In the Autumn

Alzheimers seemed to be winning the game on this outing. Evelyn sat silently as her favorite CD of  Romantic Tunes from the 50s played in the background. When I turned to ask what she thought of the beautiful autumn leaves, she smiled, but she remained mute.

She had greeted me joyfully. Both she and Comer had looked as well dressed and eager as ever to go on our fast food foray through Charlotte.
"What shall we eat?"  I asked.
"Doesn't matter," said Comer, "Where would she like to go?"
He pointed to Asherel.
"Her favorite is ChickfilA," I said, knowing that Asherel would be too polite to insist on a place, but meanwhile she had been wildly gesticulating to me with a desperate face when the possibility of McDonalds was being bandied about.
"Then ChickfilA it is!" declared Comer. Asherel's face flooded with relief.
"Have any visitors lately?" I asked.
"No," he said, "Well, my son in law brought me to the dentist. Had a cavity filled."
"Oh, that sounds fun."

As we headed out the door to my car, the residents were singing an old hymn.
Evelyn suddenly perked up and sang a line. I joined in and we walked out of the Nursing Home singing about Jesus.
"I think the leaves may be close to their peak color," I said as we drove.
I had researched a ritzy neighborhood we had surprisingly not yet driven through on our year of weekly drives. It was heavily wooded, with lovely mansions tucked among the beautiful orange, red, and yellow leaves. It was the perfect choice for an autumn drive.

Red Sails in the Sunset came on the CD. Normally, Evelyn belts that one out, but she remained silent.
The only thing she had said thus far was when we pulled into the drive-in and Comer said he didn't want french fries.
"Would you like french fries, Evelyn?" I asked.
Comer was shaking his head, but Evelyn had quickly said, "Yes, I want french fries!"
I noticed she wasn't eating them, however.

Comer told me about a bird dog he had once owned.
"It was a great dog," he said, "But I couldn't for the life of me teach it to hunt. Back then, dogs were all trained to be watch dogs. If you walked out in the country, you were certain to be attacked by a guard dog. I would beat them off with a stick. The owners would sit right there and not say a word. They expected you to beat their dog."
"Times have changed," I said, cringing at the image.
Suddenly, we both startled to hear Evelyn's clear voice rising among the lingering scent of chicken sandwiches and fries. She sang, smiling at me as I glanced back. I didn't know the words, though I recognized the song.
"Remember," sang Evelyn.

As we returned to the home, I helped Evelyn unbuckle her seat belt, and slowly lower her feet to the pavement. She stood stiffly and I asked if she had enjoyed the autumn leaves. I held her elbow, waiting for the old joints in her hips to straighten and her tottering balance to settle to equilibrium.
"Enjoyed the leaves," she echoed.
On her seat, was the full container of french fries. It appeared she hadn't eaten any.
"Here," I said, cupping her hand around them,"You can have these for a snack."
She and Comer walked arm in arm up the walkway and through the front door.
I returned to the car, thinking how beautiful the leaves were and how soon the wind and rain would snap their clasp on the twigs, leaving the limbs empty.

Genesis 40:14

¹⁴ But when all goes well with you, remember me and show me kindness

Fruit of the Harvest

I wandered the aisles of the vegetable section of the store. Harvest time has such a wonderful offering of fresh  fruits and vegetables- apples freshly picked from local orchards, cauliflower wrapped in their huge stiff leaves, peppers, onions, corn, coconuts...
Coconuts? Are coconuts a fall harvest fruit?
I picked up the coconut. Asherel had always wanted a coconut. She had been intrigued with coconuts even before seeing the Monty Python skit where two coconut halves are used to make the sound of horse hooves while the actor cantered around the room.  I turned the coconut over and pounded its hard shell. I had no idea how to open or use the coconut insides, but I put the coconut in my basket.

