Thank God for Hockey

Here, finally, is another chapter in my love story with Bill....

After the dubious welcome of September 11th, Bill's new life in America got off to a rather rough start. We were thrilled to be together, of course, but that didn't erase his loneliness. He'd left all of his friends, his coworkers, his hockey team, and his close-knit family behind. Here, he had... me.

He lived in a small, dark apartment about 40 miles from my house. This was what we'd planned; we wanted to avoid becoming enmeshed in each others' lives too quickly. It seemed like a good plan, but the reality was that on most days, the TV was his only company. He had a couple of friends at work, but unlike Bill, they had busy lives.

I could tell that he was depressed, though he wouldn't admit it. In Bill's mind, expressing his unhappiness equated to questioning his decision, and he hates second guessing himself. The more I asked how he was feeling, the more withdrawn he became.

I'd like to say I was a comfort to him, but the opposite was true. I was used to being treated like a princess once a month, but now I saw him every day at work, and mostly all he did was mope. My insecurities engulfed me, and we were both miserable. I continually complained about his lack of affection, questioned his love for me, and wondered aloud whether we'd made the wrong decision--which made him angry. I'd dissolve into tears, and then, pushing past his own mood, he'd pat my back helplessly. This went on for a month or so.

A Happy Coincidence?
Just as I was beginning to doubt we would make it, something wonderful happened. Maybe it was a divine appointment. Ethan and I had spent Sunday afternoon with Bill, who seemed exceptionally blue during dinner. It was hard to leave him, but I knew we had to be up early in the morning. I drove home with a heavy heart, scarcely hearing Ethan's happy chatter.

At home, I was surprised to find a message from Bill on my answering machine--it had been less than an hour since I'd talked to him. When I called back, he was positively breathless with excitement.

After I'd left, Bill walked over to the outside roller hockey rink at the recreation center. Planning to skate around a bit, he ended up joining a pick-up game instead. But that was only the good news. The great news was that these guys were forming a roller hockey team, and they wanted him to join! He couldn't believe he'd arrived just in time to catch their practice.

My own smile must have matched his own. Relief washed over me as I listened to the story; this was the old Bill, the one I fell in love with.

In no time, they were practicing a couple times a week and playing games regularly. They played in the old Big Wheel skating rink where I'd spent a few Friday nights in the 80s. Other than the plastic floor tiles that had replaced the gleaming wooden rink, the Plexiglass walls, and the metal risers, the building was just as I remembered it. I might have been caught up in memories of couple skating to Journey--okay, of longing for some boy to ask me to skate--had it not been for the smell. I've encountered that odor in only three places, and all three were roller hockey rinks. It's like... the inside of a sweaty gym sock. No matter how many games I attended, I was shocked at the stench that assaulted my nostrils, yet somehow it always dissipated during the suspense of the game.

Ethan and I attended nearly every game, and I was ALMOST Bill's biggest fan. (Ethan was more interested in running around with the other boys and sometimes throwing bottle caps onto the ice.) I remember sitting on the risers during the first game, bursting with pride when I heard some of the other spectators whispering, "That's Bill. He's from Canada! Isn't he great?"

True to stereotype, Bill really was a star. In truth, he'd only been playing a couple of years, but that was two years longer than the rest of them. Some of them could barely skate, at least at first. The goalie's mom was Bill's biggest fan, mainly because she was better at following the game than I was. She shouted Bill's name almost as often as her son Gentry's. Her favorite phrase was "That's-the-way, Bill! That's-the-way!" On the rare occasions when Bill got a penalty, she echoed my own thoughts: "No, no! Not Bill! No way." She was quite a tiny lady, but you'd never guess it when the Blazers scored a goal.

Like Pearls Before Swine
I was pretty loud myself. I leaned forward in my seat when Bill approached the goal, and when he scored, I leaped to my feet and screamed myself hoarse. I was trying to make up for my egregious lack of attention during the one disastrous game I'd watched him play up in Vancouver in 2000.

Bill At Start of Disastrous Game

On that team, Bill was probably only average, but he definitely had an above-average game that night. Knowing I was up in the stands spurred him on to one goal and a couple of assists. Fortunately, he didn't realize that I had no idea what was going on. I'd never watched hockey before, not even on TV, and I just couldn't follow the constant action; instead, I was deep in conversation with one of his teammates' girlfriends, a very personable girl named Tanya.

