Autumn Winds are Blowing

Autumn.  In America.

New season.  New life.  New start.

Again. 

Not completely new for me, however.

I am back in Milwaukee.  It’s where I’m from.  Where the story started.  Where I was standing when the miasma of wind blew into my life and I floated away to another place, another chapter, another life. 

In some ways everything is familiar here.  I know the streets, where to turn, where to walk, where to shop.  In others it’s all different.  I don’t see many of the same people, but I have made many new friends.  I don’t live in exactly the same neighborhoods, so I have new routes to drive.  I don’t go to the same church, but my new church has already welcomed me with open arms. 

I am doing what I love – teaching.  And where I’m teaching is both familiar and strange. 

The students are, of course, familiar.  Kids are kids no matter what uniform they wear or where they are born.  They all want to be loved and acknowledged and helped.  They both reject and accept their teachers on a minute-by-minute basis.   (One day this week I was told I look like Adele.  The next day, Mrs. Doubtfire.  I’m not sure I resemble either, to be honest.)  Their minds and hearts are open and I thoroughly enjoy them. 

The curriculum is different from what I’ve done before and so I am challenged in finding the right ways, the best ways, the most creative ways to present learning.  It requires a lot of energy from me and I see my days overflowing with the demands of it.  My mind and my heart are open to it and I thoroughly enjoy it.

Once again I am doing something I didn’t expect.  This whole idea of living for God and following His lead has some rather unexpected turns.

I thought at 50 I might be teaching, but never expected to come back to Milwaukee.  I thought at 50 I might own a house, but never expected I would own a house, but rent an apartment in another city.  I thought at 50 I might be writing more, but life drains me and writing sits on a shelf with all the other fun things right now.

I wrote once about autumn as a time when everything dies.  Colors are profuse, but for such a short time until the wind and rain destroy them.  I talked of the cooler air blasting the world with its chill. 

Last night I was at a bonfire with some of my new friends from work.  Much like Moscow, I am, again, somewhat of an outsider to their group.  It’s clear they have shared much of life together.  Their familiarity draws them into a tight bond.  They correct and love each other’s children.  Long standing jokes ripple through their conversation. 

The event was quite similar to those enjoyed with my Russian colleagues. I, also, was somewhat of an outsider there.  They had shared much of life together and enjoyed each other’s company.   Commonalities bound them together.

But this time I understood the language and the customs.  The same, but different. 

I wasn’t lonely on the outside looking in.  I didn’t feel left out.  I didn’t wonder what was happening around me.  It was nice, actually, to see my new colleagues through this lens and the warmth of their friendship.  I felt encompassed, surrounded, peaceful.

In the center of the clearing was a large bonfire fed by wooden pallets.  A ring of merrymakers were singing with a box drum, guitars and heavenly voices.  Beyond that circle were tag-playing children whose location could be seen only by the glow-in-the-dark bands about their neck or wrist.  Like neon lights they circled the space.  Above us, tree branch fringe laced the evening sky.

The wind was cool, but not harsh.  Leaves had begun to change, but had not fallen.  Many things have changed in Milwaukee these ten years I’ve been gone.  Especially me. 

It’s a new season, it’s true.  But I am not afraid of it.  I look forward to it with open arms and a curious mind.  What exactly will we learn here?  Who exactly will we meet?  How exactly will this chapter look at its conclusion?

This time, the writer doesn’t mind autumn. It’s nice.

No Strangers

I had a quick writer moment recently at a coffee shop.  They strike me at the oddest times: these words that grow from sentence to paragraph to story.

My colleague and I had ducked in for a quick purchase when we ran into mutual friends.  A very pleasant exchange set a friendly mood which carried over to the coffee order.  The clerk picked up on it, and our English language, and cordially joined the chatter.  In the minute it took to order, I learned he had just been promoted to Manager of the store. 

To me, the conversation was normal.  People sharing the path of life for a short moment.