Later, Asherel passed by the coconut on the kitchen counter.
"You bought a coconut!" she cried in delight, "Why!?"
"Because I knew you wanted one and I love you. What will we make with the coconut?"
"I don't know," she said, "Can I cut it open?"
"Do you know how?"
"No."
"Well research it first."
Shortly after that she sent me a link. It listed the tools needed to open a coconut: pick, hacksaw, carving tools or sharp flexible knife.
I have always pictured coconuts as the  food of simple, indigenous people who wear skirts of grass and build huts of palm fronds. Somehow, I can't picture them with a hacksaw, as they prepare their Pina Colada.

Nonetheless, as soon as she finished school, she gathered the coconut demolition tools. First, she pierced the coconut soft spot with the pick, and drained the coconut water. Friends had advised me to drink that, but the pick had been a little dirty and a bunch of brown specks floated in the water. We dumped it. Some experts advise whacking the coconut with the back of a meat cleaver. It will split roughly in half. But Asherel wanted a clean cut for her horse imitation instrument, so she opted for the hacksaw.  Let me be the first to warn you, hacksawing a coconut in half is not as easy as you would think, which is why you don't see the indigenous grass skirted people using it. A half hour later, she had two clean halves of a very beautiful milky white centered coconut.
"Save the coconut meat," I said, "I will make something with it."
"What will you make?"
"I have no idea. I have never even seen the inside of a fresh coconut."
So next, she followed the instructions to pull the coconut meat away from the shell. At first, she had to laboriously shave away pieces, but then she reached the inside of the hard shell, pulled away a small section, and the other chunks were cleanly wedged away from the shell.

We both practiced cantering around the house, clapping the coconut halves together in the rhythm of a galloping horse. I have no rhythm, so wasn't very good, but Asherel made a creditable canter sound. I put the white insides in a bowl, and stuck them in the refrigerator. More research will be needed before I know what to do with it.

That night, I dreamt that Matt and his new wife Karissa, Asherel and I were all eating dinner at the top of a lighthouse that was perched in the ocean. The sea was violent, and the waves kept swirling higher, and then there was an explosion. The top of the lighthouse was blown into pieces and I clutched Asherel's hand as the four of us were catapulted into the raging water. I knew that we were all going to die. And then, all four of our heads popped back up above the water, and clinging to each other, we then swam safely and unharmed to shore.

I had bought the coconut remembering Asherel's younger days, and younger passions. I had also been thinking of my son Matt when he was young and how important his youthful desires seemed to him then, but all had morphed into adult dreams and goals. Long ago, my little boy Anders and I would dig "goo holes" in the sand, and believe perhaps if we dug far enough, we could reach China.  I had tried to satisfy their whims, to make their childhood magical when I could.

As I looked at the coconut, a sob had caught in my throat, thinking how fun it had all been. I miss my little children, I thought. They are all grown or nearly so. It is no longer as easy to satisfy the desires of their heart, or protect them from the disappointments or explosions of dreams.  All I can really do now is be near when I am able, and pray when I am not.

When Jesus was preparing to leave this earth, the Disciples felt abandoned. How would they make it without their leader? But He promised them, "I will never leave you nor forsake you." But He did leave their physical presence. None of us can still touch His hand, or feel His arms around us, protecting us from overwhelming waves or crumbling dreams. Still, He is there. He has not forsaken us. He is not beside us any longer, but inextricably within. Maybe, in a similar way, all those moments of joy with my little children were also being deeply imbedded in their soul, an indwelling reservoir that might buoy them to the surface when trials crashed over their head.

When the hard shell of the coconut split open, the fibrous, brown outside was starkly contrasted by the milky white of the inside. Asherel tasted a small piece of the fresh coconut.
"Mmmm, it's good," she said smiling.
Yes, I thought, what is hidden in the heart can be good, very good.

Exekial 11:
I will give them an undivided heart and put a new spirit in them; I will remove from them their heart of stone and give them a heart of flesh. ²⁰ Then they will follow my decrees and be careful to keep my laws. They will be my people, and I will be their God.

Will he remember?

