Walk On

I'm done using Sam as an excuse.

My last post was written a little over 6 months ago. And then, the diagnosis.

My friend, Sam, had cancer. And it was bad. He had a beautiful wife, 3 wonderful kids, but cancer Did. Not. Care.

When Sam was fighting his battle, I couldn't write anything. Everything I could think to write was either very, very angry, or seemed very flippant and unimportant in light of a stage iv cancer diagnosis. Quite honestly, everthing seemed frivolous to me. What compares to the battle for life that I watched unfold in my friends' family? What situation or observation justified words, justified expression when my friends, who were living life so well, who were doing everything right, were faced with the possibility of such a loss?

When Sam died in July, I felt that the next thing I posted on this blog should be a response to his life, a response to his death. Though there were words, they were raw and rough and ranting.

So I wrote for myself, and I wrote for God, but I did not write for an audience.

You see, though I only knew Sam for 6 years, his life impacted mine. Not just because his wife was one of my first friends in KC, nor because I knew his kids and watched the life he lived with them, but because of who Sam was.

I'm easily bored with people who  give off the impression that they have everything together all of the time, and situations that require one to "put on a good face" exhaust me,  so whenever I meet someone who in some way exhibits authenticity or gives a glimpse of their character and shows themself true, I like them. I'll say to Ferdie "You know what I like about that person?" and inevitably he will reply "They're real?"

And Sam? Well, Sam was "real." He was quirky. He had definite ideas about lots of things, from what he liked to wear to music to culture, and he would let you know those ideas. Sam was a thinker, and he didn't accept the status quo or the excuse of "that's the way it's always been done."

I liked him immediately.

A few years back, Sam had a vision for a different type of Sunday school class. He called it "Workmanship," and he invited all of the painters, photographers, writers, sculptors and wanna-be artists in the church to join him as he led discussions and studies of biblical themes. We processed and created and wrote in response to these discussions, and for the first time, I saw Sam in his element.

Sam taught me that creating anything--the act of painting or sculpting or putting words to paper--was a reflection of the Creator. And that the discipline of creating was an act of worship to the one who gave us the ideas, the images, the words. To the artist, then, art was spiritual discipline, as crucial as praying and fasting and studying and serving.

And Sam worked at his craft. Though he was an architect by day, a busy father of three by evening, he was an artist after hours.

One year, he completed a piece every week, blogging about his experience and giving his readership a glimpse at his creative process. I was inspired by Sam's determination, the dedication to his art, the discipline he displayed as week after week he posted painting after painting. At the end of year, he held an open house exhibition, and as I took in all of the pieces that lined the walls of his home, I remember thinking "That was a year well spent."

So here we are, four months out, four months after losing Sam. I watch his wife, who day after day after day gets up, keeps on, lives out courage. I watch their kids, and I ache for them, I get angry for them, that they didn't have more time with their dad, that they have to grow up without Sam. I'm infuriated at the injustice of his death.

Sam should be here still, he should.

He had more to give, more in him of value, more ideas, more love, more wisdom, more, just MORE. Sam should still be here, and he's not, and quite honestly, his not being here, his not surviving that damn disease, has left me speechless.

Because I believe in a good God, a God who loves the people he created, a God who Sam loved and served and lived for, a God who could have healed Sam in an instant, but didn't. And there are no words that can do justice to that, no words to explain God's seeming inaction on behalf of Sam and his family.

So I come back to what I know in my veins and my breath and my spirit: God loved Sam, he loves him still. God loves Sam's wife and kids, his parents and his sister.

Kristian Stanfill sings:

"Higher than the mountains that I face,

Stronger than the power of the grave,

Constant in the trials and the change,

One thing remains:

Your love never fails, never gives up, never runs out on me. . ."

 

 

I hold tightly to that truth.

God who I know and love is mystery and beyond and overwhelming and so much bigger than this limited mind of mine can conceive. 

He is the author of generation upon generation upon generation of stories, and he knows how our stories interweave, and ultimately all come together.

Mostly, right now, tonight, this God is hope.

Hope that some day this will all make sense. Hope that as Sam walked into eternity, the thrum of good music welcomed him, and that his palette is endless and his canvas an eternal place of worship.

Hope that God will be peace and strength and, eventually, even joy. Hope that all is not as it seems, and though lives look shattered, God is arranging a mosaic, perfectly placing every shard, positioning them just so, and that someday in eternity we will see the beauty of it all.

