My I-can't-believe-I-get to do list

Here's what I did while the kids were at overnight camp for the week:

Ate pasta and sorbet on trendy patios with old friends for my birthday.

Got my toenails done, including flowery, sparkly nail art, at a place where the beauticians don't even speak English, let alone use you as free therapy to unload about their ex-husbands. Sweet.

Attended a Manitoba Writer's Guild event with my poetically gifted sister-in-law and met/smiled sweetly from across the room at/resisted the urge to scream "I love you" to a host of popular Prairie writers.

Went for Chinese with my parents for my birthday. Very different experience than going out to eat with my parents and my kids, especially since I remembered to sit still and chew with my mouth closed.

Lacquered benches so if G tries to colour on them again, hopefully it won't stick. Ha.

Sunned self at beach with hubby (wrapped in towels because it was early and chilly in the morning, but enjoyed having beach almost to ourselves). Wasn't responsible for any of the children playing catch in the middle of the lake up to their necks, but couldn't resist staring at them anyway.

Finished my long (25-page) short story, wrote another (2-page) short story and a few poems.

Sat on backyard swing and read my long story to hubby. He laughed, he cried, it moved him, Bob.

Went for walk with hubby to get free, large, frozen yogurt with full loyalty card.

Watched The Social Network in bed with hubby. Glad to know my geeks/aspies are not that rude. I could have sworn it was a commentary; it is true that you can gain the whole world and lose your soul. Good thing it's a long redeemable life.

Tore out old shower door and put in pretty curtain and rod (that has been sitting on my bedroom floor for 6 months because if we put it away we'd never find it) with hubby. Used drill by myself and felt like a wild woman raised by wolves (talented power-tool-using wolves).

Biked to park with hubby so he could practice taking pictures of me in the sunlight. Got sweaty, went home for the car, and drove to Starbucks for Fraps.

Felt the silence, space, freedom - and total lack of mother-guilt - in every tissue of my body. Not ready to give it up in 6 hours. 

But first, breakfast out with hubby. He's so handsome when he's not under daddy stress.

Toot Toot!

I signed up to become a Top Mommy Blog. TMB is an I scratch your back/you scratch mine blog service. When people visit their site from my click-able banner (look to the right), I get votes which bump me up their ratings list, giving me more visitors from their site. And round and round we go. No money changes hands, and literary/isolated/bleary eyed moms everywhere find writers on pregnancy/special needs/adoption/single parenting/postpartum depression/homeschooling Who Get It. Because sometimes all you need is another person who can put your stress in words. Preferably humourous ones.

After just over a week of my readers clicking, I've jumped to #115th of all the mommy blogs on the site and Number 3 out of 37 blogs in the special needs category. I never won popularity contests in high school (unless there's a prize for having your wardrobe called gay, maternity, and slutty all in one week.) So it's nice to have readers say "We like!"

Also nice: to have the writing community's vote of confidence. I just learned that the Health and Heart column I've written every second issue of Christian Week for 5 years won a second place at the Canadian Church Press awards. Here's what the judges said:

The writer chooses to take on some brutally personal stories, including the cancer journey of the Wiebe family, and her own daughter’s struggles with anxiety. What comes through in everything she writes isn’t a storyline of despair. Rather, she manages to exhibit the hope, to find the positive, to give readers something to hold on to as they come along on a unpredictable, all too human ride. It’s editorial writing that matters, and it’s done with care and grace that never intrudes, always seems to educate and enlighten.

So excuse me for a moment while a toot my own horn. And thank you for your votes!

A little more Autism awareness

April is Autism Awareness month.

To celebrate, I made 16,000 Mennonite homes across Canada aware of my children's autism.  Well, okay, that wasn't the point: it was my first ever editorial, a piece on Easter and suffering for the April MB Herald, entitled "The paradox of the beautiful mess."

I hadn't even told some of my closest friends that G. had graduated from being my "typical yet difficult" child to autism spectrum kid 2.0.

(In the editorial, I said both my kids had Asperger's, even though G.'s diagnosis is pervasive developmental disorder - not otherwise specified or "pdd-nos," just like K.'s was at first, because, as I've already shared, that diagnosis means nothing to almost everyone. And I avoided "autism," even though the new diagnostic manual will abolish "Asperger's" and "pdd-nos" in favour of  "Autism levels 1, 2, and 3," since outside the disabilities community, "autism" is a big scary word with all kinds of stigma and preconceptions. I don't want people thinking my kids moan and headbang, when in reality, I'm the one doing most of that.)

We received G.'s diagnosis as a Christmas present in 2009. It was hardly a shock, since from the time her big brother was diagnosed, every specialist K. met would look over his glasses at her to see if quirky ran in the family.

But when we started looking for help for G.'s behaviour when she was 4, they all planted their feet at the same miserable starting block as they had with K.: bad parenting. We'd already proven ourselves as good parents to K., but that was the problem; obviously we were so involved with him, that she was neglected. Or perhaps we'd let her learn inappropriate behaviour from him.