To my young colleague, however, it was something new.  People divulging personal information in an odd setting.  She assumed for the clerk to tell me his news we must be familiar.

“I see they know you here, as well.”   

“No, not at all.”  I answered.

The phrase turned in my mind the rest of the day.  “I see they know you here.” 

It’s not the first time I have heard something similar, especially here in Moscow.  To me it’s natural to make a friend wherever I go.  If not a friend, at least an accomplice in hilarity or a co-conspirator in joy or, sometimes, just a fellow traveler to share the weariness of the path. 

These bridges are constructed in the simplest of forms.  A smile, a hand gesture, a soft word, a reaching across from my side of the human experience into theirs. 

I didn’t know everyone didn’t do this and I don’t know where I learned it.  I think it was my dad, actually, and my Grandma.  Yes, definitely those two.

My dad wasn’t always a nice man and not often a good man, actually.  But he had friends wherever he went.  Every financial transaction he made began as business and ended with friendship. 

I can hear his voice at the corner store.  “Can I get a pack of Big Red gum, too?” 

A tired clerk would reach for it, throw it on the counter, say the amount, wait for cash.

My dad would respond with, “Need to make sure I’m ready in case I meet a beautiful blonde.” 

The clerk (male or female) would smile in complicity.  A friend was made.

My Grandma had a different approach.  “Just bring them with you.”  She was often heard saying.   And if they would come (whoever they were), she would set out the best of the day for them.  It wasn’t always society’s best, but it was her best of whatever with a main ingredient of love. 

“Do you want some soup?  I made it today.  Oh, it’s so good!  Here let me get you some.  And here’s coffee, too.  Did you want some coffee?  Sit down.  Here.  I’m glad you’re here.  Now.  Tell me about you.”

She would sit in her corner rocking chair and listen.  Sometimes throwing out a word or a question, but always listening. 

And the people came from everywhere to talk to her.  I watched it my whole life. 

Every day it seemed someone’s cousin or uncle or co-worker would have been at the table while I was at school.  If I was out and my friends stopped by, they would leave before I got home because they hadn’t come to see me, but to see her!  Tough teen-age, knife carrying punks would stop in for coffee and soup and to talk. 

It wasn’t only for a day, sometimes also for a night.  More than once concerned parents were on the phone or at our door and I would hear Grandma say, “Come in.  Yes, he was here.  I made sure he was safe last night and I gave him a good breakfast before school, but then I don’t know where he went.” 

Then a counseling session would begin with Grandma trying to help another frustrated parent figure out how to parent a strong-willed child. 

So to me, it’s natural to make family-friends and casual-friends and clerk-friends and to not meet a stranger.  I guess it’s my super power.

My siblings are the same.  It’s most fun when we are together meeting strangers. 

One of my favorite memories is of walking in New York City with my sister.  It was autumn and the world was aglow with yellow and orange leaves.  We had spent the day roaming Manhattan and were almost finished with that chapter when we came upon street vendors selling hats, sweatshirts and trinkets.  I knew I wanted a sweat shirt for my son and she knew she wanted a hat so we kind of took over the two tables before us. 

The vendors tried to begin with their usual sales pitch, but quickly realized it wasn’t necessary.  We didn’t need to be convinced.   Banter replaced pitch and before they knew it they were giving us discounts and free items.   We left laughter and genuine memories behind as we bustled to the ferry.

Later that day we shared our news with a native New Yorker friend.

“I bought these two sweatshirts for $20.  I made such a mess of his table searching for this XXL.  Poor guy.  I was trying to fix things as I found them and he gave me a free key chain.  Can you believe it?  Wasn’t that nice?’ I said.

Tina added, “My guy was hilarious!  You should have heard me when he asked if I wanted a princess hat!  Princess?  Oh my word!  I think this hat was $15, but I think I paid $10.  I’m not even sure.  He said I got the blonde discount!  Isn’t that hilarious?” 

