June

June is a time for dreaming, setting out, and rest. So many things are happening and have happened and will be happening, and these activities repeat themselves every year like a poem. June is hope-filled.

. . . . .

We have two birthdays at the beginning of June, Sophie and Will. We will be having a third this year and forever after with the birth of our new son, Asa. When will that be? Only God knows. Asa's due date is June 19, but the baby don't have no calendar in utero. This child will be our eighth (still with us), and our fourth boy. We are excited. Laura is physically ready, or has every appearance of being so. So ready and yet, as always, so un-ready. A baby jars the teacup. We have so much planned for this summer and hope that it will all play out at least somewhat as we suppose. The best thing happening is this baby boy, of course. And part of me wishes we could just rest with him as we are, where we are. We have other responsibilities, however, and they will be nearly as demanding as a hungry baby.

. . . . .

We are finishing up the school year - a year at home this year. Sophie started the year in public middle school, but we decided together that it would be best to pull her out mid-year and let her finish at home with her sisters and brother. We're happy we did. It has been a good year. We have all learned how important learning is and how difficult it is at times with the interruptions of family. But it has been a good start. I can't imagine sending them back to school at this point, which is saying quite a bit given the time of year it is. Teaching them at home is difficult. It is not perfect. It is far from perfect. But it is certainly good. I have learned quite a bit. They have learned as well. Not all of that learning has been academic, but all of it has been necessary. And we have a long way to go. I have told the kids that we would be finishing up this week, which we will, but that we will also be working throughout the summer - reading, readings, prayers, some math, and the learning that comes through life's tectonics.

This summer is set to be a particularly disruptive one, though that is not to say that it will be bad. The disruption here will be good, as far as I know. The baby, primarily. And then Laura and I will be celebrating our 20th anniversary with a quick jaunt to Italy (we wish) and then we will be heading up to Michigan for a couple of months (!) to help my parents with their ice cream/pizza shop that they recently acquired. I am looking for work in Michigan as well. If that work doesn't pan out, at the end of the summer we will be back here for another year in North Carolina. If it does, we will be back and forth some to ready the house for sale and say our goodbyes. I am not sure how much free time there will be this summer as I will be working a lot, but it will be a nice change of scenery if nothing else. We are hoping and praying that Laura does not have to go back to teaching and can stay home with the baby. She's ready for that change, though her being ready for eight children 24/7, I'm not so sure. But who is ever ready for that? Child rearing is part of our theosis and, therefore - though, definitionally a struggle - a beautiful journey.

. . . . .

I need to write more. I feel less without it consistently, in some way, as part of my life. A friend sent a link via Facebook of Neil Gaiman's recent commencement address and it was refreshing and insightful. I am a writer. Writing is what I do. And while I do not always do it well, there is something in me that demands I do it. Now there are more important callings in my life, certainly. But these callings are not mutually exclusive. In fact, they lean upon one another. Writing is a strange profession in that I am not sure it will ever provide for our family. I am not sure it needs to. I am quite certain, however, that money is not the point of it. And I am certain I need to write. I know it.

. . . . .

This past weekend William received Holy Communion for the first time. How beautiful! I always get wet-eyed during one of my children's first participation in a sacrament. It is a wonderful thing to see them entering more fully into the life of the Church, into Christ's very life. It doesn't get any better than that. It was a good weekend.

. . . . .

Thanks be to God.

"Michigan Seems Like a Dream"

In the next couple of hours, we'll be leaving for Michigan. I'll be driving through the night. We covet your prayers - especially for our safety and my wakefulness - two sides of the same coin I suppose. I have David Sedaris's Me Talk Pretty One Day, which I'm looking forward to. If the library is still open on the way out, I may stop and look again sans children. It's easier finding something when you're not chasing and shushing a toddler and a yellow-haired child. (I had also picked up Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything, but one of the tapes is broken. Nice. This is why you put these things on CD.)

I'll see you on the other side.

Michigan

Me and the Crue are heading to Michigan in a week, braving the cold and the gray, braving two holidays being pressed into one.

We'll be celebrating Christmas with my side of the family after Thanksgiving (I imagine it will be on Saturday, though Who knows?).

We're driving through the night, we've decided. It usually works out well: Kids sleep, wife sleeps (if only fitfully), Dad sleeps (if constantly interrupted by those annoying rumble strips). We get to Michigan the next morning, and, for the most part, it's as if the trip never happened. Then I collapse on the couch and nap until it's time to drive home again. All around, Good Times.

Maybe I'll pick up a DVD player so I can watch movies while I drive. Or maybe get some movies on CD at the very least. Or do they just do books?

I suppose coffee is always a good option, or a 2-liter bottle of diet Mountain Dew with loads of chips and candy. ("Ew," he shudders.) That just doesn't sound as appealing to me as it did when I was in college. But I'll make it work - suggestions are welcome.

There and Back Again

The drive was not nearly as bad as I imagined - neither to nor from Michigan. The kids were wonderful. They didn't sleep well at Grandma and Grandpa's (it always takes a couple of days for them to acclimate), but the trip was pretty okay.

It is so nice being with Laura and Sophie again.

Thanks for your prayers.

When I got home Friday night, just as I lifted Will out of the car, he began vomiting. Laura took him and felt his forehead; he had a fever. He hadn't felt hot on our last stop and had been asleep for the past three hours. And though I'm so sorry the little guy was sick, I was sure glad he had waited until we got home.

Oh, and no gold. No dragons.

Expecting You

I keep expecting you to walk into the room, to ask me if I’ve seen your brush, to sit next to me, to lay your head on my shoulder. But you don’t. I wait for you to come down the stairs from your shower. But you don’t. I keep expecting you, but you are not here.

I thought I’d see you as I turned the corner into the dining room, but the table was empty and there was only food for me.

And as the sun set and the children fell asleep, I was sure you would be in your chair with your legs curled under you – knitting, reading, or growing tired. But the chair is quiet and empty, because you are not here.

---

Sweet Afton

FLOW gently, sweet Afton! amang thy green braes,
Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stockdove whose echo resounds thro’ the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing thy screaming forbear,
I charge you, disturb not my slumbering Fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark’d with the courses of clear, winding rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary’s sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where, wild in the woodlands, the primroses blow;
There oft, as mild Ev’ning weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, amang thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

- Robert Burns

The Drive

I will be traveling tomorrow with three little people: a five-year-old girl, a three-year-old girl, and a crazy toddler boy. They're all mine, as far as I know. Laura and Sophie can't go because of school. So it's just me and them for twelve gr***ing hours. I am traveling to the edge of the Great White North - to Michigan - for an interview or two.

I had a dream last night that my wife told me she didn't want me coming back until I found a job. I was crushed. But then I woke up and now I'm okay. Mostly okay. Really. Mostly.

So here I am contemplating this trip from The Place That Shall Not Be Named (that would be "Hell" for my slower readers). And twelve hours, by the way, is only the trip there. At some point we will need to make the trek home, unless my dream prove prophetic.

Anyway, I'd appreciate your prayers throughout the day on Tuesday. I may just buy diapers for the older kids and slap them on them for the trip. Maybe for me too. That'd save some time. Now if I could only find some legal, ethical way to make the children sleep the entire trip. I'll have to burn some new music for the trip - something that will drown out my yelling and crying, preferably, and something that will keep me awake. Any suggestions?