From my sweet hubby!

As I suspected, Astonishments is fast becoming one of my favorite books! The last quarter of the book is dog-eared on nearly every page. I especially connect with her spiritual poems. It is a joy to read her progression of faith. Up until the last, she wrote of God as evident by "On the Cross," her last poem written days before her death. The excerpts from The Notebook are also quite profound and allow access into her personal thoughts, struggles, and revelations. I especially like "A Witness to Process" given the approach of another Easter. Her line breaks are critical to the meaning of the poem and make the emphatic that much more powerful. I won't ruin the impact by quoting from it. It is a must-read in its original form.

My youngest on an ice fishing outing with Dad.

My eleven-year-old took these! Except for the last one. :)

My oldest son has been studying changes in ecosystems this week. The definition of "stress" is a good one. "A stress is any physical hazard to life caused by having too much or too little of things needed for life" (Science 5, BJU Press, p. 202). Friday morning, I was reading about how we are created for balance in Debbie Macomber's Knit Together. Much of this chapter focuses on what we need to do to maintain balance, which in turn means avoid stress. My week started out full of stress--mostly created by my own unmet expectations--and ended surprisingly calm. Why? Perhaps because I adapted as do most living things when faced with stress. Perhaps I used my God-given instincts better on Thursday than I did on Monday. Perhaps I realized that survival isn't always a battle but a means of grace. There is something gratifying about work done and done well. No doubt. But, there is something altogether soothing about taking a day away with people we love and enjoying an outing. I have taken my boys to the zoo many times, but I have never enjoyed it more than I did this week. Watching my oldest take pictures. Seeing my boys clap for a leaping dolphin. Letting them have that last treat for the long ride home. Yes, life can be much like a zoo. But, sometimes the best thing is to enjoy it for the visit it is and see it for all its beauty and variety. Not too much. Not too little. Just enough.

I have been reading Astonishments by Anna Kamienska at the suggestion of my mentor Jim Moore (author of Lightning at Dinner). A few of these poems touched specific parts of my life this week. "Small Things" so resonates with my biggest struggle this week: too many things. As she lists all the small things like laundry, sewing, slicing bread, she says "It comes out of toil out of care/out of immense fatigue in the evening/out of a tear wiped away/out of a prayer broken off in mid-word by sleep//It's not from the grand/but from every tiny thing/that grows enormous/as if Someone was building Eternity/as a swallow its nest/out of clumps of moments" Those spoke to the mother's heart within me. As did this line from "Mothers": "Mothers are the light above each head/If they suddenly departed/only empty chairs would be left" In case there are any other mothers out there who feel unappreciated as I do at times, hopefully those words will encourage us otherwise!

There are several more poems, like "A Prayer That Will Be Answered," "Emmaus," "The Empty Places, and "Annunciation," that I love as well. Although I haven't finished the book, I already count it as a favorite!

In studying animals this week, my boys and I learned that the groundhog usually hybernates until March. This gave me new appreciation for poor Punxsutawney Phil, who is most likely rudely awakened annually.

Not to take anything away from Phil, but February 2 holds greater meaning for me. My maternal grandfather was born on February 2, 1922 in the middle of a blizzard in Luck, WI. The last birthday we celebrated with him was in 2002 (02-02-2002). He pass away on July 31, 2002, which he had predicted; he figured he would die from his 10-year cancer bout by August. But, then he was always good at figuring. Perhaps he and Punxsutawney Phil have more in common than I thought. 

Happy Birthday, Grandpa!

One of my book club's met last night to discuss The Heavenly Man by Brother Yun with Paul Hattaway. This is the true story of a man who suffered years of imprisonment in China for his Christian beliefs. It's a stunningly intense, detailed account, one I had to digest over several weeks. What shocks me most is that this man went through all this within the last three decades, and that he is still alive! I highly recommend this book to anyone who has become complacent in their faith or who needs to understand what Chinese Christians endure on a daily basis for their faith.

