Of course. We give thanks all the time that Bob's liver regenerated. And we pray for Louie's new liver. This is just a weird psychological battle of the organic bile binders. Me vs. Bob's Liver, which was my commander in chief for six months. How can a liver be so powerful? And did I really have to submit? I'm just still processing.

Louie's new liver is from a 35 year old in Washington. I wonder about that person too. And that person's family. What a fantastic liver. A nice one. Beautiful. Cooperative.

There's also something about the idea of transplant. The miracle of it all. Almost like a repentance of the body. A new chance. Our new pastor talked about a version of demon possession that could be something like the evil that comes from systems that oppress people. Apartheid. The Nazis. (Those are the easy ones because we mostly agree on them.) He talked about a particularly violent Apartheid leader who eventually converted. He repented. Pastor Ron suggested that this is another way to think about casting out demons. The lesson that day told the story of when Jesus put all the demons from this guy into a heard of pigs which then run over a cliff. It didn't mention what the pig farmer did with all his capital lost, which is what I was wondering.

I want Bob's liver to repent for what it did to us. Although the demons are caste out, it was by force not repentance.

And now that I have revealed my true inner fruitcake, I am going to figure out a way to get a hold of the lessons for today. Channel all this spirit into something holy. Thanks everyone for coming over. I really appreciate it. Thanks for your love and support.

With love, T

The Flemings are Back

Hello everyone and thanks so much for your kind comments. Today, in honor of the Fleming's return from internship, and another U-Haul in the parking lot, I wanted to repost something from the liver vigil aka the care page.

*January 14, 2007 at 11:50 AM CST*
The Missionary Smile Goes to Colorado.

For the past five years, James and Hannah's family lived next to us, as the building angles from the outside, our apartments both tuck into a corner. Bedroom windows literally inches apart, separated by 90 degrees of space. Sometimes at night the kids would talk to each other through
the screens. "Hey are you awake?" Weird wolf noises back and forth. Amanda would complain, "Maaa-aam, the boys are howling." And sure enough, there's Aidan in his pajamas, mouth right up to the dark of the window. All the moms would order it to stop immediately and get back to bed.

When Hannah had her baby -- who by the way is now running with the pack of kids out in the hall -- her mother came from Liberia. A cute little woman with a wrinkled face who doesn't speak a lick of English. The best time to call West Africa is when I go to bed and that's when Hannah's mother would stand at the window and phone home. Her sharp Liberian tongue, as forceful as can be, would transmit like a megaphone directly into my ear. Aahh, Sandgren Hall. Like a loud lullaby, it would make me smile to imagine this mother, so far from home, asserting her love and influence, albeit in secret code to me.

Hannah had a thing about smiles. About 'missionary smiles' as she would call them. She hated them because they were fake, she said. And then she would plaster a great big toothy grin on her face in mockery. It could be intimidating. Exactly how, then, is one supposed to greet Hannah?

One day Bob passed by Hannah on campus and just looked straight ahead with a stone face. "Bob, aren't you going to say hello?" Is what she said in the Hannah command tone.

"Would you like a missionary hello or just a regular hello," Bob responded. Hannah busted out laughing and from then on they were bonded. They even chaperoned kids together at the ELCA National Youth Gathering last summer, where Bob found all sorts of ways to push Hannah's buttons. "Baaa-aab, you stop that!" Hannah would say, smiling and laughing, authentic and contagious.

James is doing his parish internship in Colorado, and so they are not here this year. But last week they were back for a wedding and heard that Bob was sick. In what seems to be the African way, they knocked on our door, walked right in, and saw Bob as he was before September. They seemed not to notice that he was as emaciated and yellow as can be. James all pastoral and Hannah all glamorous, we held hands in a circle and prayed.

Three a.m. last night when Bob's itching medicine was wearing off we decided to do imagery. Let's go to Colorado. The snow and the mountains seem so soothing against the burning of Bob's skin. We'll rent a car with a DVD player and let the kids go haywire in the back seat with
movies. And we'll drive around to all the tourist spots, breathing in that fresh, cool air. Take in the rugged, rocky white scenery. Stop at a trail head and hike. Amanda will take pictures. On Sunday morning we would go to that one church with the Liberian pastor and his queen-like wife, missionaries to the snow people.