In the last minutes of the game, they were winning by several points, but Bill pushed for one more goal in my honor. As he rounded the back of the goal, he caught his skate on the post and wrenched his ankle. A sudden silence caught my attention, and I stopped speaking in mid sentence. "Who's that on the ice?" Tanya asked tensely.

"Someone's hurt?" I asked.

"That's Bill!" another girl said. My heart seemed to stop beating as I strained to see his limp form. I breathed a sigh of relief a moment later when two of his friends helped him up and off the ice. But his face was gray when he emerged from the locker room several minutes later.

As he limped to the car, I had to ask what had happened, and then I had to admit that I hadn't seen any of the goals. He was in too much pain to care. He said it was probably a bad sprain, but he insisted he'd be fine, and he also insisted that he could drive the two hours to the Seattle airport the next morning.

He did manage to make the drive, but I felt so bad for him--especially when we learned that he'd broken his tibia. Man, is he tough!



A Chance to Redeem Myself
Thanks in part to his teammates' slow skating, I did learn to follow hockey fairly well after Bill moved to Texas. I watched the Blazers claw their way to the top, winning the league championship in just their second season. I watched them transition to ice hockey, which was much more difficult, and I watched them move from the top of the I-league to the bottom of the D-league. Over the years, old players left and new ones took their place, and the name changed a couple of times, but Bill was always at the heart of the team.

Bill (Right) With Best Friends Troy and Ben--Circa 2007

Now, unfortunately, I don't get to watch much at all. Most of the games are very late, way too late for Allyson. But every now and then they have an early game, and Allyson gets to cheer for her daddy. SHE'S now his biggest fan. "Go-Daddy-go-Daddy-go!" she hollers. When he scores--and also when he doesn't--she shouts, "That's my daddy! Number 2-2!" Nothing makes her happier than when he skates up to the glass and gives her a wave.

They're already making plans for her future hockey career. She's even picked her jersey number: 8. Somehow we'll have to squeeze in those practices and games with her ballet lessons and recitals, not to mention the soccer. (She desperately wants to do all these things.) I wonder which sport she'll actually choose?

I guess hockey will be part of our life for a long, long time, and that's fine with me. If it weren't for hockey, Bill just might have gone back to Canada. I guess I'll never know, but either way, I love to see his passion for the game. Thank God for hockey!

A Dubious Welcome

After the long drive from Canada, Bill settled into his new life in Texas very quickly. We arrived on Wednesday 9/5/01, and he moved into his small, rather old apartment on Friday 9/7/01.


He'd brought down a rickety futon bed, a worn sleeper couch, and the big, hideous blue chair and ottoman that he absolutely loved. I think all of that familiar, shabby furniture made him feel a bit more at home. I had a feeling that that blue chair could cause some contention should we get hitched, but I figured I'd worry about that another day.

Bill, Ethan, and the Ugly Blue Chair

As it turned out, the blue ottoman proved useful; the apartment had no dining room and no room for a table, so Bill used the large ottoman as a makeshift table.

A Warm Welcome
That weekend, we drove to my parents' house in the country for a joyous welcome party. I still remember the irresistible taste of that big decorated cookie.

My Niece Savannah, Sister Emily, Me, Bill, Ethan

When Bill started work that Monday, we were pleasantly surprised to find that his new coworkers had decorated his cubicle with a Canadian flag.

You can't see it in the picture, but the monitor was adorned with a bar code sticker that read, "Mr. Wonderful." My coworker Al had given him this nickname after listening to me rave for months about how incredibly awesome Bill was. (A couple of years later, everyone realized I'd been telling the truth when Bill received the Summit Award, the highest honor a support associate in our region could receive. After our client support director had finished extolling Bill's virtues, Bill squirming and blushing all the while, I couldn't resist exclaiming in my most breathless voice, "He really IS Mr. Wonderful!" You can imagine how thrilled Bill was about that.)

Tragedy Strikes
It was good that we had a few days to revel in our new life together, but it didn't last long. I was driving to pick up Bill for work on Tuesday morning, just ten days after Bill had crossed the border, when I heard the most devastating news. At 7:45 our time, a hijacked American Airlines plane had crashed into the World Trade Center in New York. "What a bizarre accident!" I thought when I first heard the story. It never occurred to me that it could have been deliberate.

Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting on Bill's couch watching live footage of the wreckage when a second plane hit the other tower. We sat in disbelief, too stunned to speak as we watched the first tower collapse in a billowing cloud of dust, killing the first wave of rescue workers.