My New Yorker friend just shook his head.  “I don’t know what it is about you two, but that doesn’t happen in New York.  If anyone else told me that story, I wouldn’t believe them.  Prices get raised for tourists, not lowered.  But you?  I don’t doubt it at all.

It happens to me all the time.  I think it’s not me that feels familiar.  It’s the presence of God in my life.  Me, I’m so far from good enough.  But with Him working in my life, there is an extra ingredient that makes people comfortable, casual, friendly.

I’m glad for it.  It means that God is answering my prayers.

I pray for an open home and an open heart.  I pray that God will take away the caustic, jagged side of my words and attitude daily.  I pray for eyes to see the world like He does.  I pray for hands to reach with gentleness and grace.  

“May all who enter as guests leave as friends” is the motto for my home and my heart.

“I see they know You here, as well.”  It’s a compliment. 

Happy Re-Birth Day to Me!

In honor of my 27th Re-Birth Day, I am posting again the poem Stained Glass.  It's a very short, very descriptive version of the before and after of me.  Not only of me, but everyone who has ever looked at an overwhelming difficulty and wondered how they could make it through their shattered life.

But overcome, you will.  Made into a newer, better version of yourself if you allow the Master Artist His freedom.

Enjoy!

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shards of glass
broken
jagged
useless

cast down carelessly
thoughtlessly
dreams shattered
paradigms disjointed

colored by
time, circumstance
events undeserved
unsolicited
unplanned
stained, changed

and then

carefully chosen
cautiously handled
rejoined

placed in perfect order
welded together
by crimson
ribbons
dried, strengthened
new creation

story unfolding
light shining through
impacting the darkness
by a filtered Son 

Bapka's House - Open for Business!

Recently I had a Bapka kind of day.  You know, the kind of day when memories are made that will make permanent impressions.

The good kind, I think.

It was Mother's Day - first of all.  Which is a great day for memories all by itself.  Church and flowers and lots of hugs from all sorts of places.

But Bapkas aren't just for hugs and kisses in church.  We have this other layer of attention to give and receive.

When I was growing up my Grandma's house was the place to be when this or that had you under the weather.  Whether it was strep throat or mumps or a bad cold or stomach aches - Grandma could somehow make it better.  I don't know how she never seemed to get sick herself with every sick person in 100 miles arriving at her door, but she didn't.

She always had a bowl of chicken soup and ice cream ready just in case.

Even better, Grandma somehow could fix the ailments of the heart variety.  I can't tell you how many times I came in on conversations between Grandma and some heartbroken soul sorting through a difficulty. More than once the cares of the world were tossed onto Grandma's table, sorted through like buttons from the tin, properly arranged and solved.  Grandma always seemed to have the right words.

And the right amount of coffee and cake.

At the end of the counseling, the patient would leave and Grandma would pick up the tablecloth and toss out the cares with the crumbs into the wind in the back yard.

I want my house to be like that.  A place where laughter and tears are equally comfortable.  Grandma taught me we are in this world to help one another - large and small.

I'm sorry Arthur was sick on Mother's Day.  I know how much he enjoys the bustle and activity of his other Grandma's farm, but I'm so very glad for him - and me - that Bapka's house was here.  A bit of quiet, a couple of movies, some ice cream and his temps were lower, his throat not as sore and both of us with a heart full at the end of the day.

I may not always have the right words and my chicken soup might carry the Campbell's label, but I'll do my best to minister grace just like Grandma.   Bapka's house is open for business!

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Readers - I will be at a book signing event in Chippewa Falls on Saturday, May 26 from 11:00 to 3:00.  The Book Cellar - the only bookstore in Chippewa County - is hosting the event.  Please stop by and see us!  More information can be found here:  The Book Cellar.


Books can also be ordered at the webstore on our website at:  A Writer's Pages.

Thanks for being the best readers ever!
- Kris