A Matter of Life and Death

Today was one of those days where life and death met, shook hands and carried on.

It's Saturday, which in the Flemming house always means pancakes, sleep-in days, and no school. On occasion, it also means trips to Dancing Goat Coffee in the morning, and maybe a frolic in the local park.

The 3 boys and I were excited today, since we had organized a playdate at the Decatur Christian Church park with three of Jackson's classmates. It just so happens that their moms are pretty fantastic people, too, and it seemed like a good way to spend Saturday morning.

With minimal drama or harumphing, we made it out of the house on time, with short sleeved shirts under our sweatshirts. Or, if you're Cooper, four layers of clothing, which were shed within moments of arriving at the park. Matt tromped the boys to the park, while I loaded up on the tastiest coffee in the universe, which is gleefully shared with any who will drink it.

Wonder of wonders - we were the first family to arrive. This never happens. Tardiness is my constant companion. It distracts me and leads me to believe that I can fit a 20 minute activity into 10. Believe me, like anyone with a problem, not only am I supremely aware of it, but I'm also the most annoyed by it. This is a Lenten Discipline for another year...

As our friends came, we gathered in a mom huddle, and watched our progeny race to the farthest reaches of the gated playground. Some to the swings, some to the trucks, some huddled by mamas, and all of us sipped coffee and recounted the morning to date. My friends were staying to play, Matt chaperoned nearby, joking later that he was doing his best imitation of a marginalized person on the fringe of society, and our children whooped and imagined their grown-upness with delight.

I had to leave all too soon, and Zipcar'ed to Saint Mark for Bob's funeral. It was frustrating for Death to intervene on such delight and fun. Haven't you already visited us, O Death? Can't you leave us be? But no... Death showed up again to sit in the back pew and mock us as we paid tribute to the spirited life of my friend Bob. It was sad, but a true celebration of a life lived to its fullest.

I returned back to my family, bright green coat masking the drab black beneath it. I put life back on, and left death behind.

We spent our quiet afternoon doing spring-like things. The yard is tidy and fertilized. The laundry is under control. We claimed this quiet life and lived it peacefully, but we all know that death can swoop in and knock everything into disorder.

Today, life was interrupted. But it did not cease.

Thanks be to God.

BRAINS!

Jackson and Cooper have had a really wonderful experience at the Clifton School. It's been a place that's challenged them (and me) in ways I never would have expected. Jackson started writing at age 3. Cooper is encouraged in his athletic prowess. They are loved and recognized as full beings.

Truly. Full beings.

Because the Clifton School students have parents who are affiliated with Emory or the CDC, we have a pretty remarkable group of kids that attend. One of Jackson's friends has a parent who is a researcher at the Yerkes National Primate Research Institute. A couple of weeks ago, she offered to bring in some teaching brains (BRAINS!) for the class to see and touch.

BRAINS, people!

The teachers thoughtfully put out an information and sign up sheet, to which many of the parents responded: "[MY CHILD] may see/touch brains."

And one Wednesday morning, a tub of preserved brains arrived in the class. There were tiny, mouse brains, medium sized rat brains, and big ol' human brains that got take out of jars of formaldehyde for the kids (and teachers) to poke and prod. The students were educated on what the brain does, and where it's located, why we protect it and what the different parts do. Then, they were divided into two groups and sent to either make "Brain Hats" or to the "Brain-touching Station." I had a little extra time, so I stayed with Jackson and we let Cooper slink around like he belonged there. We went first to the table to color brains, which had bold lines clearly indicating the different parts. The children began saying things like, "I need green for the occipital lobe!" They're tiny geniuses. Once we finished coloring to halves of brains and taping them to a circle of construction paper to place over their heads, we went to the brain table.

I can't describe how cool it was for these kids to get to see something so delicate and important. They were asking such good questions, including one bright child who thought to ask, "Where did this brain come from?" The facilitator of this activity thought for a moment, and didn't back down from the toughness present here. "Well, this person died, and when he did, he told his family that they could donate his brain for us to study." She covered mortality and organ donation in a single breath, and the child seemed satisfied with this answer, which made all of us exhale with relief.

Later that day, the class made jello in a brain mold. "WE ATE BRAINS!!!" Jackson reported. He also brought home a tiny, green, brain-shaped eraser that has taken up permanent residence in the pocket of his favorite jeans.