One of the accounts struck a personal chord with me. While preaching in Canada, Brother Yun received word that a Christian American journalist had printed an article claiming, basically, that all the events of Yun's life were fabrications. It also revealed the whereabouts of his family who were seeking refuge outside China. All this hurt Brother Yun terribly, and he didn't understand why the journalist didn't seek the truth about him by contacting him or reading documents from his organization. His translator told him, "'Brother Yun, these people don't want to know the truth. That's why they're not calling you or wanting to meet you. In China, Christians are persecuted with beatings and imprisonment. In the West, Christians are persecuted by the words of other Christians.'" (See pages 306-309) In other words, Chinese Christians are persecuted by their government who does not believe in Christ as Savior. American Christians are persecuted by the words of those who claim the same faith, who if asked would say they strive to be more Christ-like. What message are we sending to believers of other countries, visitors that walk into our own churches, members we sit next to and shakes hands with every week when we do not seek to know the truth about each other, spread vicious lies, and then claim piety and devotion to the cross? I have experienced both sides of this. The pain of hurting a fellow believer by speaking out of turn is no less painful than being verbally chastised by someone claiming to be my brother or sister in Christ. So for myself and those who love Christ I hope we will "encourage one another, as long as it is called Today, so that none of [us] may be hardened by sin's deceitfulness" (Hebrews 3:13 NIV). "And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds." (Hebrews 10:24 NIV) Lord, make it so!

Not sure how she managed this one. :)

We had new wood floors installed last week. So, our sweet Zoe got her first "shoes." The picture doesn't show the hilarious lifting of her back legs in trying to shake them off the first time. But, she has adjusted nicely to them now and waits for us to put them on after coming in from outside. Enjoy!

As often happens when I like an author, I begin collecting any work I can get my hands on. I found Tomas Transtromer: Selected Poems 1954-1986 edited by Robert Haas in a second-hand bookstore in Stillwater, MN over ten years ago. I am thrilled that more collections of his poems are more readily available. I recently purchased The Half-Finished Heaven: The Best Poems of Tomas Transtromer chosen and translated by Robert Bly and Tomas Transtromer:The Great Enigma, New Collected Poems translated by Robin Fulton. So, here is my question...

Which translation of Kyrie is better?

I personally prefer Robin Fulton's version, which appears in Haas' edition. The words "invisibly," "slowly," "tread" work for me better than Bly's ""no one sees me," "for a long, long time," "thump." I assume Haas liked Fulton's translation best since he used it. And, like Haas, I would choose Bly's Nocturne translation over Fultons.

I will also say, I wish I knew Swedish. It must be so much better to read the poems exactly how Transtromer wrote them!

One of my favorite poems is Kyrie by Tomas Transtromer. The beginning line, "Sometimes my life opened its eyes in the dark," became a spin-off line for my own poem Adjusting the Darkness from my book The Last Time We Were Children. I also titled one of my own "life" poems Kyrie and followed Transtromer's form. This entire poem, translated by Robin Fulton, stood out starkly to me as a college student. That first line spoke to my mood at the time, and the shortness of the poem (eight lines) succeeds at the art of speaking universal truth in brevity. (Something I have not quite learned, but continue trying.) But, what makes this poem one of my top ten is the way it moves me at different times of my life. I had no idea when I read this poem at 21, that at the age of 30 it would help me relate to another dark time of my life, when my eyes snapped wide open to a new challenge. In the wake of learning one of my sons has autism, I understood the "feeling as if crowds drew through streets/in blindness and anxiety on the way towards a miracle,/while I invisibly remain standing." Anyone who has a child with autism will tell you there are too many of us, yet we feel awfully alone. Oh for the day, when "the doors of darkness open" completely! Yet, all is not bleak, and there is the lure of Transtromer again. In many of his poems, there is a melancholy tone along with some unreachable, tangible hope. I wish I knew what moved Transtromer to write this poem. But, I am grateful to him for writing it and what it means to me.