We had to take a myriad of parenting classes, not for our benefit, but to demonstrate that we weren't her problem. Could we ignore G.'s interruptions and stay calm through her tantrums as directed by the behaviour specialist, practice child-directed play times prescribed by the Building Blocks of Attachment program, and use the proper authoritative tone and time-out techniques of Triple P? We could. Were we being consistent? Yes. But G. still kicked us every time we told her to put on her jacket? And she still yelled "I hate you" and tried to climb out the window every time we sent her to her room? Oh, perhaps we should look at whether there's something going on for G.

Ya think?

After a couple years of bouncing from referral to referral, all of which I knew weren't what we needed but might lead us through the system to something helpful, we finally got to a specialist who didn't look on me as medically unstable, negligent white trash. (The fact that I cried in front of a nurse when she told me I had to wait 2 more hours till breakfast the morning after K. was born is permanently etched into my medical history and always comes back to haunt me. After 24 hours without food or sleep, and suffering unimaginable pain, a few tears did not mean, as the social worker sent to my bedside implied, that I was in danger of killing my baby. A nurse, perhaps.)

Because I'd had years to accept the possibility of another diagnosis, or because I'd been there/done that with kid #1, or because life just keeps going, I didn't really grieve the second time around. Part of the reason was that other people didn't give me the space: they either blushed and stared into the distance as if I were discussing my bathroom habits, or reacted as if this were nothing more than a cold. And I was more afraid to disclose this time, so I didn't give others much space to respond to the diagnosis either.

The only time I think about having all my offspring on the spectrum as tough luck is when people talk about their grandchildren. If I had another kid, I'd have a greater chance of my family living on, of someone someday having my eyes, passing on my photos and stories, saving my teacups in their hope chest, or doing a Grade 3 research project on great-great-grandma Ange. A small part of me felt like "trying again," but genetics, energy levels, and present demands being what they are, that wouldn't be a wise move. And I really shouldn't place limits on my dreams: if I have no trouble believing they can overcome their attentional difficulties and succeed in college, who's to say they won't get married and raise a family?

If Captain Kirk can tie cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin for the rank of #6 most popular space hero, then anything's possible.

 But probably the main reason I'm not grieving G.'s diagnosis is that understanding why it's so hard for her to wear socks, eat meat, do math, remember instructions, switch gears, and manage her emotions has only improved my relationship with my daughter. I know when to give her time, back massages, limits, and gentle nudges. I'd take a kid I know how to help over "typical but difficult" any day.

I'm so glad I'm aware of autism. But I'm still not sure how I feel about making another 16,000 Mennonites aware of it.

Me, myself, and I should

I am in a sun room in beautiful British Columbia, feeling sun-kissed and wrapped in mountains. In the past three days I have eaten fish and chips beside the pier in White Rock, dipped my toes into the ocean (wearing a hoodie and coat), and walked the entire Stanley Park sea wall surrounded by sailboats, rocks, trees, birds, and happy people.



I've also spent eight hours in interviews, one hour wandering in the rain looking for a quiet restaurant, two nights at a hotel they forgot to clean, and one sunny afternoon stuck on a highway replete with lane closures and turnoffs you can't see until you've passed them.

The "should haves" keep popping into my head: we should have left earlier to avoid traffic, we should have taken the detour, we should have walked to that other beach, looked at that map, stayed at that hotel.

I wish I could have left myself at home and come without me.

I'm supposed to be relaxing. The school doesn't have my number, my kids don't need me, and my laundry piles and litter box are three provinces away. But it seems I've spent so much of my life in "to do" mode that I don't know how to relax. So many people want me to enjoy myself on this trip that I feel like I have to account for every minute well spent. Pressure.

When I'm having a hard day, thinking about how God can turn it into a story fires me up with courage to keep going or to do the next hard thing. I think about not just my work, but my life as being a book for others to read. It keeps me accountable and charges every little faithful decision with eternal significance.

But sometimes, like now, thinking about my life as a story makes it harder to live in the moment. I wonder if I should stop even writing about it, because it can just reinforce the idea that I'm part of one lifelong performance evaluation.

You can't evaluate happiness. The minute you ask yourself, "Am I as happy as I could possibly be sitting here in the sun under the mountains, or would someone else feel happier than I do right now if they were here?" all your happiness flies out the sun room window.

Enough with the "shoulds," already. Maybe I'll just make some of my happy moments my little secret, so that you, and I, don't have to evaluate or rethink them.

In traffic and in the sunshine, I'm stuck with myself, so we may as well make the best of it. Patience. Construction always means "expect delays." Especially in B.C.

Shall I play for you? Pa rum pa pum pum

Margaret Mead wrote, "No recorded cultural system has ever had enough different expectations to match all the children who were born within it."

I discovered quite quickly that, while society says that it's okay to march to your own drum, our schools can't handle more than one rhythm per classroom. There just aren't enough conductors. We say that we want kids to be themselves and follow their heart, but what we really mean is, "Follow instructions and do whatever the rest of the class is doing."

Before school, I thought it was great that my son expressed himself artistically. When he started Kindergarten, if the teacher asked him to paint a red circle, a detailed pencil sketch of a maple leaf's cellular structure just didn't cut it. "Making breakfast" at the play stove for the girls wasn't appreciated for the chivalrous gesture it was, if it happened to be during "O Canada" or a lesson on "ing" words.