We had no idea of the protocol at work regarding a terrorist attack; should we stay home? Should we try to reach a supervisor? After a half hour or so, we went ahead and drove to the office, ten minutes away.

After an hour on the phones, which were mostly dead since the entire country was watching television, we were sent home due to our proximity to the airport. By this time, two other planes had been hijacked, and we had no idea what might happen next.

In Shock
We picked up Ethan and took him to the park next to Bill's apartment complex. It was a beautiful day, and I wanted to enjoy the sun on my back while I watched Ethan play, but I felt guilty to be enjoying myself under such circumstances. I almost felt guilty to be alive.

A few minutes later, we walked back to the apartment. Bill and I lay on our sides on the futon, my back nestled against his chest. Ethan played on the floor, and I stared at the wall and tried to keep my mind blank.

I shuddered when I realized how close we'd come to a much longer separation; the borders were now sealed. I was so thankful that Bill was with me, yet his strong arms surrounding me did not make me feel safe.

"Are you sorry you came?" I asked. "This sure isn't a warm welcome to America."

"No," he murmured into my hair. "I'm glad I'm with you."

I felt the same way. It felt like the end of the world, but if it was, being in Bill's arms was where I belonged.

Unexpected Hope
It's hard to express the despair of those first days. As my dad put it, our generation had been leading a charmed life. I think many of us believed that bad things like war and terrorism happened only in other countries. Now we had no such illusion.

Still, an ironic and beautiful thing happened. The tragedy brought us together as a nation and made us stronger. Here's how I explained it in an email to my Girl Scout friends:

"Sometimes I feel angry, but most times I just feel stunned and literally sick to my stomach to think of such violence and evil in the world....

What's bothering me most is what to do about Ethan..... I told Mom last night that this is the most terrible time to be a mother. I've never been a mom before, and now I'm faced with something like this! I want to run away and hide. I want to run to my own mother. But I have to be there for Ethan and try to put this in perspective for him. He's only four, but he too was affected. He has been fascinated with the violent image of the plane crashing into the building and exploding into a fireball. He keeps re-enacting it with his toy plane and saying 'Boom!' I thought he didn't really understand the sorrow of it until a couple days later when, out of the blue, he said, 'Mom, did the building go to heaven?' I told him no, buildings don't go to heaven, only people. He insisted that the building is in heaven, but not the airplane. So I said, 'Maybe you're right.' I didn't know what else to say. How do you explain such a thing to a four year old?

"At other times I feel proud and patriotic and full of love for all my fellow Americans. This is a new thing for me. I guess before I was a little patriotic on the 4th, but I never got tears in my eyes from hearing the anthem played, like my dad always did. The other day I was listening to a special version of the national anthem, where they put in audio clips about the disaster, and I started sobbing so hard I could barely see the road. But it wasn't grief; it was pride! I'd never felt that proud of our country. It's ironic and beautiful that the evil people who planned this and carried it out did not succeed in destroying our spirit. Instead, they made us stronger!"

Eight Years Later
It's a different world than it was before that September 11th. I no longer think about terrorism on a daily basis, but neither do I take our safety and our way of life for granted. I'm reminded of it every time I go through security at the airport, and every time I hear about a terrorist attack anywhere in the world.

For me, though, the sorrow of September 11th will forever be linked to the joy of beginning of my life with Bill.

Driving into the Future

Here is the next chapter of my love story with Bill...

Excerpt From My Journal, Saturday 9/1/01
It seems fitting to start this new journal today. [I had actually left the last four pages of my prior journal blank, which bugged me a bit.] Today is the start of a very different phase of my life, and I don't know where it will lead me.

Right now I'm flying to Seattle, where Bill will meet me in a U-Haul truck. Over the next four days or so, we'll be driving back to Texas.

We've both waited so long for this day, and now it has arrived! The last week was difficult for us both. We experienced many conflicting emotions, all very strong. The hardest one for me was fear--fear that the step we're taking will lead to heartbreak....

Now I'm back to joyous anticipation. I realize that I can't know what will happen between us, but I have to find out. I feel like I'm turning a corner in my life, and it's exciting to see what will develop. I know I love Bill, and now I will get to know him better. I have the next four days to get started on that.

Happy For Him
It had been a most hectic week. Bill was trying to sell his new Blazer, which he was not allowed to take over the border because it was a lease vehicle. He also had to open an American bank account and transfer his money, and he took a beating due to the exchange rate at that time (about $1.00 American per $1.55 Canadian). On top of that, he had to say goodbye to all his friends and family.