Tonight I know this for sure: This writer's block, this inability and unwillingness to put fingertips to keyboard and words to screen, Sam wouldn't have wanted this. He, of all people, would tell me to push through, to force words, to cry then write, to be angry then to write, to write raw and real and true, but whatever it takes, to write.

He'd tell me that those small things, the frigid Saturday morning soccer games, the late nights filled with wine and words and laughter, the wanderlust that never leaves, the leaves that change colors and dry up and fall to the ground and my baby boy who crunches them underfoot, who jumps into them with abandon, these small things, these "frivolous" things?

These are breath and pulse and life.

And these words of mine? They are lifeline and tether, desperation and worship.

And they matter.

 

Written in honor of the life lived by

G.F. "Sam" Wagner

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wheels

Spring came early this year in Kansas, following the Winter That Never Was, and we have LOVED it! My kids can be seen in all states of dress or undress in our backyard playing almost daily. Often there are a few neighborhood kids thrown into the mix, and apart from Makai getting loose one time, there's usually not a lot of drama. Just a bunch of climbing, digging for worms, creating butterfly traps, chasing soccer balls and planting anything that might have a chance of sprouting in the space that for one season was a "garden," and is now a. . .barren, weedy spot.

In addition to playing outside, there has been a lot of this going on:

And when I say a lot, I mean 6:40 in the morning, 8:00 at night, and anytime in between. Makai loves wheels! He gets down really low, sometimes resting his head on the coffee table or couch or the hearth of the fireplace where he's moving his cars, trucks and tractors back and forth, back and forth, and making that car noise that little boys innately know.


Some days when he thinks he's 3, he might throw this move into the mix:

Yep, dancing, with his cars, on TOP of the coffee table.  Boys.


Every now and then Kai drops what he's doing, and scurries off, searching from room to room until he has found lots of cars. EVERY car in the house, then he lines them up, setting up a miniature showroom in front of the bay windows.  When the hotwheels are perfectly placed, he'll lay that crazy head of hair down on the carpet just to get a better view of all of his wheels.

 In addition to his obsession with cars, my little man can often be found doing this:

Yep, bad habit, I know. But I'm just not ready to deal with it. In the meantime, the bottle hangs between his teeth as he chases from room to room.

Here's another:

Can you see how happy that bottle makes him? And how tough it might be for me to take that sweet pleasure from him just because some doctor says it might ruin his teeth? And that fixing those teeth might cost a fortune in some far off, distant future? I mean really, he's just so happy.

And I don't let him do it in public, because that would be, well, embarassing and confessional and a little like proclaiming to the world "I am not a perfect mama!"

But I will proclaim it here, to my readership of seven or so: I am not a perfect mama! (But I sure am lovin' this sweet little boy like crazy--wheels, bottles and all).

The times, they are a changin'. . .

Something strange has been happening lately. 

Take yesterday for example. The sun was shining, the kids were conquering the backyard on a Summer-ish day in March, and I was attempting to do four things at once in the midst of the screen door slamming, the baby eating leaves (they look like Kale, right?), and the girls' worm-digging.

And then it happened. I picked up the sports section, scanned the headlines to find out what time the game was on, and at 4:00, I tuned in to watch said game. The KU game.

Ferdie was working, and the decision was mine entirely. So I watched and cleaned and watched and folded and watched.

All of this watching after just two nights earlier I stayed up past10:00, to catch the end of yet another KU game. I gave up sleep for that one. But I cared more about knowing the end than I did about non-baggy eyes in the a.m.

And then this: One night several months ago when I should have been sound asleep, I realized I didn't know the name of the mayor of Lenexa.  I have lived in Lenexa for almost 4 years, I enjoy politics, I think the biggest impact can be made locally, yet I did not know our leader's name.

So, I googled it. At 2 in the morning. (Mike Boehm, apparently a good guy, for anyone who might want to know).

And I've been learning history.

Several months ago on a jaunt  down I-70 to Topeka to pick up a copy of our vehicle registration, I made a side-trip to the "Brown Vs. Board of Education Museum," where desegregated schools were mandated by the Supreme Court. The so-called "Separate, but Equal" ended in Kansas.

I've learned about Quantrill's Raid in Lawrence, and how the roots of the Kansas/Missouri border wars reach back 150 years to the "Uncivil War," as one preacher aptly called it.

And I finally figured out why everyone chants "Rock Chalk, Jayhawk" at athletic events.

In the past year, I've driven some of the byways and backroads of Kansas, when I previously limited myself to heading North on I-35. In doing so, I've stumbled across breathtaking vistas, and channeled my inner Laura Ingalls Wilder.