It's a difficult task, encouraging your quirky children to express their own strengths--and letting them face their weaknesses in their own time--when you know if they don't tone down the quirks and turn up the conformity, they will get labeled and left behind. Love them for who they are, or protect them from the consequences?

In the past few weeks, both my kids have wandered or run off during school field trips. For one, the stress was too much to handle and he had to get out; for the other, the enticement of what was through the next door was too much to resist and she had to go in. So now, I'm in charge of finding, or being, the caregiver for their field trips, or they can't go. It's a safety issue. The school just doesn't have enough full time education assistants to provide one-on-one all day supervision; if they would assign someone to my child, the child at another school who needs that EA for half the day would have to stay home--hardly fair to them. Not easy for me either. I'm just starting a new job (writing/editing!) and have to be available to my employer whenever she needs me. Practically, I'm sure it will work out in my schedule, but emotionally it feels like a burden.

Unlike Ms. Mead, I've always thought that there were too many expectations on our children, but I think her reflection is more accurate. We need to have more expectations: we need to expect that some children will be more interested in being loving than it spelling "ing." That some children are born to find environmental solutions or make technological advances, and the fact that they can't "colour in the lines" is exactly what makes them able to see outside them.

I have no doubt that my kids' teachers hear the music of many drums. And they encourage short solos whenever possible. But they can't always catch the little drummer boy when he marches out of the building on their own.

All any of us (typical or autistic, young or old, parent or teacher) can do is play our song to the best of our ability, listen to the songs around us, and blend whenever we can. "I played my best for him...Then he smiled at me...Me and my drum."

Of mice and me

Every now and then, when things slow down, it's good to stop and think about what brings us the most joy. I enjoy teaching, but what I want to leave with the world is my writing. More than seeing the final product (which I pray doesn't involve a tacky cover photo of a flower or sole distribution in squeaky, spinning gas station map racks), I want to experience the creative process. I want to go nutty in a happy way, to talk to fictional characters as if they're in the room, to rush to my computer in the middle of the night because I woke up to a great line, to get lost in the creative “flow” and learn to breath under water.

I started a new blog called "37 Mice" (angelineschellenberg.wordpress.com) to face the cords that tie me back as a communicator and to identify the divine gifts ("mice") that will free me to write. I'm hoping the accountability and challenge of "37 Mice" will overcome my inhibitions, either releasing me to finish my fictional story (the one that's lurched and stalled the last few years), or becoming a beloved story in itself.

Since the new site is all about, and for, me as a writer, I decided to focus new-ange.blogspot.com around my experience with parenting and disabilities—which most of the posts already do. I’m also trying on a new name, “Plaiditudes,” short for “plaid attitudes” (a term my husband and I thought we coined sixteen years ago, but either we were trendsetters or other great minds think alike, because it’s now in the dictionary.) Since I’ve been “New Ange” for a few years already, my husband suggested I could only honestly claim to “newish.” The reality hasn’t changed; God hasn’t stopped transforming me: I’m a new-er Ange every year. However, the number of people on this globe who just can’t wait for their weekly scoop on Ange (the old or the new) is limited, but there are many facing or caring for someone with a disability, and many others who can find encouragement here for any challenge, weakness, or difference. If your life is “easy-peezy, lemon-squeezy” (as my son’s third grade teacher would say), come along anyway for the interesting stories.

If you're reading this...

I watched the movie Julie and Julia this week. Julie was discovered as a writer through her blog; a journalist at the New York Times read it, ran a story about her, and immediately she had dozens of calls from book publishers. Cool.

No one will ever discover me through this blog because it's not search-able online. New Ange is in the middle: slightly less personal than a private diary, but too personal for me to make available to everyone. Whenever I think of making my blog accessible to Google, I think: Do I want the guy I dated in high school to read this? Do I want distant relatives who still call me 'Angie' to gossip about my hangup and crises? Do I want personal information about my kids floating around cyberspace for their future employers (and therapists) to see? And I answer, no.

What I write here is for friends and friends-of-friends; to encourage you in your own daily "blah," "ak!" or "ahhh!"

Sometimes I think of starting another blog, one I'd be comfortable letting the whole world read. Blogging more would help the creativity to flow more freely. (Right now I'm at a slow drip.) But would I write any different? Maybe I'm just afraid; after all, if I wrote a book, fiction or biography, its cardboard covers would hold personal information about me for everybody's ex-boyfriends to read. The difference is that it wouldn't be just me talking; a publisher's stamp of approval would be on my words--so the distant cousins wouldn't be able to gossip about my hangups without first mentioning my success: "Did you hear Angie wrote a book?"

I want to lose myself in a book--my book--more than anything; I won't be truly alive until I feel the creativity pour out of me. Is blogging for the whole world the best way to get there? What would my public blog/book be about?

peek

Wow, I didn't realize it had been this long since I've blogged. My absence has nothing to do with a dearth of things to write about. The opposite in fact.

My first excuse is that since the beginning of October I've been teaching College essay writing for the first time. Thirty-three students. Ninety-nine essays to mark. Secondly, I blame Facebook--I release so much of my creative energy in 20 word bursts in my daily status updates.