Uncle Jack and Bill at Farewell Party

Bill with Brother, Trevor

Bill with Sister, Lisa

Meanwhile, I was locating an apartment, getting utilities turned on, and securing a Social Security card for him. And at night I was crying and feeling guilty for tearing him away from his family. A night or two before the big move, I called his sister Lisa and sobbed about how awful I felt. She said, "Don't cry for him. We're not. We're all very happy for him." She said he was happier than he'd been in years, and that was all that mattered.

One detail that seemed to go smoothly was the fact that I obtained a one-way ticket to Seattle for only $179--the lowest fare yet. What I didn't realize until the night before was that I'd accidentally booked the 11:00 P.M. flight instead of the morning one! I showed up at the airport early the next morning anyway. At the last possible moment, they called my name from the standby list. I got the very last seat in the middle of the back row, right in front of the bathroom, and I had to eat a kosher meal, but I didn't care. I was on!

The Long Drive
After all the trouble I had getting up there, I half feared that Bill would not be waiting at the other end, but he was there with the little truck, and we started our journey around 1:00 in the afternoon.

The truck was quite old and rickety, and we were afraid to tax it by running the air conditioning, so it was a little hot. Also, all it had was an AM radio, so Bill had pulled out the radio and set a different stereo loosely inside the empty space.

The scenery on the first three days was breathtaking. From Washington, we drove through Oregon, Idaho, Utah, and Colorado. Drinking in the sight of the mountains and lush greenery, I felt closer to God as I enjoyed his handiwork. My very favorite experience was driving through the Wasatch Mountains in Utah.


The truck, loaded down with all of Bill's worldly possessions, was not enjoying those mountains. It literally puffed and chugged up the long stretches; several times we were chanting, "I-think-I-can, I-think-I-can." Each time we'd stop for gas, Bill would add water to the radiator while I scrubbed hundreds of bugs off the windshield.






By the fourth day, in Kansas, it was terribly hot. At this point the terrain was flat and unchanging, all grain fields and sunflowers. Bill decided to try the air conditioning now that we were no longer worried about making it up the next hill. Unfortunately, it just exhaled a gentle stream of warm air. The back of my legs were sticking to the vinyl seats, and sweat was trickling down between my breasts and dripping from my underarms.

I knew that whining would ruin the camaraderie we'd been enjoying, so I tried not to complain. Once we hit Oklahoma, though, I couldn't take it any longer. "Let's stop at a Walmart and see if we can find a battery operated fan," I suggested.

In typical man fashion, Bill argued that we would lose too much time, but I brought out the big guns and started up an endless barrage of whining and griping.

"Enough, Already!"

About 20 minutes later, we were power walking through the aisles of the first Walmart we spotted. We found two roll-up sunshades with suction cups--one gray one and one Winnie The Pooh one. We also bought two tiny fans attached to spray bottles that we filled at the water fountain.

We positioned the two sunshades wherever the sun was beating down the most, often on the windshield (not on the driver's side). This made me more than a little nervous, but I was desperate for some relief. I kept both of us misted with the fan sprayers, and we were almost comfortable.

For four straight days, we never once argued, though Bill probably wanted to throw me out the door when I had my whining fit. We talked for hours--or rather, I probably talked for hours while Bill listened. When we weren't talking, we rode in companionable silence. It gave me a very good feeling to know we could spend eight to ten hours a day together in such close quarters and not kill each other. I figured it was a good preview for marriage, should that be in our future.

Texas!
On the fifth day, we crossed into Texas. It was raining cats and dogs, and we weren't talking at all. Bill was concentrating on the road, and I was silently wishing we'd get there already.

Welcome to Texas!

When we were about 45 minutes out, we hit the worst traffic jam I've ever encountered, before or since. The entire highway was shut down in both directions. We sat in the steamy cab for 30 minutes or so, unable to roll down the windows because of the rain, and I simply couldn't refrain from whining.

"Come ON!" I kept yelling. "How long are we gonna sit here?"

Bill seemed to be waiting patiently, which drove me crazy. "There's nothing we can do about it," he pointed out. I knew he was right, and that annoyed me even more.

"It's just that we've been driving for five days," I said plaintively. "I want to get home!"

At last, we started inching forward, and finally we saw the cause of the delay. In the center median, an 18-wheeler lay on its side. Underneath it we could make out a little pickup, about the size of ours, and it was completely flattened. I started sobbing immediately, and I felt so awful for my impatience. Here I'd been whining about five days on the road, and there was a man or woman who was NEVER going to make it home.