I'm fairly certain that when I was four, the most exciting thing we did at school was to eat graham crackers *before* lunch one day. But now, my children, influenced by their father's wacky sense of humor, stalk the each other with arms raised like tiny zombies, shouting, "BRAINS! BRAAAAIIINS!"

But at least they know where the occipital lobe is located.

"And when I start to melt, I get all wishy-washy!"

Frosty... you said it best.

Mr. Carrot Nose is shrinking into oblivion. When Jackson got home today, he raced over to repair Mr. Nose's eyes and limbs (HA!).

This tiny, 11" lump is all that remains of our winter snow, and of this season that is coming to an end. Saturday, we set our clocks ahead, and welcome the warm weather that will accompany the marking of this new time.

We say goodbye to our snowman, the first and only of the year. The winter that taunts us here in the south gave us a surprising gift, and it was you, snowman. It was you.

Farewell, Mr. Carrot Nose.
2009-2009

Only in the agony of parting do we look into the depths of love. ~George Eliot

Pining for Saturday morning...

I don't normally suggest posting pictures of food. Matt's begun pointing out that TV commercials do a great disservice to the food they are trying to market by showing pictures of said food. Really, nothing is more disgusting than a close up of a burger, served rare. Well, nothing except someone eating that burger.

Shudder.

One of my favorite bloggers, Catherine Newman, (who I apparently feel the need to reference at least once a month) recently started a food blog. It's clever and witty and manageable, and involves kids and stuff like that. She prepares real pot roast, salted chickpea snacks and wrangles beets into a lovely borscht. Back in January, she posted an entry for a puffed pancake.

If you read my Minnesota post back in February, then you know how much puffed oven pancakes mean to me. I love them. I delight in them. They are a feast and accomplishment in and of themselves. They're like little souffles that manage to succeed each time. On the rare Saturdays that the boys can contain themselves the 25 minutes it takes for one to bake, we opt for pannekoeken instead of pancakes. We take a few simple ingredients, and pour them over melted butter and sliced apples, coated in brown sugar. Then, we wait.

As the timer beeps, the boys will shout from their supine couch-inhabiting selves, "PANNEKOEKEN!!!!!!!" and race to the kitchen to watch as it is pulled, puffed and heavenly, from the oven.

It deflates slowly, leaving a delicious, apple-y pattern on the surface. Tiny eyes peer over the countertop as it is sliced into wedges and served on their favorite plates.

We forego maple syrup, and crunch on the buttery brown sugar crisps.

The sun shines. "Thomas the Tank Engine" plays softly in the background, a ritual soundtrack to our slow, Saturday mornings. For several minutes, it is quiet and we feast.

Flemming Family Recipe for Pannekoeken

1/2 stick organic butter
1 1/2 c. flour
1 apple, peeled & sliced thin
Cinnamon & brown sugar mixture
1 1/2 c. milk
1 tsp vanilla
4 eggs

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Place small, circular pan and cold butter in oven while pre-heating, so as to melt the butter. Remove before butter browns, and tilt to cover the sides. Arrange apple slices on the bottom and sprinkle with cinnamon and brown sugar crumbles. Mix flour, milk, eggs and vanilla together and pour into the pan on top of the apples. Bake at 400 degrees for 25 minutes. Pannekoeken will puff up in the oven and deflate rapidly when serving. Pass the syrup, and sausage for an easy supper.

My Other Car is a Pink Cadillac...

A couple of weeks ago, I was shopping around Target for some goodies to go in Matt's new office. Now that he's upgraded to a real professorial space, it seemed fitting for him to have things like a clock and some mugs. (When he gets tenure, I'll buy him a snifter.)

I was perusing the "CLOCKS" aisle, when a woman with a cart full of stuff stopped me and said, "I'm sorry. I hate to interrupt what you're doing but... YOU. ARE. FABULOUS!"

She said it in such a way that it made me believe her. In the core of my being. "You're right, strange, waifish lady with the fancy scarf! I AM fabulous! Thank you for noticing!" I stammered some convincing thank yous, and she persisted.

"I mean, really... you are such a fabulous woman! Look at all that you're doing - I see you have children. You just have something about you. Do you mind if I ask what you do for a living?"

Ah. The question. I love it and dread it all at once.

"Well... I'm, uh, a Methodist Minister. I work at a church in midtown."

She stopped. You could see the gears turning, the script pages flipping, the improv lights coming on.

"Well. That's so interesting! I know that things are bad in this economy, so if you're ever looking for something else to do to supplement your income, call me! I work for Mary Kay, on the business side, doing consulting. You never know - this could really help you and your family!"