It is good my Matthias is getting married today. I don't think my body could take another night of little sleep. Once he is safely betrothed with all catastrophes dealt with and behind us, he will be off to his honeymoon in Cancun, and I will be off to a long nap.

This morning, I was dreaming for the brief 5 minutes that I think I actually slept and I was remembering the wedding in my dream. Then my mother asked me how did the son and daughter dance go, and with horror I asked, "Was there a reception?"
She looked at me strangely, and my terror escalated as I cried, "There was a reception...there must been. I don't remember it, Mom! I don't remember it at all! I don't remember dancing with my son!"
And I awoke, crying.

In a way, that is what life is like for me. I watched my two grown handsome boys and my nearly grown daughter at the rehearsal last night. One tall curly haired one, the groom, the other tall curly haired man a groomsman, and the lovely curly haired daughter a bridesmaid. When did all that growing up happen? Where was I? I don't seem to be much a part of it anymore. Was I ever? Did I make an impact? Did I make a difference? Will my children one day, when they are surrounded by their own babies smile and remember dancing with their mom?

I awoke from the dream and praised God it was only a dream. I still had a chance, like Scrooge. I could change the future. I could remember at least this moment. There will be too many photographers there to let me forget.

"And you always have me," whispered the still,quiet voice within my soul, "Though you may forget, I will never forget you."

Isaiah 49:15 NIV

"Can a mother forget the baby at her breast
and have no compassion on the child she has borne?
Though she may forget,
I will not forget you!

Genesis 2:23-24 NIV

The man said,
"This is now bone of my bones
and flesh of my flesh;
she shall be called 'woman,'
for she was taken out of man." That is why a man leaves his father and mother and is united to his wife, and they become one flesh.

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Repeating History

"Acawwwwlllllll!"  shrieked something from overhead. We peered into the tree. Two brownish spotted huge birds perched in the limbs. They looked like a cross between a turkey and a leopard- with a wattle and multitudinous white spots.
"What is it?" asked Arvo.
"I think it is a New Guinea Hen," I answered, from the dregs of some memory I had no idea from wence it sprang....(or is it sprung)?
Anyway, we looked it up on our incredibly useful smart phone, and discovered I was correct, sort of. It was indeed a Guinea Hen.

We took a trip back in time yesterday. First we went to Old Salem, the Moravian village from the 1700s, and then we saw "1964 The Beatles Tribute" band that evening. It didn't even occur to me til I wrote that  sentence that our activities of the day all involved stepping back in history. And as we settled into our concert, the opening act was a fantastic singer from Memphis who organized his songs with a running commentary that traced the history of rock in roll. I was grateful for all the instruction in history, because if the adage is true, we are now not doomed to repeat it.

The Guinea fowl are birds that were domesticated long ago as a useful food source and predator of ticks. They are native to Africa, but adapted so well to life in the US that many people believe they are indigenous, almost immediately upon discovering what that word means. They were very common on pre-1900 farms, thus their presence in this old Moravian settlement. They taste, not surprisingly, like chicken, or snakes, which also taste like chicken. The Guineafowl mate for life, though rarely do indulge in bigamy. Most prefer monogamy because they can't afford the prison time if caught with two hen spouses, and for sure the Moravians frowned upon it.

We sat and watched the Guineafowl for quite some time as our feet were tired from trodding across Old Salem. Then, in tribute to the Beatles Tribute we were about to see, we had fish and chips for dinner. Asherel would have fish and chips for every meal if we would allow it, and is investigating majoring in Beatles Studies at the university in Liverpool. This evening was a dream come true for her.

The colliseum was awash in people my age, and older. All the old hippies who survived were there. And all of them were singing along, twisting and shouting. The Beatles imitators themselves were remarkably Beatle like, with every nuance of the way the Beatles moved, held their guitars, danced, and even shook their hair.....until we got up close to the stage, which we did for the encore.