But teaching and Facebook-ing don't explain everything; I've been doing both for years. The main reason is a felt need for privacy. I've experienced so many emotions, changes, and stresses that would have made for intriguing blog posts--may even have encouraged someone--but I don't feel ready to share with the world.

Saturday I went to a discussion on the definition of Mennolit featuring local authors Armin Wiebe and David Elias. Afterward David Elias told me that writing fiction is more truthful than writing fact. A few weeks ago novelist Sandra Birdsell told me the same thing. She said it was like putting a puppet on your hand: a character to hide behind while you uncover yourself in complete honesty.

I know what they mean. I want so badly to show you what's inside, but I'm tired of being vulnerable, of opening myself and my family up to criticism, advice, and gossip. I want to hide behind a character who embodies everything inside me: the fear, the humour, the sexuality, the insecurities, and the dreams...how it feels to be in my skin, and somehow, through my fictional character, to have it all make sense, or at least: something beautiful.

The devil I know

Last week I was in a frenzy to prepare a sermon, create a course outline, and arrange an interview. This week I don't even feel like opening a doc file. Someone once described me as a "rabbit driving stick shift." I'm either racing ahead or lurching to a stop and hiding in the grass. I used to think I was crazy; I've realized, no: I'm just a writer!

I've begun reading famous writers' thoughts on their careers. (Why didn't I do this sooner?) It's so good to know, for example, that Annie Dillard writes one page a day and says that's success. Or that she sees the thought that her work in progress is terrible or the thought that it is wonderful as mosquitoes to be swatted. But the biggest revelation came about the writing life came from Kathleen Norris:

"I am both an extrovert and an introvert, energized by other people, even crowds of people, but also content to keep to myself for days on end...My energy levels are set on high or low: I can happily juggle any number of activities or do very little. At my most sluggish, I experience a mild agoraphobia, which makes it hard for me to meet outside obligations, even to shop for bread or a quart of milk."

Oh boy, does that ever sound familiar! I'm not sure if writing attracts extremists, or drives sane people to extremes, but there you have it: they go together like long ears and cottontails. It makes sense: you go from the stress of the deadline to the exhaustion that follows, from the elation of being published to worrying whether you'll ever have another story idea as good as the last one. Write and cut, write and lose to a computer crash. One page forward, ten pages back. Up. Down. Up.

"Were I to approach an abba or amma asking for a 'word' to help me cope with the assaults of acedia [despair] on my soul," writes Norris, "I would likely be reminded that if I am especially susceptible to acedia, it is because I harbor within myself the virtue of zeal. That comes as a relief. It helps explain the extremism that lies beneath my more or less sane facade."

There's something freeing about making peace with your internal yo-yo. On the other hand, God may have something slightly less jerky in mind for my life:

Norris says, "One of my mantras is a plea from Psalm 51: 'Put a steadfast spirit within me.' I pray it, but I must admit that I don't always mean it. Would a more steadfast spirit deaden me somehow, or dampen the writer in me? This up-and-down, unsteadfast person is who I am; this is the devil I know."

We prefer the devil we know to the one we don't. But, when you think about it, there's only one of him; both devils are the same guy, and I prefer door number three. I've had the same fear of dampening the writer in me, but like Norris, I have to say a steadfast spirit sounds really good.

"To Edmund Bergler, the twentieth-century analyst who coined the term 'writer's block,' and once remarked that he had 'never seen a "normal'' writer,'" Norris says, "I can honestly reply: That's all right. I am not certain I have ever seen a 'normal' psychoanalyst."

I have no idea what sort of transmission their inner animal drives...but I'll bet the upholstery is nicer.

(Photo: Rabbit in the Dryer by Tim Moore)

Highlights and lowlights

When the kids were preschoolers I belonged to a Tuesday morning mom's group that began every meeting with "highlights" (and sometimes lowlights) - the best and worst of our week. The things you were just dying to share with someone over 4: your husband's promotion or layoff, a romantic date night or your mother-in-law's extended visit, your daughter's first words or your son's first broken bone.

More than the coffee and baking, the secret sister gifts, and the girls-only outing, what I miss most about the mom's group is having someone ask me every week about my highlights. So as I reflect on the coming of the New Year, I'd like to share my highs and lows of 2008 with you.

Highlight: Holidays.
We went to Disneyworld with my parents and little brother in May, to a cabin on Gull Lake in August, and spent a weekend visiting old friends in Brandon in September. I've always been careful (read: uptight) about spending money. I like to invest my money in something that will last or save me money in the future (like new windows or insulation) but this year I learned the value of buying experiences. Meeting the little mermaid and fishing for minnows, jumping out of our skin when we fell down Splash Mountain and when that giant pine fell on the powerline. We're going to be talking about those memories and enjoying the pictures for years!

Lowlight: Cancer
My grandma's rapidly progressing lung cancer has been a weight on my heart since September. I worry about her pain, her medication, her appetite, her spirits. I dread saying goodbye.