It seemed like a bad omen, and I felt very unsettled. Little did I know that an even worse omen was soon to come.

Home at Last
In the early afternoon, we finally pulled up to my house, where Ethan was waiting with my mom. He was ecstatic to see us both, and we all covered each other's faces in kisses.

We went inside without unloading the trailer, and then we ate a fast-food dinner. This was how our wildly romantic long-distance relationship ended, and our everyday ordinary life began.

Overflowing With Hope

Do you have a particular life lesson that God teaches you over and over again? For me, that lesson is definitely patience, and the method He uses is so simple and so agonizing: waiting. It seems I am ALWAYS waiting for something--waiting for a job, waiting for marriage, waiting for a baby. No matter how well I learn the lesson on one occasion, I have to learn it all over again the next time. Today I want to share one story about how I grew through waiting. It's also the next chapter in my love story with Bill; I've been wanting to continue that story for a long time now.

Back in May of 2001, Bill applied for an L-1 Visa through our company. In four to six weeks, we thought, he would transfer from the Vancouver office to my office in Texas. At last, our year of long-distance dating would be over, and we'd live happily ever after!

These pictures were taken on one of my visits to Vancouver, right around the time Bill completed the mountain of paperwork and sent it in.



Having the end in sight made our separation so much easier to bear. Though I tend to be impatient, I can usually tolerate or even enjoy the anticipation as long as I know how long the wait will be. I set my mind on six weeks and joyfully started the countdown.

As you might have guessed, it didn't work out the way I expected....

Excerpts From My Journal
-5/28/01
I miss Bill a lot today. I just wish he were here for good. I'm tired of counting down the weeks.

-6/1/01
From the mountain to the valley.... Good thing my faith doesn't depend on my emotional state, or I'd be faithless today.... I felt sad and let down, and tears started rolling down my cheeks. I knew I was being ridiculous, but I couldn't help it.... I comforted myself with chocolate, and later Bill's sensitive, compassionate emails were a big comfort. He said he wished he were here to "kiss away my tears." That gave me a few happy tears. I love him so very much. It's hard to be patient for his transfer to come through.

-6/26/01
I'm feeling very impatient about the Visa. It's been six weeks and one day, and they said four to six weeks. I still keep thinking that he won't really transfer, that something will go wrong. I can't truly imagine him living down here, or us being married. I want it, but it feels like just a fantasy. I think God is teaching me patience through this experience. Maybe I'm not really ready for Bill to move, and God knows that.

-7/2/01
I was hoping to hear about Bill's Visa today, but there was no word. Lord, help me be patient. It's not just that I am anxious for Bill to come, but that a part of me fears he'll never come, that the Visa will be denied. I try not to think that way, but it's been seven weeks!... I have prayed so often for your will in Bill's transfer, and for your timing. Yet I cannot seem to let it go and leave it in your hands. Forgive me, Lord. Help me to trust you.

-7/13/01
Bill was saying that it isn't hard for him to wait on the Visa because he's happy with his life the way it is. He said he was anxious to move down, but he is happy there, too. I asked him if he was SURE he wanted to move down here; if he's happy with his life up there, why would he want to change it? I think he was aggravated by that question. He said OF COURSE he's sure. I told him that I was sure, too, but that I also get nervous about the future, that change scares me. Maybe he thought that meant I was getting cold feet....

I hung up with tears in my eyes. So now I'm just waiting, like the story of my life. Always waiting and waiting. I just want to go home and curl up in a ball and cry myself to sleep....

Lord, help me to rest in you. I can't resolve any of these feelings or these fears, but you can. Please work this out according to your will. If I am not meant to be with Bill, let me find this out soon, but give me the strength to bear it. And if we are meant to be together, give me assurance. Help me to have peace.

Surrender
When the waiting become too difficult to bear, at last I threw up my hands and stopped asking God for what I wanted. Instead, I asked for what he wanted for my life. Though I'd said that many times before, this time I really meant it. I was just too exhausted to keep struggling.

A few days after that turning point, on July 30th, to be exact, God gave me three scriptures:

• Proverbs 3:5-6: Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight.
  
  
• Isaiah 26:3-4: You will keep in perfect peace him whose mind is steadfast because he trusts in you. Trust in the Lord forever, for the Lord, the Lord, is the Rock eternal.
  
  
• Romans 15:13: May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.
  