Up close, we saw that the Beatles had aged considerably....and the hair had to be wigs, or at best dyed. However, they were very talented, and we had a wonderful time reliving years that I hadn't fully lived the first time around. I really wish I had paid attention to the Beatles when they were alive. Now that they are dead, I want to be a groupie. Asherel, who is a natural musician, loves them and understands the genius of their music, something that eluded me when I was growing up and the world was gaga over them. I preferred to sit in willow trees , and eat apples and read books about guineafowl.

In front of the colliseum where the Beatles Tribute performed, were row after row of posts with the names of all the US wars on one side, and the fallen soldiers from the community on the other. I thought of Comer, my old friend and WW2 veteran who was 93 years old. The personal history of our country is slowly dying off. Recently the last WW1 soldier died. The oldest man on earth just died, and with him, the personal recollections of his grandfather who used to talk with him about his experiences as a soldier for the Union Army in the Civil war. Arvo and I shook our heads sadly thinking this powerful, shaping history of our nation was disappearing and no one seems to care much to remember it.
"We have new history now," comforted Asherel.
And yet, she stood there with the old folk with her fresh unwrinkled brow, twisting and shouting with the echoes of time marching past. I listened and sang too, with visions of soldiers from the past and of a lonely single pair of Guinea fowl nesting in a tree that had first budded on a new country.

And how fitting that we start this week remembering, this week that culminates in remembrance of a very ancient occurrence. It is the single most rocking occurrence of all time, and I don't mean the Beatles. It is the single most pivotal event of history- the death of a Man that claimed to be the savior of the world, and His resurrection. The tribute band playing His song will be strumming harps and lyres and they will not need to worry about wigs or makeup.  And as Asherel noted in a slightly different context, the old will be made new.

2 Corinthians 5: 7-8, 17-18

⁷ Get rid of the old yeast, so that you may be a new unleavened batch—as you really are. For Christ, our Passover lamb, has been sacrificed. ⁸ Therefore let us keep the Festival, not with the old bread leavened with malice and wickedness, but with the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth.

¹⁷ Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here! ¹⁸ All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ

My First Born Son

Defying certain death by sneezing til my nose completely severed from my face, I sat on the front porch, dusting aside the glaze of pollen. I could not resist. The azaleas were blooming, and I love to sit on the porch rocker and watch the bees make gluttons of themselves on those fragrant pink blossoms. Some flowers had been crushed and ripped from their moorings by hailstone the size of cannonballs the day before. The remaining hardy ones lifted their triumphant faces to the sun.

"Do you mind if I sit here with you?" I asked them.
 The pink blooms glanced at each other, shimmering gossamer petals in the wind. They didn't answer, so I took that as affirmation.
I sketched, in between sneezes... . and I realized that I rarely do whole pictures, whole objects, whole landscapes any more. Part of this is because I am drawing on an iPod with a 2x4 inch screen. The other part is that the older I get, the more I find significance in details. One would think that with a lifetime of experience, I would rather take in the whole picture. But instead, I sit and marvel at the thread-thin stripes of slightly darker magenta against the pink petals of the azalea. What a beautiful little added touch, as if the flower wasn't glorious enough!

My first born son entered this world 25 years ago today. I had no clue what one does with such a supremely perfect creature in one's care. I often focused on the whole picture- all that I would need to do to successfully launch him into a wide open sea of independent life. It was often overwhelming, and like all first borns, he suffered through my mistakes and ignorance. But he is now launched and fully on his own. He pays his own bills ( I presume...), goes to his own dentist ( I hope......) and prays on his own initiative (I desperately desire.....).  I got him through his years with us educating him, exposing him to a world of opportunities and experiences, pointing him to the God I cherish and believe in, and keeping the tally of broken bones to just one in his years with us in charge. But now, settling on the porch rocker of my memories, it is the seemingly inconsequential details that flood my mind.

Like once when I walked in his room, and he was just a small boy, lying on his back in his bed, with his eyes focused on another world.
"Mommy, I see angels."
"Angels?"
He smiled at the ceiling, "Sparkling everywhere."