Highlight: Math, manners and the boys next door.
K. went from being 2 years behind in his understanding of basic numeracy in June to doing grade level math in September. We have no idea why! We're chalking it up to prayer. All the school staff are also noticing in K. a newly developed awareness of his peers. It may be partly thanks to a social skills class he took this fall in which an OT led a room full of boys with Aspergers or PDD to practice turn-taking, active listening, and saying "please" and "thank you."

But a bigger factor was the boys next door. When I asked K. today what his highlight of 2008 would be, he answered without pausing, "Meeting B." Whenever a For Sale sign goes up in our neighbourhood I pray for the new neighbours. Maybe out of fear of the unknown (Could they be gun-slinging, paint-spraying crazies?) or maybe out of a desire for a greater sense of community on our street. God has never answered my prayer like this one!

I was painting their side of our fence (but not with spray paint) when the new neighbours pulled up for the first time in September. The question "So do you have kids?" led to the realization that we both had 9-year-old boys who had already met - in the same class! B. and his younger brother have been here pretty much every weekend since. And my boy (whose idea of 'playing' used to be talking to himself beside someone else) now saves the Mars Colony right alongside B. (when he's not playing the villain), and let's him have the final say on all "Inspector Bebop" movie scripts. (I'm their videographer.)

Lowlight: Layoff and letting go
I still miss my coworkers and the creative challenges of the writing job I had to leave in September. I miss the Christmas parties, the coffee breaks (mmm...cinnamon buns), and the sometimes quirky, always brilliant visionaries I interviewed each week. In September I also had to let go of my baby as she started grade one. I went from an identity as "stay at home mother of preschoolers" to not being sure what I was! The good news is she's doing fabulously. (The fact that the rest of G.'s class isn't composed of halo-wearers also helps cast her in a more positive light!) She's only run away from class a couple times, because she "already knows everything she needs to know to be a mom!"

Highlight: Teaching
Two Christmases ago my mom said, "Wouldn't it be nice if you could use your Masters and teach a College course?" Last January I got to do just that. And I survived! What's more I fell in love with teaching and with my subject matter: the book of Revelation. I had the chance to teach Revelation again at church this fall. Wow, is it ever easier the second time around! Learning to present material creatively and clearly, stir up discussion, captivate attention, and bring ancient literature about a living God close to home is exciting stuff! I feel more confident, not just as teacher, but about everything I have to offer, because of the experience.

Now I'm set to teach College for the second time with a new subject - the minor prophets - which I suspect will reappear in my highlights of 2009. I'm hoping another week at a cabin will also be in my future!

But there are some new highlights I'm hoping for in the New Year as well. A deeper friendship with my husband. A banishment of G.'s inner whine-monster. A garage where my snow-covered car is standing (and where I can put all the tools and lawn furniture that are currently cluttering up my basement!) A closer friendship with my mom as we support each other through the process of losing our mom and grandma. Maybe even a book idea. (Hey, I can dream! My "novel" went from one page long in 2007 to eight pages in 2008, so who knows, in 2009 it might even grow into a short story!)

And above all a greater sense of peace. Of enough. Of the Hand that guides me through the losses, challenges, revelations, and joys of 2009. Happy New Year!

"We had high hopes for you" and other difficult things about being family

I love my extended family. Families share so many values, traditions and memories. Families believe in you and have high hopes for you.

Which is why I sometimes feel like wearing a high hope-proof vest.

To brutally misquote Isaiah 55:8: Your hopes are not my hopes and your ways are not my ways, saith Angeline.

My mom's siblings are an academic bunch: psychologist, author/life coach, social worker, corporate lawyer, businessman, programmer. (As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are their incomes higher than mine.) From the time I was knee high to a microfiche, I was told the virtues of marrying late and getting a Masters and a high paying, prestigious career in an academic profession. (Plumbers make good money but that doesn't count. Which is okay, because I'd make a terrible plumber.)

Masters degree - check. Academic career - check. Prestigious - well, my articles have been read by thousands across the country and two have earned awards (see Disabilities and Simplicity links to read the award-winning stories). High paying - not so much. And you can't get married much younger than 21, can you? (I mean legally.)

So at family gatherings as I field the questions: "Why aren't you writing for more publications? Why are you teaching only one class?" I sense a disappointment. Dashed hopes. (When I start talking about drying the dishes by hand their eyes really start to tear up.) I imagine I can hear the unasked questions: "Why is she wasting her education?" "Why isn't she more motivated?"

"Why isn't she like us?"

A few years ago I was more motivated. And miserable. I felt like I had to prove myself to the world by publishing more, winning more, earning more. More, more, more.

No more. I'm at peace with myself and what I do. I write and teach because I enjoy it. I also bake pies and scrub shower tiles because I enjoy it. And I walk kids home for lunch through the park and chat with them about airships and pirates, mermaids and heaven, because I really, really enjoy it!

To take Isaiah 55 in context, God's ways are higher than ours as the heavens are higher than the earth; meaning we're all on the same earth, equal before him and equally below him. I may not have fully lived up to my family's hopes and values, but I am learning to listen to God's way for my life.

I don't want to be like the man Walker Percy was describing when he said, "He got all 'A's' and flunked life." (Which is why I intentionally got some B's in college to make time for important things like donut runs and toilet papering the dean's office. Oh ya, and wooing T. with my feminine charms and working car.)