I knew that I had been leaning on my own understanding and that I COULDN'T understand why there was such a delay. These verses reminded me that God could be trusted and that he had a good reason for making us wait. I knew that the answer would come at the right time.

Suddenly, instead of being imprisoned by anxiety and worry and impatience, my heart was overflowing with hope, joy, and peace. I don't think I ever would have come to that place without the months of waiting.

The Explanation
The very next day, we got word as to the status of the work Visa! It wasn't the news I was hoping for, but it was a progress report. His Visa was supposed to have been filed in May, but it actually hadn't been submitted until June, and the INS hadn't registered it in their system until July 11. There had been a two-month delay from when we started the process, and now the INS was estimating 30-90 days from the date of filing.

That meant we could hear from them in as little as a week, or as long as nine more weeks. Based on the way things had gone up to that point, I was inclined to expect the latter.

Amazingly, I was not discouraged by the news, but continued to revel in my newfound peace.
The Answer!
Just two days later, on 8/3/01, I was called into the director's office at work, where I listened to a voicemail from the corporate attorney who had submitted Bill's paperwork: William's L-1 Visa had been approved!

I was so happy that I cried, much to Steve's chagrin. "This is good news, right?" he asked.

"Wonderful news!" I choked out.

The next day, we sprang into action, making all the arrangements. But that's another story.

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

I thought I'd share a story about my days as a single mom. Although this was most definitely NOT a funny story at the time, for some reason people just laugh uproariously whenever they hear this story. I think this happened in July of 2001, shortly before Bill moved down from Canada.

I was surprised to learn that the hardest part about being single was mowing my own yard. I had literally never even touched a lawn mower until age 30, when I was forced to learn how to operate our crappy mower. My dad came over on a Saturday and taught me how to start it (with a minimum of three very vigorous pulls), how to push it in straight rows, and how to unclog the blades each time the motor died--about every three minutes when the weeds got too long.

The first time I mowed, it took me a couple of hours. The blisters were so deep that they actually bled. I was covered in a layer of dirt that clung to my sweaty body and made muddy rivers in the tub when I showered. Worst of all, the weedeater flung giant grasshoppers against my legs! When that happened , I let out a girly scream and then felt the tears trickling from the corners of my eyes as I contemplated the months and months of mowing that I could look forward to.

When I told Bill the sorry story that evening, he laughed heartily, and I had to laugh, too, in spite of myself.

Now, I will admit that I was exceptionally wimpy and whiny about it, but you have to understand that my lot was not your average yard. A year or two before, my ex-husband and his best friend had rented a backhoe and dug up most of the topsoil in the front yard. The plan was to bring in better dirt and lay some sod, but we ended up moving out to the country to run our convenience store, and the job never got finished. So the front yard was mainly dust and rocks and some very hardy weeds. The mower would throw out choking clouds of dust and hurl the occasional rock. Oh, and there were also several mounds of ferocious fire ants who were particularly vicious when I ran them over with the lawnmower. I always meant to watch for them, but I usually forgot because I was so preoccupied with feeling sorry for myself.

The section in the backyard between the house and the fence was even worse. This was the destination of the topsoil that had been removed from the front yard. There were three large mounds, about three feet tall, and they were covered in weeds that were often waist-high. It was impossible to push the lawn mower back there, so the only way to cut the weeds was with the weedeater, which I despised. Whenever I went back there, I cowered in fear waiting for snakes to strike at my ankles.

I mowed every Wednesday evening and every Saturday morning, and I never stopped dreading it. I'd get up at 7:00 on Saturday to beat the heat, but it was still around 90 degrees most days.

After a few months, a Good Samaritan suddenly began mowing my yard. I was overjoyed to come home from work one Friday and find it all mowed, even the jungle mounds. It took me awhile to discover the identity of my mysterious benefactor.

I stayed home sick one day and woke to the sound of a lawnmower in my backyard. I hurried downstairs and found my neighbor, Sam. I thanked him profusely, but he just smiled shyly and said it was no trouble. He and his wife Freida had been doing all sorts of little things to look after me and three-year-old Ethan ever since the divorce. This was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for me, and it brought tears to my eyes. I vowed to pay him back somehow if I could think of a way.

Sam's house, my house (after Bill restored the grass)

Sam and his teenage boys continued to mow my yard for several weeks, and I reveled in my Saturday morning sleeps and my soft, smooth hands. But one Saturday morning in July, I took a look at my yard and decided I was going to have to drag out the lawnmower again; maybe Sam had been sick or on vacation.