Bob went back to sleep. I smiled and did likewise.

With much love to all of you, T

Welcome to my Wrestling Tourney

The slow moving lady in the walker was in my way, so I couldn't speed up to see Dr. Sanan, my Turkish Surgeon. He was walking into the clinic as I was pulling up to drop Bob off. Wait! Wait! Wait!

It was a good thing I saw Dr. Sanan because it was getting pretty ridiculous otherwise. I was planning my arm wrestling tournament. Me vs. Anyone involved in producing ordination barriers. Me. vs. Candidacy Committees. Me vs. Psychological Testers. Me vs. Bishops. Me vs. Bishop's Assistants. Me. vs. Seminary Advisers. Me vs. the System. Me vs. Debt. Me vs. the Liver. Me vs. Recovery. Me vs. the Disapproval Committee of This or That Irrelevancy. And I would be victorious over all of them because I am a yogi, one who practises yoga. Alert to all ordination barriers -- be afraid. I dare you to come over and arm wrestle me. I will take down all of you who deter good decent people from their pastoral call.

And like an eagle, a sign saving me from myself, my wonderful surgeon appeared. And it all went away.

T

Contrary to This

Why am I writing this at 4 a.m.? Because I can't sleep. It's like the open heart surgery is done and so now can we just get on with it. I think Bob is being contrary. He says he's not being contrary. Maybe it's the medicines. Or that I thought we could just skip the recovery stage and move on to what's next. And what's next? If you could just write that down and pass it over to me. This is where I wish the divine would take some initative here. I am contrary. I am contrary to spending 30 years in service to the church, 5 years in seminary training, and 1 year in the Ph.D. of Sickness experiential education program -- I am contrary to all that for no good reason. I mean, c'mon, we got kids here. We need a permanent address. I need long term office space. A phone number that won't change. A place to unpack the boxes. When our kids show up at their same school AGAIN this fall the secretaries are going to ask, "So, what church denomination do you belong to? And why does it take so long?" Everyone asks me that. I started prepping people two years ago that we were moving. Now I don't say anything. Kids and seminary don't go together. Seminary training is not for families. The call process is not sanity-friendly. The purpose of seminary training is. . .could someone please fill in this blank. Oh no, you can't go outside the official call process, that would be breaking the rules. No breaking the rules allowed. We are the church. And how the church did not long, Long, LONG ago recognize Bob's pastoral skills, abilities, experiences and everything else and immediately put him to work is beyond me. We don't want too many inner-city teenagers and their families getting all connected up. OMG then the church would be doing its job. Ouch. We need good urban pastors, they keep saying. No one wants to do urban ministry, they say. Boo hoo cry me a river. Whatever. It is all contrary to anything that makes sense. God forbid that this would make sense. We'll just watch TV in our seminary apartment for the rest of our lives. Hello, is anyone out there?

Thanks for letting me ventilate. Not that there was a choice. T

The Recliners

There's something about Aaron, our scappy little neighbor boy. He's a rascal, yes, like all the other kids around here. But there's more. He channels us, especially Bob.

"Am I sick like Bob?" Is what he asked his parents when he got the all over itchies last winter. The pediatrician suggested that awful Sarna lotion, which is also what Bob was using when his bile was trying to escape through each and every pore of his body.

"Am I having surgery?" Is what he said to his mother when she took him to the ears, nose, and throat doc to try to figure out why his breathing would be disrupted to the extent that the school nurse called in the paramedics. His throat hurt, Aaron said. This happened around the time my thyroid was removed.

"I want my recliner." Is what he meant when he cried, pouted, and skulked about because the family recliner was put into storage. Do you know of anyone else attached to their chair? Oh yes, my Husband. Well it's a good thing, because now when Aaron comes over to play and Aidan is not home, he pokes his head into the door to see if Bob's brown chair is available. Do you want to sit in Bob's chair? I ask.

"Sure!" All happy faced, he plops onto Bob's recliner and we realize how much fun it is to spoil someone else's kid. Disney Channel. Cookies. Milk. Bob doesn't even mind sitting on another chair for a while. He understands Aaron.