A few verses down in Isaiah 55 God promises, "You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands." Finding and giving joy is becoming the guiding principle in my life. Not resume-building.

Now if you'll excuse me I have pies to make. Maybe I'll even set one aside in the freezer for the next family gathering.

'Tis grace has brought me safe thus far

Yesterday G. got lost in Zellers. Or, more accurately, I lost her; she was enjoying a rare moment of retail independence in the clothing department. My request for assistance precipitated a "code yellow" and the "perimeter was sealed" while my wandering shopper was hunted down by a red-vested army of shelf stockers, customer service reps, cooks, managers and clerks.

I have to admit I'm feeling a little lost these days.

My youngest is starting grade 1 in a few days. For the past 3 years I've been working hard as a writer to build a reputation and connections. I've sacrificed some time with K. and G. while they were preschoolers to ensure I'd be able to support them once they were older. The idea was that once my kids were both in school full time I would be poised to jump even deeper into the opportunities I had fostered.

Instead I'm letting go of my daughter and my job.

Our buzzword at the office is teamwork: "This organization is the sum of its parts." I guess this part didn't add up to the right sum anymore, so they saw a need to subtract the part-time writer and add in a full-time something-else.

Since I got the news I've been working from home or away on holidays. This week I tried going into the office. I cried for 3 straight hours at my desk. I had to relocate and finish my shift at my "other office" (Starbucks).

I'm wandering lost and so far no knights in shining Zeller's uniforms have come to my rescue.

Get over it, right? It's "just a job." If anyone should know jobs don't last forever it's me. (My husband and I seem to be drawn towards companies secretly on the verge of restructuring!)

But it's not just a job. Every staff meeting we're told, "You've been called here by God. Together we have the opportunity to transform the world." I have my own set of mini-miracles of how God led me here. It's hard to believe I was only supposed to be part of world-transformation for such a short time. I sure don't feel God leading me away. Being let-go is hard. Letting go is harder.

My kids are at a church day camp this week. (It's their fifth VBS this summer. K.'s so full of Bible stories he's started preaching to his bean plant. "It won't live long, you know mom, so it needs to hear the good news before it's too late.") The singing is always the best part of VBS and this week they learned a jazzed up version of "Amazing Grace."

"I once was lost but now I'm found."

This morning I realized it's not: "I once was lost but now I've found my way." I've lost the perfect job, I've lost my "babies," but God's not expecting me to find anything.

He's found me. And he's never letting me go.

To dream the impossible dream

I have no imagination. That may sound strange considering the fact that I'm a writer, musician, dancer, teacher and mother. How can I do all that without imagining?

I create out of what's there. If it's not there, I can't make it up. I dance the steps I'm shown, I sing the notes on the page, I rearrange the statements from an interview into a meaningful story.

I guess I'm more of a sculptor than an painter. Give me a blank page and it stays blank. Give me a chunk of words and I'll chip away the garbage until the beauty underneath shines through.

My dream is to write a novel. I've been working on it for the past year and I'm not so proud to announce I have....one page. Not necessarily the first page. (It is a very good page though!!)

The thing that's blocking me is that I can't seem to make up things about my characters. Even if I could, it feels like lying. So everything about them and everything they do is from either my life or someone close to me. (Right now the guy is sort of a combination of Tony, my dad, and Ray Goertzen, if you can imagine that! Short, furry, and loves airplanes.)

If I haven't experienced it myself then I can't imagine it happening at all. Which means I'm giving away a lot more of my secrets than I'd like through these characters! How do other people feel deep down about God, sex, death or their own elbows in their most honest moments? I don't know!

So either I need to get comfortable with telling the world my secret fantasies and insecurities or I need to learn to lie. Or God needs to infuse me with a serious dose of imagination. He created an entire universe no one else had ever thought of before, so maybe he could show me how to create a story world from nothing too?

Or maybe I should just stick to writing truth. The truth that I know. Like "How to be your best unemployed self" or "10 things, I hate, about commas" or a commentary on the "Intertextuality of Ezekiel." Informative (for the 1% of the population who would care) but not very inspiring.

No, I have a need to create. A God-given need to lead people towards beauty: the beauty of a Creator who "can do more than anything I can ask or imagine."

Imagine that.

How great our joy

I just submitted my column for Christian Week's Christmas issue. It's about dying.
It sounds crazy, not exactly a sleigh full of jolly "ho ho hos," but trust me - it fits.

I've never liked death. (I don't suppose I'm unique on that point.) The first person I lost was my grandpa who passed away ten years ago. Even though he called me "Angie" and always asked me how my flute lessons were going (I play clarinet), I felt an emotional attachment to him and didn't want to accept that he was gone.

A few months after his funeral I had a dream. In my dream Grandpa met me at a Burger King (actually he usually took me to Dairy Queen but who's picky in their sleep?). After we'd laughed and talked over our burgers he told me, "I have to go back to the grave now." It sounds bluntly morbid, but in my dream it finally felt alright. God was telling me it was okay to let him go. And in my sleep that night, I said goodbye.