She slipped me her card, and I bumbled as I handed her mine. The inside voice in my head slow-motioned a rebuttal: "NOOOOOOOOOOOO!" But it was too late. I'd thanked her. Been flattered by her. Gotten taken by her. Handed her my info.

I shuffled to the checkout line with my clock and mugs and hotpot.

About a week later, I was back at that same Target after a late church meeting. I was starving, and circled through the "CHIPS" aisle for some supplies (read: Pringles). I was taking advantage of the fact that now that I'm responsible for payment of said item, I can open it whenever I darn well please. I was munching through a stack of 7 sour cream n' onion chips when a woman stops me and says,

"Excuse me?"

I paused, mouth full of salty, chippy goodness.

"Mruhuh?" I replied.

"I'm sorry to interrupt... but what do you do for a living?"

I bowed my head, chewed my chips, swallowed my dignity and said:

"You work for Mary Kay, don't you?"

I mean... FOR REAL!?!?!? I'm unmade, disheveled, chomping through a can of Pringles that I haven't even paid for yet at 9:47 p.m, and you're SERIOUSLY stopping me in the food aisle to hit me up for a consulting gig?!

She responded, dejectedly: "Man! Other people always get to the businesswomen first!" and shopped down the coffee aisle.

And that, my friends, is a sure sign the economy is crumbling.

Snow Day!

If you know anyone who lives in North Georgia, then you likely know that it snowed here yesterday. A lot.
We left church in the midst of flakes as large and heavy as wet goose feathers. It was so beautiful, so peaceful, and so likely to send Atlanta drivers into complete panic.

We made it home safely, and spent the afternoon napping and staring out the window in fascination. Jackson and Matt made an awesome snowman, though I'm taking complete credit for the eyes, made on the lids from Cooper's soymilk and some sharpie magic. Jackson's named him "Mr. Carrot Nose."

Today, we woke to a neighborhood-wide power outage and canceled schools. We've been improvising on our morning routine, and taking things slowly.

Here's to a break in routine and the unexpected taking charge. It's a good time to let go and see what happens next...

Forty Days of Blogging...

I'm not sure why, but it's taken me, now, four days into the Lenten season to decide what discipline I'd like to take up.

This is a touch embarrassing, for a lot of reasons, but mostly because my favoritest of favorite classes that I get to facilitate (Theology on Tap) has decided to choose some disciplines for the season based on our reading. This semester, we're reading The Year of Living Biblically by A.J. Jacobs. It's marvelous - funny, honest, mostly reverent, and a good entry into the actual Bible. I have some qualms with his methodology, but it's been a great way to encourage some good conversation about what the Bible says and what the Bible might mean. The author takes up all kinds of literal Biblical practices (wearing tassles, stoning adulterers, ceasing to shave, refraining from wearing mixed fibers, going forth and multiplying, etc.) during his year of writing.

So, as a class, we've decided to choose something that is a literal practice from the Bible and adopt that as our Lenten Discipline. One member is searching for tassels to pin onto the corners of his garments. Unfortunatley, TasselsWithoutHassles.com has moved to a new website, so it's slowed us down a bit. Another member is keeping a coveting journal. Another is writing the scriptures on her doorframe. My blogfriend, Redykle is planting a garden with more food than they need, so as to encourage the practice of gleaning. I've talked about binding my scriptures to my head and arm, at least for a portion of the day, but sheer laziness has kept me from making good on this promise so far.

In an attempt to be disciplined about something this season, I'm covenanting here to blog for the rest of Lent - all 47 days. No Sundays off. Some days may be ridiculously short or ill-fitting, but I'll find something, somehow, somewhere, to share here.

While I'm sinfully bragging about my great congregation, let me just put in a little plug for the Lenten Devotional Guide that was written for St. Mark by St. Mark. This was a wacky idea cooked up by the staff, that I managed to find myself in charge of compiling it. So, I had the honor and pleasure of reading these incredibly thoughtful devotions that came in from our congregants. If you're looking for something really lovely to help you think and pray during this season, you can download it in PDF form here: St. Mark UMC Lenten Devotional Guide. The artwork on the cover and throughout the book is from Bobby Strickland, a church member who painted these last Lent for each week in Lent. They're stunning.

I realize that this blogging discipline is much more for me than it is for you. But maybe, just maybe, we'll all find a way to be reminded of God's abiding presence in our lives, even as we wander and search.