As I dutifully mowed the weeds and dandelions in the front yard, I noted that Sam's usually meticulously groomed grass was shockingly long. He must not have had time for his own grass either. A little thought began to grow in my mind and take root: I needed to return the favor and mow Sam's front yard.

I carried on a mental argument with myself.

"But I'm so hot and tired!"

"It would only take another 20 minutes, and I'm already sweaty and dirty."

"I just want to take a shower and relax on the couch!"

"It's the least I could do. Think of all the times Sam and his boys have mowed for me."

"Oh, but I don't want to!"

"What would Jesus do?"

"Oh, all right! I'll do it." It was as if I'd heard the Voice of God, and there was no arguing.

I pushed the mower next door and started on the long, lush grass--which was maybe 3/4 of a foot high. In no time, I started to feel really good about what I was doing. But then the thick grass overwhelmed the mower, and it stalled. I pulled gobs of damp grass out and flung it aside, and then I laboriously started the mower again. I repeated this ritual every few feet, and I alternated between feeling sorry for myself and feeling very righteous.

As I completed my first row, just to the sidewalk, I surveyed my work and realized something wasn't right. Instead of a nice, smooth path, the mower had left a dry, brown trail. Sam had Bermuda grass, which was obviously quite different from the St. Augustine I'd grown up with (and the weeds that populated my current lawn). Was this normal, I wondered? Maybe it would just look like that until he watered it again, I decided.

In any case, there was such a stark contrast between the mowed and the unmowed sections that I felt I had no choice but to continue. So I plowed on, mowing a few feet, unclogging the blades, and restarting the motor.

I'd made it halfway up one side of the lawn when the front door opened. Sam's eyes were first perplexed, then angry. "What are you DOING??" he spluttered as soon as he had command of his voice.

"I'm mowing your yard," I said meekly. "It was getting really long, and I wanted to help you since you've been mowing my yard so often."

"But you've ruined it!" he cried. "Just... just, put the mower away. You've done enough!"

"But I have to clean up the mess," I murmured, eyeing the tufts of grass that littered the sidewalk.

"Just go!" Sam said gruffly.

I actually felt scared. Sam and Freida both worked as night guards at the county jail, and up until Sam had started mowing my yard, I'd been a little intimidated at the sight of him in his uniform. (Freida was never scary with her short stature and her ready smile.) At this moment, Sam was pretty terrifying.

I turned around wordlessly, my shoulders hunched, and pushed the mower back to my garage, sobs catching in my throat. I didn't even bother to shower before I collapsed on the couch and wept. The injustice of it! I'd wanted to return a favor, and instead I'd destroyed Sam's lovingly cultivated lawn.

After a few minutes, I resolutely grabbed a broom and headed back over to sweep up the mess, which was untouched. I sobbed as I worked, but I was determined to at least clean up the shorn grass.

Freida opened the door and said, "Please, honey, just leave it. Sam didn't mean any harm. He was just surprised. Now go on home."

"No," I said. "I m-made the m-mess, and I'm gonna c-clean it up."

She went back inside and I finished sweeping. Freida's kindness was even more upsetting than Sam's anger, and I just couldn't stop crying. I curled up on the couch in the fetal position and sobbed for at least 30 minutes. Little Ethan kept patting my head and asking, "What's wrong, Mommy?"

"I'm okay," I said. "I just need to cry for awhile."

Eventually I took a shower and got myself dressed for an afternoon wedding, for the nephew of my dear friend Angela. At the reception, she immediately noticed my puffy eyes and asked what was wrong. As I sadly recounted the story to her and her husband, they couldn't help laughing. I laughed, too, through my tears.

I asked, "But what happened? Why did the grass look like that?"

"You scalped his grass," Peter explained. "You can't cut Bermuda that short. You needed to raise the blades on your mower."

"You can do that?" I asked. He laughed again. "Will it come back?" I asked hopefully.

"Probably not, I'm afraid."

Peter was right. That grass was dead for the rest of the year. It was only about a quarter or a third of the lawn, but it seemed to defeat Sam's spirit. The rest of the grass soon became unkempt, and the weeds in my yard started to encroach on his yard. Every time I looked at that yard, I was pierced with regret.

I made a decorated cookie that said, "I'm sorry!" and I brought Ethan along to help me deliver it. (No one could resist my sweet little son.) Freida exclaimed at my kindness, but Sam didn't say much.

I suppose he must have forgiven me eventually. To his credit, he continued to mow my grass until Bill moved down and took over that duty. But his grass NEVER came back.

