Drama

Poles have a reputation and they do a good job upholding it. Polish politics are fractious. To put it mildly. Polish politics are a contact sport. The level of name-calling, petty muckering, silly and vindictive obstructionism is without parallel in the universe. That's what my Polish friends will tell you. They have no idea. In an article in this week's Polityka, on the 20th anniversary of the commencement of Poland's first non-communist government, its first post-communist Prime Minister, Tadeusz Mazowiecki, spoke to journalist Jacek Zakowski about these past twenty years of democracy. "It was very hard to fight for freedom over the years," he said, "and then it turned out that the building up of freedom was not easier." [crude translation mostly mine] Jerzy Baczynski, chief editor of Polityka, wrote this week of "verbal aggression," and the excesses of popular opinion, putting party above all else, and "not only in Poland." Oh, preach it brother. There has been an awful lot of drama during this peaceful transition. So it goes. "The quality of Polish politics, and Polish politicians has broken down during these past 20 years," he writes, and then, in a truly Polish touch, celebrates that, in fact, this is only normal, "normality." This is how it goes in times that are "not extraordinarily serious or romantic," like too many times in the past, WWII, the Partitions, failed insurrections. This is normal, is the message. And an important one. This is what democracy looks like, acts like, sounds like. Nevertheless, all three men lament, we can do better, we have missed opportunities because of our failures to work together. But, in spite of the missed opportunities and deterioration of the quality of public debate and leadership, the Poles -- and the journalists credit Mazowiecki especially -- have "disrupted the fate of Poles over two hundred years" that rarely succeeded and stopped the run of "heroic failures and big initiatives that ended in tragedy." "Poles have argued forever," he writes. Of course. Fractious. Contentious. Shoots self in foot. But they have made something out of, well, not out of nothing but out of not much. Their transition from communism to market capitalism and democracy is nothing short of a miracle, especially that it has come to pass without any road map, no precedents, and no violence. And believe me, the dangers were not absent. They've done enough, listened enough, reformed enough. You will hear me complain -- on their behalf, of course -- of Poles not getting their act together sufficiently to build a decent national highway system. The process of privatization lags. And the current President has been known to send Polish foreign policy entirely off the rails in the course of an afternoon. It's not always a pretty sight. But, they did it. They do it. Somehow. So. Here we are. I'm thinking we have sunk beneath the level of normal. We Americans have, without question, grabbed the trophy out of the Poles' hands, the trophy that is for stupid, reckless, self-defeating politic rhetoric. "Verbal aggression," and "slander of the state is incredibly harmful," Mazowiecki says. Amen. We are all drama all the time. Never mind substance, let's go for theater. Children's theater, at that. As I listen to the discourse about our need to reform health care I am distressed almost to the point of complete despair and cynicism by the lack of respect that I hear coming from the red side of the aisle's populist supporters and, to an extent, the political leaders themselves. How on earth are we going to get something this complex figured out if we don't listen to one another? How can we succeed if we don't stop repeating as fact those things that have been proven false, beyond a reasonable doubt, or even, to use the lesser standard, by a preponderance of evidence? How can we make something good for ourselves and all our citizens if we do nothing more than hurl accusations, inflame passions, and misrepresent and malign the goodwill of those who have different proposals? To paraphrase Steve Jobs in his bid to recruit John Scully to Apple, "do you want to keep selling sugared water" -- in this case, poisoned water -- "or do you want to change the world?" We need respect. We need restraint. We need fairness and honesty. And, if it's not asking too much, I'd even like to request some good humor. We need to be worthy of this great gift we've been given, this history, this treasure of democratic freedom. We are in the gutter. And we're rolling around in mud. Can we stop now? I'm not sure who in this country has the moral authority anymore to call us to account, as Mazowiecki does, as an institution like Polityka does. Let's take a lesson or two from the new Polish democracy. They will be flabbergasted we asked. {And speaking of trophies, we were, weren't we, how about we send Caroline Wozniacki home with the big one from the U.S.Open.}

