Rose-Colored Jello

Gaudéte in Dómino semper: íterum dico, gaudéte.

Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, rejoice!

Phillippians 4:4

At the vigil Mass last night the priest spoke of the special significance the rose-colored candle and vestments for this Third Sunday of Advent have for him personally. He was four years old in December of 1941, a prisoner of the Third Reich. His father was a Canadian trade commissioner stationed in Oslo, and following the invasion of Norway in 1940, the entire family spent two years in internment camps in Germany before a prisoner exchange was eventually arranged.

Largely cut off form the world, the internees did receive Red Cross aid packages, the most prized of which were the ones sent from Canada. And during that bleak Christmas season, one such package contained an unheard-of delicacy: rose-colored Jello. The happiness of that rare treat, the hope it gave him, the joy with which it filled his child's heart—these memories were clearly still alive and vivid for him nearly seventy years later.

His connection of his story with the joyful hope we celebrate this day, this season, reminded me that as a Christian I am called to be focused on hope and joy. Despair and anger are not valid responses for me. Through whatever trials and hardships we are enduring, I can and must look forward to the joys to come, both the joys of the better tomorrows that I continue to believe are coming, and the untold joy of the eschaton which is the object of our ultimate hope.

Passing on the torch

Today dawned bright and sunny here on the banks of the Rivière des Outaouais. It was cold as all get out. but it was lovely to look at. I felt unwilling to spend another entire day alone in this empty house, just me and the silence. Downtown is suddenly closer than I think this week, so I dressed myself in a weather-appropriate manner and set off for the library, the feedbag, and the confessional.

I had already spotted two or three attractive, athletic young people wandering about in their white, expensive-looking "Official Torch Bearer" tracksuits before I had gone a dozen blocks. After I left the library I passed near Parliament Hill, heard the hubbub, and spotted the crowd and the massive outdoor stage. Ah, Olympic madness. After all the build up, it was finally starting to happen for real. Whatever. I trudged along the Sparks Street Mall, devoid as it was of human life, without giving it any further thought.

Too early yet for confession time, I stopped to drink a latté and write an actual letter to a friend. Sufficiently caffeinated, I left the café and headed east toward my appointment with God's mercy. I had only a few blocks to go when I saw the flashing lights of several police cars up ahead. The last street I needed to cross was closed off to traffic. People lined the sidewalks, excitedly clutching flags with the logo of the impending Winter Olympics. Official Olympic vehicles were pulled up at the intersections. The torch was going to be passing this way!

I have never been even remotely near any sort of Olympic event. I may very well never be this close again. Ordinarily I would be curious about such an opportunity; I would want to have the experience, qua experience, for no other reason than it was one I had not previously had. But as the details of the scenario came into focus, I knew with absolute certainty that my recent conversations with friends had not been mere prattle. I sincerely did not care a fig about the Olympics. And I certainly wanted no part of this contrived little scene. I looked up and down the street, and when the signal changed to "walk" I headed across under the watchful eyes of Ottawa's finest.

As I reached the opposite corner an exuberantly-grinning young man—who, bizarrely, had sold me a Big Mac not two hours before—attempted to hand me one of his fistful of little "Vancouver 2010" pennants-on-a-stick. I shook my head, politely I think, keeping my scorn on the inside. I didn't scream at him: "Haven't you people done enough? You want me to smile and be a part of your overscripted shenanigans, too?" I didn't tell him where I thought he could put his little pennant. I didn't shout anything about Miga the Sea-Bear and the other infuriatingly-nonsensical mascots festooned on every postage stamp I stick to every letter I send back home. I didn't even punch myself in the head.

I just moved along, against the flow of people rushing to get in place before the big moment they imagined was going to come jogging by. I just walked away, and went on with my day, and went on living my life, a stranger in a strange land.

Red Balloon, White Rose

There are plenty of covers, but I still shiver a bit as I lie in bed. The thermostat has been set at 62º for days now, and those six degrees definitely makes a noticeable difference. Maybe I'll have to bring a few more blankets down and pile them on the hide-a-bed. I finally put a nail in the living room wall above the computer, and now my Big Dead Jesus (a.k.a. the large crucifix that creeps her out) hangs prominently in my line of sight. It is comforting, I guess. This living room is starting to feel like home.

Above me a red balloon rests against the ceiling, as it has for nine days now. Eleven days ago the Boy and I went to the florist to get a single white rose, as requested. They offered him a balloon, and so home we came with it. Of course it immediately caused trouble with a little brother who wanted it but couldn't have it, so it quickly ended up locked in a closet, pleasing no one. The Boy wanted to pack it, but I convinced him that was impractical.

As I wandered through the vacated home last Saturday, I saw it and brought it down to be part of my growing nest in the living room. It has lasted remarkably well, far exceeding any expectations I had. It is a bit reduced the last couple of days, but still looks taut and strong. The rose, too, still blooms, standing in the French press carafe on the kitchen counter, the closest thing to a vase that we brought with us. I wonder how long it will last before it droops and wilts. Maybe long enough.