Or the morning of departure from our first family vacation to the beach. He lay in bed, propped up against his pillow, his tiny face framed in tears.
"Anders! What's wrong?"
"It was such a nice vacation. I don't want it to end."

Or when as a 5 year old, attending a "Masters Class" in piano with highschool age kids, the instructor listened to him, and not wanting to condescend, barked out a rather harsh, and loud critique as though she were dealing with someone who was old enough to sift through the overbearing delivery and find the message without the tone.
When she finished, he looked at her and in his little man voice said, "OK."
The Master's face softened, and the entire classroom murmured, "Awwwww......"
Tears welled in my eyes for the little boy whose talent sometimes put him in a world of men perhaps too soon.

But my hardest job as a parent wasn't the 18 years of homeschooling him, or chauffeuring him to special piano and math contests and classes that fed his exceptional abilities, or finding a group that opened their arms to him and taught him to juggle, or feeding him healthy meals, or developing his college transcript.....all that pales to the job, the duty, the necessity of unclasping my hand from his, of letting him go.

I totally get the magnitude of God's love demonstrated by the sacrifice of His son. I don't think there is anything harder that any parent could ever be called upon to do. I struggled just to watch my son march off to a wonderful future a thousand miles away from me. I can't imagine watching a son march to the cross. At one time I thought that indicated how little God cared for His own son. But now I see how supremely God longs and cares for us...for me.

So I sit on the porch, looking at the fine lines of the beautiful azalea, and I remember those snippets of the brief time I was the one my boy most longed to sit with, rocking and listening to the bees hum as they gorged on the fragrant blossoms.

1 Samuel 1:10-12
¹¹ And she made a vow, saying, “LORD Almighty, if you will only look on your servant’s misery and remember me, and not forget your servant but give her a son, then I will give him to the LORD for all the days of his life

Hark the herald angels sing

Anders arrived last night and so the
full cotillion of precious progeny are now gathered. Now it will be fine if some picturesque snow begins to fall. I haven't had a white christmas in some 20 years. Sitting here with the dogs, waiting for snow to perfect the picture, the christmas tree is lit with beautifully wrapped gifts underneathe. The family is all still sleeping and I am alone with my thoughts.

I tried to remember my favorite christmas as a child, or my favorite gift. I could not immediately remember a single favorite. All I remember is a glow of anticipation, happiness, love, and excitement. The specific gifts or trees or whether it snowed or not all blur in my recollections. But I do remember feeling loved, and loving even my older sister who I usually tried to scratch the skin off of every other day of the year.

So the dogs and I are gathered in the stillness of the morning before the lit tree, watching the mist of hope and what could be rise gently.

Once, when I was a young woman, I was riding my bike down a long steep hill. The wind was rushing and swirling around me and if I turned my head just slightly, I could hear angels singing. I experimented various permuations of chin lift and head turn angle to see if the angels sang no matter what, but they did not. It was only if my head was turned at just the right angle that my ear would catch the angel's song.

Sitting here with my dogs, waiting for snow with my beloved family harmoniously snoring, if I cock my head at just the right angle, catching a glimpse of the little baby in my little creche, I hear the angels sing.

Psalm 104:33
I will sing to the lord all my life, I will sing praises to my God as long as I live.

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Does God wear a belly pack?

Ten bags of books that will bless and mold in someone else's shelves are now in the car, ready to go off to be donated. I still have hundreds of books remaining.
"Who could read so many books anyway!" said Asherel as I gazed a little wistfully at my books that were soon to be adopted out.
"I did!" I said, "I have read every one of them." (some two or three times!)
I pulled Ulysees by James Joyce out. I have never gotten past about page 300 of this thousand or so page behemoth.
"I'll keep trying with this one," I said, putting it back.

And so the newly dusted, book-denuded living room looks better, though if someone with decorating sense would walk in and work a little magic, I think I would have a better shot at the cover of "Home Beautiful."