And I've done life with families in our neighborhood and our elementary school, and the ladies in my Wednesday morning small group, and my two girlfriends who welcomed me to Kansas when I was fresh off the island and who helped me fold laundry when I thought my world was crashing and who called me and called me and called me when my world really did crash a year later, and I think this:

THESE ARE MY PEOPLE.

I am invested in their lives, and they are invested in mine.

THIS IS MY CITY.

After 3 or 4 years of feeling as if I was just passing through, taking in all the sights while I could, sampling the wares, so to speak, now I find myself saying "Oh yeah, in Kansas city we have one of the best performing arts centers in the world," or "We're getting an aquarium and Legoland," or "We've got such great restaturants here," as if it is mine.

I care about this city, because I have people I love here, and because in spite of my eldest child believing that she remembers the beaches of Saipan, Kansas is my kids' first real home. Their childhood memories will revolve around everyday life in the Guinto household and escapades with the neighborhood kids and their classmates, and when songs and sounds and scents call back memories, those stories will be set in Lenexa, Kansas. 

Thirty-some years from now, my kids might get the pleasure of having dinner with one of those old friends, as I did last week, and they'll reminisce about the old hometown and all of the characters who grew in it and how growing up there shaped them, helped form their identity, marked them for life.

I love this place, as much as I have ever loved a place.

After 5 1/2 years in Kansas, the strangest thing is happening.

I am becoming a Kansan.

Slow Moe--Thoughts on Lent

One of my childhood nicknames was "Slow Moe." My sisters still pull that one out sometimes, and as I parent my own child who cannothurryforthelifeofher, I understand the frustration that my slowness caused. I always wanted just a little more time to do this, or a few more minutes to finish that--the that often being a book I was reading, a poem I was writing, or a daydream I was having.  I was that child.

Today is the first day of Lent, and although I haven't been Catholic since that Sunday in 5th grade when my dad yanked the whole family out of the pew in the morning and out of Sacred Heart School that same afternoon, there is something about Lent that is attractive to me.

I have memories of being Catholic, memories of Lent.

I remember going to mass, dipping my fingers in the holy water, making the sign of the cross, hoping no one would notice that I did it twice in hopes that a double dip might make me more holy. I remember walking through the Stations of the Cross, the smell of the wooden pews and floors, the confessional, and as we took in the stained glass pictures, the sometimes graphic representations of Jesus' last days, I remember that even the boys in my class were silent as they understood the weight of what we were seeing. They understood the blood.

And I remember eating McDonald's fish sandwiches on Friday nights with my family (because this post was getting a little too somber).

The past few days I have been reading about Lent--its origins, how people practice it, the meaning of those ash-smudged foreheads, and this is where I've ended up: Lent is the season for me. Slow Moe.

You see, most historians believe that the term "lent" originated from a Germanic Language. It was  a word that meant "Spring," but more specifically "the lengthening of days." As the sun set later and later, their days became longer, and many Northern Europeans celebrated those extra hours with a Lenten feast. Originally, it had nothing to do with the carpenter from Nazareth.

French Christians also claim ownership of the term "Lent," which to francophiles simply means "slow." In their understanding, Lent was a time to slow down, consider their own mortality (thus "Ash Wednesday") and think of Jesus' life, his ministry, and ultimately, his sacrifice.  In acknowledgment of Jesus' death, French Catholics began to sacrifice or "give up" something for Lent.

So what is the significance of all this history to me, a former Catholic, former Wesleyan, former completely-confused-young-woman-turned-well, just a Christian?

Most days I find myself wishing for more time: More time to finish the laundry, more time to write better lesson plans, more time to read with my kids, more time for long conversations with girlfriends, more time to sip my coffee slowly and savor the life God has given to me. Instead of "lingering longer," as one friend calls it, I find myself rushing, hurrying, running behind, catching up, trying to accomplish just one more thing, then falling in bed exhausted at the end of the day.

And it just doesn't suit me.

I want to slow down. I want to "lengthen" my days, yet I, like everyone else on this beautiful, blue green planet, am allotted just 24 hours in each one. I can't add a second.

But maybe by changing how I spend those 24 hours and by spending more of them on things that matter and less on things that don't, essentially I can add time to my day.

So here's the "sacrifice" aspect of Lent for me, what I'm "giving up": Bye, bye, Facebook.

For the next 40 days--actually 46, but for some reason we don't count Sundays--I'm going to take those precious minutes (hours?) formerly spent getting in other people's business, and instead use them to get into my own. I'm going to "linger longer" as my sweet baby girl Soli climbs into my lap to reads to me, knowing that a few months from now or a year from now, she might resist sitting on my lap, might see it as too babyish.