Lonely snow

First snow in Ottawa today. Not much, just a coating on cars and roofs, mostly, but it stayed cold enough that even at evening rush hour I could still see cars with ice and snow sliding off their roofs and trunks.

And though the purple sled sits ready in the garage, there is no little boy to ask eagerly about its employment. There is no little voice full of excitement at the window, no one shouting "Look, Daddy, snow!" over and over again, while I nod and say "Yes, that's right; it snowed." Instead, I am alone in a silent house, silent save for whatever noise I choose to make or what tunes I elect to crank up. Everyone else is gone. And they are not coming back.

It is hard to fathom the immensity of this development. Watching them walk through the gate at the airport was devastating, even though I knew it was the only right choice for us to make. Now they are all safe, with family, being cared for and loved, far from this land that, through no real malice, proved so inhospitable to out fragile little family.

I am gradually becoming studious again, pushing the pain and terror to the background, trusting in the wisdom of others. I am determined to finish what I have started, if at all possible. Even though everything has changed suddenly, one thing is unaltered: all our plans and dreams of the future are predicated on my completion of this course of studies. I don't intend to plunge blindly ahead, but if at all possible, then I needs must continue somehow through these next three years in order to make possible the better life that we have imagined together for our young family.

But only time will tell.

Need some veggies, boy?

Primus is not known for his love of vegetable bites. Or really any bites; it is a constant struggle to get him to slow down enough to take any nourishment at all, and his physique shows it.

But tonight he evidently had some biological needs that he took heed of. While I was prepping supper he ate two collard leaves, stalks and all, and after I had rolled the leaves and cut them into strips he ate two of the resultant densely-packed wheels of green leafiness. Later, when we had steamed the rest to our liking, he dug into a plateful before asking, "Can I please have some V-8?"

Yes, yes you can.

A whole new everything

Greetings from Sunny Ottawa!

As I dragged my little family away from everyone and everything we know and love, one of the things I was most sure of was that we would need to blog about it a LOT, both for the folks back home (and scattered far and wide) who will be missing us, and also for ourselves. So far, pretty much nothing has gone as expected, and it has been a pretty bleak time for us. Blogging has taken a back seat to survival.

But I need to start sometime. Every day lately there have been multiple little events that have made me say to myself, "Ah, I need to blog about that." And I never have. But tonight, time, energy (barely), and inclination have finally converged, and I am just going to say stuff until I run out of steam. Which will be soon. But hopefully this will be the pebble that starts the metaphors mixing, and I can find time and energy to pour forth the kind of pithy little updates I have been longing to post (and pictures, too!). I may even get around to whipping up some back-dated entries for the overwhelming early days of our family odyssey, so scroll down to check for those, too, at some point soon(ish).

And good night. More real news real soon. Maybe even a proper explanation of what we are doing here...

Tenting Again

Ah, camping! It has been so great to get back out in the wonderful state parks this spring, reminding us how very long it has been since we tramped about in the woods with our growing little family. Last week we spent a glorious few days down at one of my favorite places in Minnesota: Beaver Creek Valley State Park, just outside Caledonia, MN. My parents rented the small cabin available there, and we joined them there for a couple days of long walks and restful nights. And then this week I took a Wednesday off and we headed down to New Ulm and Flandreau State Park. We pulled in a little before 9:30pm, located a pleasing site in the rustic campground, and set the tent up with the aid of the car headlights. We were, it turned out, the only campers in the entire park that night, and it was beautiful.

We had a leisurely morning before I spiffed up into my best suit for an interview with the bishop (about which more to come, I promise), then later we spent the afternoon exploring historic New Ulm, having lunch at the Kaiserhof, taking in the Herman monument and the Glockenspiel show, and generally having a wonderful day out. We decided to stay a second night, so after a windy night's sleep I popped up at 4.45am, bundled the sleepy boys into their car seats, broke down camp like a madman, and zipped back up to the Cities, just making it to work on time. A grand outing, all around.

It is tough to do any hardcore birding with little ones, but I found real joy in being able to spot and point out various birds to wife and son as we went about our camping activities. I can officially report the following list, just to show that we had our eyes open:

• Red-headed Woodpecker (my first in several years)
• American Goldfinch
• Eastern Bluebird
• Least Flycatcher (by ear only)
• Cardinal
• American Robin
• Chipping Sparrow
• Yellowthroat
• Hermit Thrush
• Wild Turkey
• Ring-Necked Pheasant
• American Crow (this is turning into a rather patriotic bird list)
• Northern Flicker
• Blue Jay
• Canada Goose

We also found a baby Painted Turtle crushed and dead on the gravel road to the camp ground. His little shell was about the size of a fifty-cent piece (remember those?) and we carried him back to our campsite, where four-year-old Primus studied him intently for many hours.

Toilet Wisdom

"The blood and juice in my body work SOOOOO hard to build my poop, and to bring my food to my blood and to my poop."

Yes, I guess that is pretty much how it works, Primus. But I am also reasonably sure that the phrase "build my poop" has not previously been found in recorded English. You are a linguistic gold-mine.