I sat down in the chair by the nice clean bookshelf. Now as my books were arranged somewhat by topic and size, my photo albums on the bottom shelf, it was easier to grab what I wanted. I pulled out a little photo album that had been deeply buried behind dusty old books. As I opened it, and began to relive my life 20 years ago, I wondered if I would have remembered any of it had I not had the pictures.
"It is almost as though I were never there," I thought a little sadly. Because of my lousy memory, the only moment I really have is the one I am living.

My eyes fell on a picture of my boys when they were 4 and 6. Anders has his arms outstretched, in a most uncharacteristic pose of joy and uninhibited delight. Matthias has a tough guy look on his cute little face, arms in a fighter stance and feet somewhat akimbo. And he is wearing a bright orange belly pack. Yes folks, I am sure I am about to be carted away by Social Services.... I put my 4 year old son in an orange belly pack.
This is the newly engaged son, now 22, whose first horrified admission to his fiancee about his family was that , "My mother wears a belly pack."

Honestly, I do not remember that I had done that. But I must have. The evidence is conclusive. And as I perused the little dusty album, I discovered that on our trip to Washington, DC, I had put both boys in a belly pack. It's a wonder they grew up to have any friends at all. Asherel would have had many belly pack pictures as well, but now I am vaguely remembering that she refused to wear belly packs.

"Oh Lord, forgive me," I breathed, "I know not what I do."

How many other horrible things had I done to those sweet innocent creatures, not realizing that I was not normal? I meant well. They had valuable things to carry on those outings, things that would fall out of little rambunctious pockets. The belly pack was a burden of love. In my own belly pack were all the things needed to mend knees that had torn, heads that were aching, and candy to soothe the wild beasts that always showed up at the end of our long treks to wonderful places.

And I think there is a good bit of evidence that God Himself wears a belly pack. Do a word search and see how often the Bible tells us that God carries our burdens for us. There are roughly six and a half billion people on the earth. Simple logic tells us there is no way God can carry all that without a belly pack.

But whether or not He wears a belly pack is up for discussion. Greater minds than mine will wrestle with that question for millenium. What is clearly stated is that when our burdens are too great, we don't need a belly pack. God will carry them for us.

Psalm 28:8-9 (New International Version)

 ⁸ The LORD is the strength of his people,
   a fortress of salvation for his anointed one.
⁹ Save your people and bless your inheritance;
   be their shepherd and carry them forever.

Memories of Pacabel

In the midst of a busy afternoon, the voice over the phone sounded vaguely familiar but I couldn't place it immediately. Asherel and I were wrestling with the computer trying to find out why the CD was mute, though the person on the CD was clearly speaking. Growing more and more frustrated, I answered the phone, and the vaguely familiar voice said, ,"Vicky, this is Terese, you know, married to Barry, from USC, California days....?"

"Terese!" I cried joyfully, "How did you find me!"
It had been at least 15, maybe 20 years since I had last seen or spoken with Terese. I had seen sweet Terese long, long ago in a lifetime far, far away when the primordial ooze was only just beginning to discuss how it could coalesce to form a mammalian eye when all parts had to be present simultaneously for it to work at all.

What made the sound of Terese's dear voice even more eerie was only a few days ago, Asherel and I had been walking down the street when I heard the strains of Pacabel  Canon in D by Mozart over the tinny sound system of a small village. I paused and began to hum along. Asherel looked at me with a cocked eyebrow.

"I love this song," I told her, "A lovely friend from college walked down the aisle to this song."
Now Terese would cringe to hear me call it a "song". It is a masterpiece, a work of art, a fugue of exquisite beauty by one of the greatest composers to ever live. It was Terese's wedding march that I was humming and remembering so fondly from 30 years ago as Asherel and I shopped for dog booties in the little town.

So we spent the next hour catching up on 20 years. She had grown into just the sort of lovely woman I had known she would and I wished I had managed to stay in touch. I tried, but you know how it is. Dust bunnies and folding socks take over and before you blink, you are on the phone with one of the sweetest people on earth whom you haven't talked with in 20 years.

