Spring 2010
In Defense of Daddy Kori Miller He left. I don’t remember the day or the time. We all believed it would only be a short business trip, maybe two weeks, so I remained home with our two children. It turned into almost two months of long distance phone calls to say good morning and good night to Daddy. There was a time in my life when I truly believed I could be a single parent. That belief was completely and unequivocally changed after several calls from my husband declaring he had to remain in Canada another week. The details of our oftentimes emotional and frustrating experience are not worth recounting. How does one explain day-afterday, night-after-night to a four and not quite two-year old, that Daddy is not coming home? The morning my husband finally returned, we were all asleep. It was never easy to sleep while he was gone, especially, the night before the farmers market when I had to get up at 4:00 a.m. The children did not know he was coming home. I did not want to say anything just in case plans changed, again. This night was different. This time, I knew he was on his way. He sent text messages from the plane in Canada and then in Denver. I had a strange mixture of elation and hesitation at the thought of his arrival. Being apart meant establishing different routines. The rhythm in our house changed. We did not feel secure without Daddy. We could not sleep as soundly. Tension was high. There was something about having Daddy around that made things easier, more settled. My husband has a calmness and patience about him that simply changes the feeling of a room. We all feel it and miss it when it is absent. At 5:30 a.m., the morning he arrived, I prepared for the market. I went upstairs to kiss everyone good-bye. My son, groggy with sleep, sat up in bed insisting that he was not tired. I said “Look who’s here” nodding my head in the direction of my husband. Zain looked over, “is that Poppy?” (We’d been staying at my parents’ house every weekend so I could do the market. My father would watch the kids in the morning because one or both always awoke while I prepared for the market.) I 92
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smiled and responded, “No, that’s Daddy.” At first, Zain did not believe me. Steve’s back was to us. Zain climbed over him and looked back at me. His eyes lit up, he smiled and lay back down. He was asleep before I left the room. The smile unchanged. Daddy was home, and all was right with the world. This is the importance of Daddy. He is the symbol of security. He is the calm in every storm. He is a playmate, confidant and leader. Our experiences of the summer of 2009, from the miscarriage of our third child to the separation of our family, solidified for us what we value most: our time together. As Zain said one evening a few weeks before Daddy returned, “We just need time to be.” Our kids get it. So do we.
“Peter” - Kathy Maloney 93
Spring 2010
Walking Tiffany Montavon Walking in the pre-dawn dark, with light rain gently falling, I’m feeling smart. When anxiety awakes me in the wee hours, I have two options: to stay or to walk. Option 1 is to let the 800 pound gorilla sit on my chest while my mind races with anxious thoughts - all that I have yet to do, which plan of action to take, making mental lists. The gorilla gets no lighter as I make these lists; thoughts spin and swirl in the dark, allowing no sleep, and yet no resolution either. Option 2 is to walk. This morning I get up, stumble into tennis shoes, call my two dogs who seem unphased by anxious thoughts (after all, what could they be? “Where DID that squirrel go?”), and are certainly happy to assist any adventure involving woods, rivers, sticks, and chases; we head into the darkness. “Solvitur Ambulando” in Latin means “all is solved by walking,” is often at the start of a labyrinth, an exercise of walking and praying, letting the repetitive motion calm the mind; the walking itself becomes a centering prayer. This morning feels similar: we are so early that rush hour hasn’t yet begun (and in Washington, DC, that’s saying something), there is no hint of dawn, and the forest noise-makers are still at rest. The rocky path to the river glistens in the rain. I stumble down through the forest with utter darkness on either side, following this silvery thread to the wide open river. This may seem mad, but truly, it is much better than lying in bed with a swirling mind and 800 pounds of gorilla sitting on my heart. As I walk, I begin to pray, lifting all those anxious thoughts to the light that is not visible. I listen for the night flyers, for the sound of the low water of late summer trickling over rocks, and the moment when an insect first begins to rub its wings together. All is quiet. Finally, the forest gives way at river’s edge, and even the predawn night sky is a bit lighter than the black leaf canopy. Immediately, I sense ease. Since waking with an anxious mind is a common experience for me, I am accustomed to such night walks. I begin to stretch, throwing sticks in the river for the pups. Even in the light rain, I get warm, so I take off my jacket to do more active yoga. I have escaped 94
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The Gorilla: to beat traffic, be in nature, walk dogs, and pray is a very good way to start the day. Time is ticking, so I turn to go. Hands in empty pockets, I discover I have dropped my cell phone that I carry for safety. Darn, darn, darn. I peer in the darkness at the sand and rocks around me. No luck. Going over my options, my morning full of good choices takes a turn for the worse: I can wait for enough light to see, or I can head home now, leaving my phone to sit in the rain all morning, until I can come back to look again. I decide to wait for the light. It always comes, right? More yoga. More sticks in the river. More light rain. No light. I swear to you, because I’m WAITING for the light so I can SEE what I’m missing see what I’ve LOST - light does not seem to come. This is the longest pre-dawn ever. So what to do? Really, there’s nothing TO do, but walk and pray. I head down river simply because the path is wider in that direction. The rain comes down harder; I stumble; it remains dark. On and on I pray. The more I walk, the more people come to mind. I don’t know exactly what is getting “solved” as I walk, but I begin to know that this is exactly how my morning is meant to be spent - in praying long and hard for others in the dark. I call out the names of the many I know who struggle with depression. I lift up every person in our “Make a Living, Have a Life” groups, as each one so earnestly desires holy guidance for their life’s work. Walking through the 3-feet-tall, stinging nettles along the riverbank, I pray for creation, for the migrations just beginning. I pray for good government, for justice workers, for my family, for my work mates. I giggle my prayers over our efforts to “get technical” on Facebook, in blogging, and on our website - “Lord! Help us! We really prefer face to face small groups here! Show us how to do this!” Suddenly, I’m laughing my prayers. The joy of prayer! The gift of walking in darkness, with nothing to do but turn it all to God. Repeatedly! I’m so wet! The dogs are so happy! Ever so slightly, morning has come. It is gray, misty, cool, and light enough to see. Heading back uphill, I see my cell phone lying on the path, exactly where I took my jacket off, and no worse for the wear. I think of writing this experience up and sharing it with you, as I head 95