Schoolless

Bowling for evolution

Cruising down route 23 along the scenic Lake Huron coastline, we came upon this arresting sight:

"Jesus-themed bowling alley! COOL!!"

Chris and I apparently both had the same thought.

Alas...

To top off our disappointment, the theme-park was closed, so we could not personally examine the anointed heart of the brontosaurus.

A loss in the homeschool community

This sad news comes to me through Alice M. from the homeschooling community here in Chicago.

Patrick Sawyer, an Indiana resident, was struck by a hit-and-run driver while riding his bike to go swimming at the Michiana YMCA. As he lay in the hospital in critical condition, the driver turned himself in. Patrick died five days later, on July 21. Patrick was a homeschooling father of four children, was an avid enthusiast of paddle sports, and gave workshops on kayaking at the most recent In-Home Conference.

The Sawyer Family has created a  website with information and tribute to Patrick. Here are some words from his wife, Nancy:

The biggest thing for me right now is the bicycle/road safety issue in our community.  It is simply unacceptable.  As a driver, I know how frustrating and even maddening it can be when I’m in a hurry and suddenly come up on a cyclist which forces me to completely slow down, wait for all oncoming traffic to clear, and give a wide margin.  As a concerned citizen with pertinent issues like fitness, environment, global warming, and high gas prices, I want to limit my driving and bicycle where I can.  I want my children to be able to bicycle to the library, nearby store, friend’s house, etc.  Right now, in our Michiana community, it is not safe.

If you’d like to help me and Patrick right now, please consider how we can make this community more bicycle-friendly and bicycle-safe; a place where both cyclists and drivers can peacefully and safely co-exist.

My heart goes out to you, Nancy, your kids, your entire close-knit family and your friends.

Teen Mom

No one ever told this teen mother not to nurse in public.

Right there, in front of our house, in broad daylight, tandem-nursing her little spotty-butted twins! I felt pretty silly about not having my camera. By the time I got it, the twins disappeared into the tall grass.

But this young mother is no shrinking violet. I first met her a few weeks ago on a Sunday morning on the new bike path that runs by our house. At first, I couldn't understand why a young doe kept walking back and forth across the busy section of the bike path. It was curious: she'd saunter slowly one way, turn her head back, and trot back vigorously. Over and over again. What the...?

As I got closer, I noticed in the thicket on the edge of the path, a small, no bigger than a beagle, wobbly-legged creature, far too timid to cross the road with its mother, what with the people, and dogs, and bikes and strollers everywhere. It occurred to me that she must have just given birth to it that morning, right there, behind Sauganash park, and now was trying to walk it to the relative safety of the woods.

Silly, young, inexperienced mother!

I later realized she had twins. I don't know how I recognize her; I just know it's the same doe. Very young, svelte, with a caramelly coat, big ears and gorgeous moist eyes. Well, it sounds like a lot of does, but this one is different. She hangs out on the edge of the woods, or right by the bike path, and her little ones have been seen wandering, seemingly unsupervised, down the neighborhoods street.

I know there are too many deer here. But I hope they make it, this charming little threesome.

Lost

Plans change.
In an instant, life is not what it once was.

There was a phone call.
I knew that I would have to get my things together, get in my car, and pull myself together sufficiently to drive to Grand Rapids. I felt a stab of tears in the back of my throat as I moved aimlessly between the walls of my house trying in vain to imagine what I might possibly need for a trip of indefinite duration to an intensive care unit four hours away.
My dad had suffered a heart attack.

Even as I traveled down the interstate, not knowing at all what I would find, I turned over and over in my head plans that were put on hold that morning. When would we manage to do the practice run for our planned bike trip with the kids? Who would finish the shopping for the garden party people were coming to in a couple of days? What about the bike trip itself? Would I be back in time? The stress of planning a normal life and normal activities took over and my wheels were spinning. I traveled for a good two hours before I realized that normal no longer was. My little car was taking me to a great unknown that that there was no way to prepare for.

There was no way to prepare for a sense of helplessness at the sight of sudden and devastating illness. No way to prepare for the fact that grave, gray-faced doctors' eyes offered no hope no matter how long we stared into them. Nor to prepare for the staggering sense of sorrow and regret that brought me to my knees at my dad's hospital bedside.

I was also utterly unprepared for the weight of responsibility for my mother now that we were alone. In a dream that first night we spent at her house, I heard a noise that pulled me out of my bed, and sent me wandering around the huge, cavernous rooms, like a three-year-old, wrapped in the security blanket of my quilt, yelling noiselessly: mama! I woke up terrified. Not of death, I think, but of the future. Guilty, that I had not been able to protect my mother from pain, and terrified that I would fail to protect her again, I was, like child, running to her for shelter.

And she was there. In my dream, she stood on the balcony looking solemnly and stoically ahead, as the snowstorm raged around her.

A sense of great loss can only follow great love. We never spoke of love in our house. But through our grief and tears, my mother and I have realized that we had lived a life full of love, with a man who gave and took it unreservedly. He was gregarious, yet modest; confrontational, yet unfailingly fair; tough, but wanted to be treated tenderly; self-sufficient, yet touchingly dependent on the framework of his family. He lived fully, intentionally, with spirit, energy and drive. He simply knew how to live.

Memories crowd my mind, yet wherever I turn, he's not there.