When Bob's liver came back and we started letting kids in the apartment again after a 4-5 month hiatus, Aaron seemed especially glad. He just pulled up to the kitchen table like one of us, except with extraordinary manners. What would you like to eat? I ask.

"Whatever you have would be fine, thank you." Is what he said in a serious tone.

This is what happens here at Sandgren Hall. Families blend together. And it's not because we are somehow special. It just happens. I suppose the times are special. We all know it's temporary. Aidan eats only mac-n-cheese at our house. At the Mungures he eats East African rice, goat stew, and plantains. If he didn't stick out like a twinkie, you would think he's one of them. Once I happen to notice him, Sam, and Mark from Kenya looking at themselves in the kitchen mirror. "Hey, we're like chocolate," Sam said. "Dark, milk, and white." The Mungures are gone as of today.

I didn't know how to prepare Aaron for Bob's open heart surgery, lest he go into atrial fibrillation's. I suggested that we avoid the topic altogether. Shhhhh, whenever it came up. But his parents must have said something to him because upon return from St. Mary's Hospital Aaron came over and asked Bob about his arteries and valves.

With post-surgical aches and pains the brown chair is no longer comfortable to Bob. Good thing Aaron has an extra recliner in storage. His father brought it up to our apartment last night and it suits Bob and his healing sternum just fine.

With love, T

Aaron, Monet, Elaine, Jean, Terri, Aleena, Rolf

Good morning everyone. So here's a listing of blogs/care pages/caring bridge sites we monitor. If I better understood the etiquette of such sites, I would go ahead and just give out the addresses, but playing privacy safe for now.

Bob's professor, Rolf -- recovering from lung surgery, removed a cancer tumor, recurrence of childhood cancer which already took his legs, says his body now is "thawing" from the numbness of surgery to aches and pains; that's what's happening to Bob too

Amanda's classmate, Aleena -- on year, oh, I don't know 5 of brain cancer. Since kindergarten or so. Her parents are very upbeat, but last night there was despair in her mother's dispatch. Found 5 more cancer spots in her brain and spine.

Another Terri, my editor -- (isn't that cool that I can say 'my editor'?) Colon cancer. She was diagnosed a few months ago. Surgery and chemo. She's a city woman with a "cowgirl attitude."

Our family friend from NYC, Jean, who writes in here -- breast cancer. Recently diagnosed. Jean has young kids. Surgery. Chemo. Scary. Jean's strong, but still, if breast cancer can find Jean, it can also find. . .

Bob's cousin, Elaine -- breast cancer. Surgery. Chemo. Another strong lady. She's a church secretary in So. California and always gives Bob's name a place on their prayer list.

Monet, my dear friend Martha's niece, Dr R's granddaughter (remember Dr. R, one of those people who saved Bob's life?) -- Two years old, born with, oh boy, I don’t even know how to describe it. 24-7 care. Parents figuring out what is family normal. Her mother writes in here too.

Aaron, my VP’s husband – Lymphoma. Numerous surgeries. Chemo. Diagnosed just this past March. In lot’s of pain. Lisa and Aaron were a mainstay of support during our liver adventure and so, well, this is just so unfair at any rate.

Did I miss anyone?

Bob and I are trying to figure out if we’re just getting old and know more people with health issues? Or if something’s going on? And, well, you know, what are we going to do about the health care system? We already have a stack of bills from the insurance company that we will need to fight back on. And what about those who don’t have insurance? Or who pay arm and nose for insurance? Or who’s insurance refuse payment? Or whose spouse can’t work because of the round the clock care needed. Not everyone has a great employer like I do who will work with that.

I haven’t seen it yet, but Professor Mary Hess from Luther Sem, is recommending the Michael Moore movie ‘Sicko’ about the health care system. When you live in the richest country in the world all this doesn’t make sense. (Mary's brother-in-law just had a liver transplant at Mayo in Florida. They discharged him after one week. He's back in.)

If you live in a developing country, then there are other issues and plenty of them. Friends, we do not live in a developing country, so what gives? I think we have to ask that question.

In the meantime, we send prayers and love and energy to all the families listed above. And we thank you all for your support.

With love, T