I've driven through the neighborhood several times in the five years since we moved, and the grass is still weedy and thin. I wonder if Sam still thinks about that day, and if he ever learned to laugh about it--or if he still laments, as I do, that no good deed goes unpunished.

He's the One

When did you realize you wanted to spend the rest of your life with your spouse? Was it a dramatic moment, or a gradual realization? Was it incredibly romantic?

The moment I knew I wanted to be with Bill for ever was definitely not romantic in the usual sense. It was on Easter Sunday of 2001, and Bill was visiting from Canada. We had just enjoyed lunch at a wonderful, hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant, where we ate with my sister Emily and her daughters Hillary and Savannah. I noticed that Ethan, who was nearly four, didn't eat much; I just figured he was being picky as usual.

We were on the way back to the airport when Ethan started to complain that his tummy felt funny. "You'll be okay, little guy," Bill said while I concentrated on navigating the tight circles in the parking garage.

As we were walking to the check-in counter, Ethan suddenly emptied his stomach all over the carpet and my arm. I froze, holding my dripping arm out in front of me. Bill sprang into action. He scooped up Ethan and carried him to the restroom, where he washed him up and dressed him in a clean white T-shirt from his suitcase.

He then looked after my sobbing boy while I pulled the car around. He gave Ethan a big hug and a kiss(!) and then settled him gently into the backseat. I couldn't believe his kindness.

At that moment, I just knew that we had to be together forever. "God, I love this man!" I thought.

Since then, he's surprised me over and over with his gentle manner and unfailing thoughtfulness. I'm thankful to have the opportunity to learn from the parenting skills that come so naturally to him.

Actually, It's a Dinosaur Impression

This is not a new post. I had removed this story from my site a few weeks ago. (For an explanation, see A Painful Lesson.) The other night, Ethan was looking at my blog and said, "Hey! Where's my dinosaur story?" So I decided it's about time for me to revise it and put it back up....

Here is one of my favorite Ethan stories. I searched all my journals and Ethan’s, too, but I apparently forgot to write this one down. So I’ll have to tell it from memory. It happened around the spring of 2001, when he was four…

One evening after work, I had to rush to pick up Ethan so that I could make it to Haverty’s to buy some bedroom furniture before it went off sale. When I got to the daycare center, I was horrified to find him in his emergency clothes because he’d had an accident during naptime. It had been so long since he’d had an accident that the emergency clothes were a year old. He wore skin-tight, very high-water green sweat pants and an orange T-shirt, and he smelled like pee. I had no choice but to take him to Haverty’s like that because my house was too far out of the way.

When I arrived, I decided to carry Ethan on my hip; maybe he would be less conspicuous that way. But I had to wait for several minutes for the salesperson, and Ethan was getting heavier and heavier, and more squirmy. When the pain in my arm became unbearable, I finally let him down.

Much to my dismay, he immediately launched into his dinosaur impression. He had developed a fascination with velociraptors after watching Jurassic Park. Now, I realize that Jurassic Park is pretty violent for preschoolers (and their 30-something mothers), but after he’d watched it 38 times at his dad’s house, I finally relented and let him watch it at my house, also. He’d been perfecting his performance for weeks, and it was actually amazingly accurate. But the last thing I wanted, given his tacky clothes and unpleasant odor, was for him to draw attention to himself.

He crouched low as he walked, his elbows bent so that his hands were claws against his chest. His head jutted forward like a strutting chicken, and he jerked it from side to side periodically when he spotted his prey. His stalking was punctuated by guttural growls, and flecks of spittle flew as he darted around the formal living room furniture.

“Very good, Ethan. That’s enough now,” I hissed as I chased him. But he was in character now, and there was no stopping him. Just then, the salesman came back, accompanied by a middle-aged woman.

“Oh, how cute,” the lady said. I thought about explaining about why he was wearing his emergency clothes, but I thought that would be weird.

“He’s a dinosaur,” I mumbled. They responded with blank stares. “He’s doing a dinosaur impression…. You know, like the velociraptors from Jurassic Park? He’s really quite good,” I explained, averting my red face.

“Uh huh,” replied the salesman.

“Cute,” repeated the lady.

I scooped up my dinosaur and signed for my furniture. Then I called Bill and told him all about it. I laughed until I cried, and I still laugh like that when I tell this story.

Ethan can still do a pretty mean dinosaur impression, by the way. The pictures below were taken at Allyson’s birthday party, when Ethan was 11.