And I'll spend those extra minutes on the floor with Kai, bouncing that green ball back and forth, again and again, searing the sound of his sweet baby laughter into my memory.

And I'll take an extra few minutes at lunch with Maya, as she embellishes her morning in Kindergarten for my enjoyment, reveling in the extra attention she gets when Makai is napping and sissy Soli is at school.

And in the early morning, cup of dark roast in hand, I'll open my bible to Ecclesiastes, and I'll read that most of our lives are spent "chasing the wind" and that death will come to us all, and to all of us it WILL. SEEM. TOO. SOON.  The message will resonate with me, will echo throughout my morning, will settle in deep by afternoon, and I will live a better life that day because of this knowledge.

And as I slow down, as I eliminate distraction, as I practice Lent, not as some religious way of gaining God's favor, but as a means of focusing, as a means of seeing God, of noticing the work of Jesus Christ in the dailyness of my life, then 24 hours?

They might just be enough.

Doing Different

"If you want to look different, you need to do different!" shouted the bouncing ball of muscle and energy from the front of the class.

I was sweating and huffing my way through the kind of cardio/strength class that leaves your heart pumping, legs quivering, and mind begging "No more, please, no more."

During the next sequence, an intense one that can only be described as "jump up and over the step, hope you jump high enough not to fall, repeat," those words kept coming back, echoing again and again in cadence to an old Salt 'n Pepa hit that was the soundtrack to this class . . ."If you want to look different, you need to do different, If you want to look different, you need to do different. . ."

Deia, the aforementioned ball of muscle and energy, was refering to the 30 or so bodies before her, determining how we could strengthen our limbs, solidify our core, maybe add a little definition to our biceps, eliminate some of the dimples from our thighs by working them in different ways. Her statement wouldn't leave my mind, though, and my thighs--being numb at this point--were no longer even on the radar.

Sure, I want to look different. Who doesn't want to be more toned, lose the leftover baby bulge and maybe a handful of back fat along with it? But what I really want is to LOOK DIFFERENT.

January is a month of introspection for the majority of people. Even if you aren't the type to make resolutions, it's almost impossible to deny the implications of a new year--the possibility, the hopefulness, the beauty of turning over a new leaf spread before you with the flip of a calendar page.

I did not set resolutions this year, partially because I usually fail to keep them early on anyway, but also because I'm deep in the process of recovering from all the hell that broke loose in our family in 2011. It's taking up almost all of my energy, and most of my faith. Yet in the midst of that deep morass, I can admit this:

 I want to look different. In many areas.

Beyond sculpted shoulders and thighs that don't jiggle, I want my life to look different.

I want a better marriage (see the aformentioned "hell of 2011").

I want to do friendship better. I want less Facebook and more face time with friends who speak truth, who help me find God within the ugliness, friends who take off the mask and share the real.

I want stronger relationships with my parents, my sisters, my aunts, my nephews. I want to hear the small details of their lives, want to know where they found God today. I want to spend more time just hanging with them, drinking coffee, sharing stories and laughing.

And I want to write.

So here's the math: I want different=I have to do different. I hate math, and different is uncomfortable. And painful. And it can leave you a sweaty, quivering mess.

And I want these changes, but the law of "Doing the Same Thing Over and Over and Expecting Different Results" has ruled my life. So this is the deal: I'm done with it.

Done. with. it.

That law has wreaked enough havoc, bred enough mediocrity, caused me to waste enough time, and breathed its last in the life of Melissa Marie Wienands Guinto.

So I'm going to have the conversations that are preceded by heart palpitations and are accompanied by sweaty palms and tears. I'm going to take a deep breath and speak instead of smiling and shrugging and thinking "I'll deal with it later." I'm going to schedule date nights when our budget says "not possible," and I'm going to spend time talking to my husband again  instead of hiding behind  laptops.

I'm going to sit my behind down at my desk, ignore the urge for that second cup of coffee, and the sudden compulsion to search Facebook for that old co-worker from my Hy-Vee days (about whom I haven't thought in 20 years), and JUST. WRITE. They may not be polished or profound, but they will be my words. Out of my head. Onto paper, virtual as it may be.

And on nights when it would be easier to pull on my comfiest pj bottoms and my UNI sweatshirt, I'm going to put on some skinny jeans and paint my lips red and hit the town with my girlfriends (B&N counts as "The Town," right?).

And yes, I'm going to keep quivering my way through Deia's class.

Because I want different.