But I still struggle with the concept of death. On one hand people talk about it as a part of life; on the other hand it's a destruction of one of God's precious creations. Yes, because Jesus came back to life, I can look forward to a new pain-free, grief-free (cellulite-free?) body after I die, but God put me on earth for a purpose and I don't want to go anywhere till I've fulfilled it! (I'm not sure I've even figured out what it is yet!)

This tension comes out especially when talking with my kids:
"Put your seatbelt back on. I don't want you flying out the window."
"But then I'd go to heaven."
"I don't want you to go to heaven yet!"

And then other times it goes the other way, when I have to convince them not to be so scared of death because heaven will be great. I'm confused. They're confused.

My column was inspired by two old friends I talked to recently. One is dying of ALS, the other lost her husband three years ago to a brain tumor. And you know what they talked about?

Joy.

So I just had to dig deeper. How could people whose bodies or marriages were torn apart by a terminal illness be joyful?

You'll just have to pick up a copy of Christian Week Manitoba to find out!

But here's where the Christmas story fits in. Jesus was born to walk in our shoes, fall under our burdens, cry our tears, and die. No one else knows how we feel the way he does. He'll never abandon us, even in death. In fact, death just brings us closer to the Saviour we love. That's why my friend could talk about peace like a blanket wrapped around her in a hospital room. Or laughing as they planned their own funeral.

I'm not there yet. But the more I get to know Jesus (preparing to teach a course on the Book of Revelation helps), the less I'm afraid of leaving what I know behind.

To face what he knows already.

Poetry

A while back I went for coffee with a friend and told her about how I wrote poetry to process my feelings (a mixture of rejection, spiritual devotion, and puppy love) throughout junior high. I shared with my coffee partner my prayer that God would reawaken the creativity in me. That night I went home and wrote my first poem in 15 years. (I let the hope in and all kinds of weird things can happen.) My prolifically poetic sister-in-law liked it, giving me the courage to finally share it with you. The setting is on the floor beside K.'s crib (circa 2001).
Or is it?



Now I lay me down

leaning on the bars
streaming through the tears
through the years
begging for forgiveness
from one who cannot speak
is asleep
not knowing that face
beautiful face
we face
Out-ism
in the morning he will climb over the bars
I will cry again
Loose sleep, lose hair, bow
free from but not for
what
now

There goes my story!

I was the first writer to ever interview Candace Derksen's best friend Heidi. And what a great interview! A Christian Week Manitoba exclusive. I was so excited about this story....until I saw it in today's Free Press!

Apparently Heidi enjoyed talking with me too - so much that she found the courage to finally share her story in the media spotlight. (Comparatively, Christian Week is more of a night light.) I'm very happy for Candace's friends and family that the truth about Candace's disappearance and her faith is getting out there.

But what am I supposed to write now!

My brain keeps sending me the message, "Give Up!" (interspersed with "Go take a nap," "You need chocolate," and "Why are you wasting time blogging?) I was already stressed and stretch to my limit this week and now I have to start from scratch.

Anyway, I just wanted someone to know that no matter how my story looks in the July Christian Week Manitoba, I did not copy the Free Press. I may have the last story, but I did the first interview. So there!

Deep breath. "God, keep me calm and focused. Give me a unique focus for this story that will bring you glory, something the Free Press couldn't or wouldn't say."

Now to find that chocolate.

Here lies a devoted wife, mother, and professional development junkie

Every day, with everything I do, I'm writing something. Not my diary, not even my resume. No, not even another Christian Week assignment.

It's my obituary.

Okay, not literally. But I'm very conscious of the legacy I'm leaving behind. Like Mandy Moore's character in the movie A Walk to Remember, I have a growing list of things I'd like to accomplish, experience, or become before I die. (I scribbled "going just one whole day without nasal allergies" off my list long ago - it seems that just ain't going to happen!)

This week I checked off two of them. First, I was asked to teach a Bible College course on Apocalyptic Literature (the area of my thesis research). Just call me "professor Ange."

And, I found out today that I won my first writing award, for a reflection I wrote in the MB Herald called "The sweet smell of simplicity" (see link). "She will be remembered as a writer, no - an award-winning writer!" I know I'm being silly, but sometimes a girl's gotta celebrate!

I can get carried away with the titles. When I'm dead will it matter to anyone whether I was a freelancer, a correspondent, or a columnist? Does anyone ask me my grade point average or words per minute at the grocery store? (They haven't, but next time you run into me at the meat counter and I'm not in a hurry, feel free.)

Just before someone does write my obituary, I'll be standing before God without a certificate, trophy, job title or congratulatory note to hide behind. I don't think he'll begrudge me my joy in the things I experienced on my list, but I know he will have more important things to ask me.

Like: Who am I to you? And who are you, without all of that? Did you graduate life with honours, or with honour?

The truth is harder than fiction

I'm working on a story right now that doesn't involve interviews, online research, or up-to-date information. It's a story of my life.

I don't have a lot of memories before age 12. The ones I do have are pretty insignificant: chasing cats around the farm, watching Oma's arthritic hands cut corn off the cob, designing colonial houses and Poloroids out of Lego, and being relegated to the role of "R2D2's girlfriend" in a playground reenaction of "Star Wars." Definitely not the wellspring of an epic memoir.