I have the same jarring self-incrimination when I lay in bed and awaken in the middle of the night. I know something is off as I writhe and mutely moan over all the struggles I need to tackle that I haven't the strength, will, or character to deal with. And then I realize I haven't talked with God about this or about anything in a very long time. I certainly at best forgot to pray when I went to bed. I may have gone much longer without more than rote "thank you for the food" types of prayers.  How long I had gone without  the sweet and comforting and loving voice of the One who knows me best and loves me most! 

Yet like the cheerful voice of Terese, I don't hear condemnation. I hear joy and love that now we are speaking; now we tilt our heads together and remember how dear the journey is that we never travel alone. As I wiggled in bed last night, unable to shake all the looming troubles from my heart, I finally popped open my Bible. Go ahead, Lord, I thought, You have every right to scream at me. I am so negligent and so forgetful of the only One who deserves my constant adoration. Here is what He said:

Isaiah 60:1 (NIV)
"Arise, shine, for your light has come,
and the glory of the Lord rises upon you.

Riding Goofy

We have returned victorious from our snow boarding trip. Matt and Asherel looked like real snow boarders by the end of the day. I broke no bones and lacerated no body parts, thus my goals were accomplished.

The mountains of North Carolina are beautiful, but we were incredulous as we approached our hotel, only 2 miles away, and as yet saw not one drop of snow. The ski mountain was only 2 miles from the hotel so we could not imagine how it could have snow. It was 60 degrees, by the way.

Even as we pulled into the ski parking lot, we asked the attendant, "Where is the snow?"
He pointed behind him, and indeed there was a snow covered mountain. I don't know how they refrigerate a mountain, but somehow they do. We were early, an hour before our lesson so we got our equipment and went bravely to the slopes. Of course, at first, we stayed on the level slope. The first terrifying realization was we had no idea how to step onto the board- there is no sign that says heel here, toe here. There was also a strap that we had no idea what it was for. So
I found someone who had snowboarded 3 times and thus was an expert and asked him. Asherel had done some research before we had arrived so knew that our first step was to lock in one foot and then push around with the other to get the feel of sliding. This was surprisingly difficult. It uses muscles that I am sure I rarely if ever use, and they were not happy to be called into service. Within a few minutes though, we were climbing partway up the bunny slope and sliding tentatively down. Matt even braved the whole bunny slope.

Then the first thing they taught us at our lesson was that people like me who are the rare exception of using right foot as the lead foot are "Riding Goofy". I was only one of two Goofy riders in our lesson, so everything the instructor taught, I did the opposite. When the rest of the class did a heel dig, they curved left. I curved right (at least in theory- I never did quite get the knack of turning....) So as if it wasn't bad enough being the only gray haired wrinkled raisin of a human trying this dangerous sport which is made for maniacs under 25, I was being continually called "Goofy".
To use the rope pull to the top of the slope, regular riders face the rope and grasp it easily. Goofy riders have to have their back to the rope, twist their aged torso and hang on while their arm gets wrenched out of the socket. It took me several painful tries before I mastered that.

Matt and Asherel got quite good. We had to force Asherel off the mountain and pry the snowboard off her. This was difficult as by that time, I was so tired that even my fingernails ached.
"Why are we leaving?" she cried.
"Because as of yet we are uninjured," I answered, "And we have been here for 7 hours tempting fate."

I slept the whole drive home, though of course, with my eyes open since I was driving. This morning, I ache all over, but there are no bruises which is because the snow was so soft and slushy that it cushioned my falls. And I hope someday when my children are standing on the Olympic podium, collecting the Gold medal for their half pipe performance, they will remember fondly the aged mother riding goofy on a snowboard.

1 Thessalonians 3:5-7
...has just now come to us from you and has brought good news about your faith and love. He has told us that you always have pleasant memories of us and that you long to see us, just as we also long to see you.