No drama

We don't even have a wheel cover on the left front tire. "Not too many '97 Voyagers come down this street," Dave remarked as we turned around in a cul de sac after leaving the mongo house where Annika is having dinner with friends before they all head over to the Homecoming dance. "Oh, I disagree," I said. "Their cleaning people drive them. And maybe the fish people. And the pool people. And the light-changing people. And the flower people. And the yard service." Actually, my good friend's cleaning lady has a much nicer, newer minivan than me. It does occur to me when I visit my friends in neighborhoods just a scootch bit different than mine, when I drive through the gate the sentry probably assumes I'm a service person rather than a friend. Doesn't bother me none, just makes me smile. And feel glad my friends aren't put off by the difference in our economic status. Or, I hope, the lack of a wheel cover. Damn things keep falling off. We're back from the ritual picture-taking, just up the road, at her friend's house, about two miles and two million dollars from here. Annika asked me this afternoon about how we did the picture thing when I was in high school. We didn't. A boy came to the house with an orchid or a mum corsage. We awkwardly exchanged greetings with my parents. He fumbled with the flower, not wanting to touch me there, at least not in front of my father. I honestly don't remember ever taking pictures. And, thank heavens, none survived. I think there was a photo booth at the prom but not everyone availed themselves of it. You went out to dinner with, maybe, one other couple. You went to the dance. You went out 'parking.' You came home. No limos. No reservations for thirty-five, or sixty. No excursions to the Botanic Garden or an especially beautiful hotel lobby for photography. When my older daughter was a freshman in high school I discovered that we parents were invited to show up at 5:00 at one of the girl's home for pictures. It seemed like overkill for both Dave and me to take a few snapshots so I went off with the camera and showed up in whatever I'd been wearing that afternoon. Oops. I walked in to join a group of parents looking dressed for dinner at the country club, sipping wine and dipping celery into a low-fat dip. It was an event. After pictures on their terrace overlooking the lake, we were invited for to stay for cocktail hour. I fit right in. Or not. Eight years later, I've mastered the drill. When time came for my younger daughter's first Homecoming, we spent more hours looking for the best place to take pictures than for her dress. And it wasn't my idea. Just so you know. In fact, great drama was created by some of the other mothers around this very issue. Sigh. Sometimes the kids go out to eat and more recently, they have been having dinner together at somebody's home. The house is chosen for its photogenic qualities. We've got a gorgeous backyard but our house is not deemed suitable for inside pictures: ceilings too low. Tonight we had our choice of two staircases. The circular one in the entry hall won out. Of course, the initial plan was to pose the kids outdoors with the Scottish style golf course, its berms and bern, in the background. Too bad it was pouring rain. Our younger daughter is now a senior and she is SO done with all this. For the first two years there were hair appointments for updo's, manicure and pedicure appointments, make-up appointments, matching shoes, a wrap, flowers, jewelry. Today she came home from the football game and parade and lounged around in sweats until, oh, about an hour before departure. She took a shower, dried her hair, put on the dress she wore to another dance last year, found some shoes, decided they were too uncomfortable and left the house wearing flip flops. Don't tell Michael Kors. I wore jeans and a no-great-shakes shirt. Too bad. We drove the '97 minivan. It fit right in. Or not: among the SUV's and Audi's and Beemers and a lowly old Jeep Wagoneer. I'm sure the guard at the gate wondered what we were doing there. The hosts were lovely and we had wine and cheese and stood around waiting for everyone to arrive, the boys looking beyond uncomfortable in their dress shirts and ties, girls in adorable strapless, flirty dresses and, except for one very special young woman, glittery, matching shoes. Updo's and stunning, subtle jewelry, and a little glitter on the cheeks were de rigeur. They looked gorgeous! They're seniors now so the girls and boys don't separate as they used to, into tiny knots several feet apart; the awkwardness is gone. I found myself wondering..., oh, never mind. We parents stood in another room and shared small talk which, this year, has devolved into a theme and variations on, "my how time flies." Next September these kids will be scattered from East Coast to West and everywhere in between. I wonder what they all think of that. Everything is the last time for these kids, their last Homecoming, last first day of school, last football season. I wonder how many of them will ever see each other again. So it goes. I can't tell you how pleased I am that my daughter wore flip flops. She looked great!