The MB Herald wants a 2 page spread about my childhood for an issue on "Disabilities" to be published this Easter. I can't remember much about my early feelings or interactions with my brothers, both of whom have Fragile X syndrome. Since my words seem to flow faster in blogger than they ever do in Microsoft Word I thought I'd do some processing here and see how far it gets me. (If I ever write a book, the publisher will receive their first ever manuscript made entirely of blog posts.)

This Christmas I watched the movie "Bed of Roses" in which Mary Stuart Masterson's character was raised by an absent foster dad. Because she was found in a train station at three months old she didn't even have a birthday. On Christmas Eve her boyfriend takes her to the first family gathering of her life and she freaks out. It feels "normal" and she knows she isn't normal enough to fit into it. I broke down in tears at my first Christmas gathering at my inlaws for exactly the same reason.

Even more than "happy," I've always longer for "normal." Normal isn't subjective, it's a very specific experience. It's the feeling you get when you're in a group of girls and everyone is laughing about how their little brothers do this or that, and you can laugh along, because your baby brother does exactly the same thing. Or when everyone is talking about their family trips to the movies or the campground and you can see "I've seen that one" or "remember the time I dropped my melty marshmallow on my pants?" It's "I get what you mean - I've been there - I'm one of you."

I'm lucky I have an Autism support group now with a "new normal." Where no one stares and clears their throat and changes the topic to precipitation levels when I say "my son tried to stab me with a pencil." Because the woman beside me was just threatened with a steak knife and the dad across the room was up all night with a screaming 10 year old and someone else can't get their daughter to eat bread just because it's square. I wish I had had a sibling support group as a child so I would have known whether there was a "new normal" for that.

I think it's a lie to say that I suffered because my brothers were disabled. I loved and accepted them. I wasn't afraid of their unusual behaviours or their wild tamtrums. I wasn't particularily embarrassed about them in public. Those are the struggles people expect to hear. That's what makes this story so difficult to write.

What made me feel different was that I was alone. And it's the reason I'm doing everything I can to get the support I need now.

Chasing the wind

I've been having an "Ecclesiastes" week.

It's not really a category; I just made it up. It's one or two steps above a "Jonah day," a term I like from Anne of Green Gables. At least in an Ecclesiastes week no one gets swallowed whole.

Ecclesiastes is the book of the Bible that begins:

"Meaningless! Utterly meaningless! What do people get for all their hard work? ....Everything is so weary and tiresome! ....And in future generations, no one will remember what we are doing now."

My work is sporadic: either I have three stories due all at once or nothing at all. I always go through a little slump of gloom once the frenzied panic is over. I've come to the place where I can give myself permission.

Usually I have the sense of accomplishment to keep me going. I've helped support my family, I've created something beautiful, and I've added to a legacy of stories that will survive me.

But this time I'm wondering if it's really all that. My Burma story was supposed to be a quick call to a missionary, write up the facts, hit "send" and you're done. Instead it was hours interviewing refugees, phone calls to pastors and foreign affairs representatives, emails for clarification, looking up news articles online, and presto: I've earned myself a whopping $1.50 an hour. How's that for supporting my family?

And leaving a legacy? I've learned it's okay for editors to change your words without running the changes by the writer, because "you know the material but they know their reader." I find it difficult when my stories come out; sometimes I'm afraid to look. They have my name on them, but they aren't really mine anymore.

It all feels a little meaningless. Like trying to catch the wind.

As I was typing out the verses from Ecclesiastes I had a funny thought: the writer says that future generations won't know what he's done, and yet here I am thousands of years later, wearing polyester and sitting in my Lazyboy, reading his words! The poor guy had no idea his writing would end up on gold leaf and bound in leather or send through fibre-optic cables from my nifty little laptop to yours!

They say writing is something you do for love, not for fame or money. Some days I pray for God to give me a passion for delivering flyers, because I think I'd be ahead financially.

But I know, even when the work is hard and the editors are chop happy (or like to smother everything in cheese), I won't stop writing. Because there are so many stories that need to be told.

That's where the love comes in. It's not just love for the act of writing (which many days I must admit involves more blood and sweat than drool). It's love for the stories: from the displaced people of Burma to the homeless individuals in Harry Lehotsky's neighbourhood - when I tell their stories they become my friends. And when you read them, my hope is that they become your friends too.

"The wise are often poor and the skillful are not necessarily wealthy. Whatever you do, do well." Ecclesiastes 9.

Ask a great question....

In my last entry I asked "Why is Burma never on the news? and I got the best answer I could have asked for: "They are!" The very next night CBC TV did a feature on the plight of the Karen. (That prayer worked a lot faster than the one I prayed as a child for the Berlin wall!)

It's kind of goofy, because I sat beside the phone all day Monday waiting for Foreign Affairs to call, confirming that Canada will welcome 2000 more Karen this year. Then I see that exact announcement on CBC that very night. Apparently, Foreign Affairs informed the CBC before they told Angeline Schellenberg. Where are their priorities? ;)

The best part is: now there will be even more people praying for the peace of Burma.