That Day

My day started with donuts. Dorothy Lockhart, definitely among the Mazerati's of God's creation, one of the most genuinely spiritual and irreverent people I've ever met, was scheduled for heart surgery at 6:30 a.m. at Porter Hospital. I arrived at 5:45 to find the family waiting room empty, no coffee anywhere, and Dorothy being treated to a few ugly pre-surgical procedures. I ran over to the King Sooper's at Colorado and Yale and bought a chocolate-frosted donut and a very large cup of coffee. Okay, I bought two donuts. Dorothy and her husband, Bruce, were ready to visit with me and pray together when I returned, and then the anesthetic started its work and Dorothy faded away from the demands of consciousness for the next five hours. She awoke to a world changed and to find one of her favorite people in the world now overwhelmed by grief. Pastors never have one day like another. Hospitals, hospices, courtrooms, and classrooms were as familiar as my office and the church sanctuary as venues for my work. Crazy hours were normal. I didn't have a regular work day, never had, in twenty years. Pre-dawn surgeries and late night crises in emergency rooms were routine. I got emotional whiplash on occasion, moving directly from a pre-divorce counseling session to story time with the pre-school to lunch with the architect the church was engaging for a renovation project. Over time, and by inclination to begin with, I got so comfortable with this dizzying pace and variety that I rarely noticed how much it demanded. The early morning pastoral visit on this day gave me a window I coveted, time to head back home briefly to see the girls before school. The soft classical music I listened to in the car gave me time to settle into the day. As it turned out, I missed seeing my older daughter but opened the door from the garage into the house to find my husband and younger daughter standing, transfixed, in front of the television. A plane flew into a building. It was 7:03 a.m. mountain time. Like all of you, we watched in disbelief. It only got worse. We heard the catch in Pentagon reporter Jim Mikleszewski's voice as he first felt and heard a crash there. Eventually, Dave and I left together to take our younger daughter to school. I went on to the church and spent time consoling parents of our pre-schoolers, some of whom were fire fighters. I spoke on the phone to a church member whose son worked in the White House and went over to their home amid reports of several planes unaccounted for and, reportedly headed for Washington. As you remember, it was a beautiful, sky blue day. I drove past the football fields at my daughter's high school. At 8:47 a.m. Denver time came the first AP report of a plane crashed in a field north of Pittsburgh. I shivered. I was directly opposite the high school athletic field on Windermere at the moment. I will never forget that. It is as vivid as anything in my life, ever. It was an inconclusive report and no details were known, including whether or not it had anything to do with the attacks on New York and Washington. I pulled over to the side of the road and just sat a few moments. It was the last time for several days that I would take time to do that. We all have our 9/11 stories and all of them are important. Up to this point, mine was not all that different from most of yours, those of us, anyway, who were not in NYC or Manhattan. To you, David, Ann, Barbara, Reji, Mike, and others, my heart is with you this day, too. I'd been with the family of the young person working at the White House for, perhaps, half an hour when their phone rang. She gasped. After a moment, she indicated the call was for me. I will never forget what followed. Ground zero had come home to Littleton. The directions I was given were wrong. That just added to the disorientation of the day. The door was opened by a woman I knew but had never seen distraught. She was in shock. Now, today, September 11, 2009, I am watching the MSNBC re-broadcast of that first morning, in 'real time.' It is the first time I've ever seen the rest of that day's larger story unfold. And this is the first time I've ever written about or told my larger group of friends here about it. On 9/11 I was cocooned within a home in Littleton with a family for whom ground zero was a field in Pennsylvania and their home on a quiet street. A TV was on but muted. The house was visited by official personnel from an airline. Sheriff's officers set up a perimeter to keep news crews away. Friends drifed in and out. It was surreal. The family's story belongs to them to tell. I will tell you that it was a day of terrible grief and sadness. Confusion and disbelief. Public confirmation of flight numbers. Official visits and details. One very small shred of hope. That was gone by early afternoon. Terrible ironies. Crushing grief. Shock. I close my eyes now and am back there. See the faces. See the sofa, the table with fresh flowers. Open the front door to more friends. At one point, let the sheriff in to use the restroom. Feel cut off from the rest of the world. Utterly absorbed in one tragedy, one family's terrible loss. Stunned. By the end of the day, another church family called to report the death of a loved one in Tower Two. Another pastor went to care for them. A prayer service was arranged for the evening in the church sanctuary. I stayed where I was. This national tragedy had become for one family, and another, and another and another, all over America, a very personal one. And so it was for the next weeks. Out there, on the television, on the hearts and minds of everyone else, a terrorist attack the magnitude of which we'd never imagined. In here, it was personal. It was not until this morning, as I listened in 'real time' as of that day, that I've been able to imagine what it was like for the rest of the country, watching the ongoing coverage with its panic and chaos from Lower Manhattan, reports of more bombs, nuclear-winter-like conditions near Ground Zero, people jumping, debris filling the streets. I heard about these reports but did not experience them then. The sense of fear you all felt as rumors swirled around, of more attacks, I didn't feel then. I was utterly consumed, feeling and responding to the tragedy at a very different level. The next days and weeks were filled with one family, and another's specific plans for memorial and other details, and with caring for persons whose lives were ripped apart. And with caring for a church community also grieving with its members. The next time I remember having time -- being able to disengage from the intensity --came in the early evening after the memorial service, a week later. I got in the car and drove up and down the highway that fronts the foothills, again and again, and burned off some of the adrenalin that had spiked and surged nonstop for seven days. I hadn't slept. I hadn't cried. I pulled over in the parking lot at the Red Rocks and breathed. Again, again. For the first time. Poor Dorothy woke up late in the afternoon of September 11. Another pastoral minister was there for her and Bruce. She didn't learn for a day or two that her dear friend had suffered the ultimate loss. I've never been back to that King Sooper's on Yale. Two weeks later I was preaching when we all heard the first plane fly over on its way to Centennial Airport. The congregation told me afterward that I gasped. Life is never the same.

Homeless in Nebraska

Ten years ago today our family was homeless. In Nebraska. For five hours. Four strong men with arms as big around as the football they tossed back and forth a few times carried four filled-up file cabinets out of the basement of our Naperville house and onto an oversized moving van that was eventually stuffed absolutely to the hilt with all of our worldly possessions. My mother's cedar chest, the girls' doll houses, the ping pong table, three queen-sized hide-a-bed sofas, twenty DIY teak bookcases, seventy-five boxes of books, and a few pots and pans lined the driveway as two more men with as much mathematical as physical skill devised a way to pack it all in. I'm pretty sure my dressor made the entire 1100 mile trip upside-down. I must tell you. These men were not happy about hauling all of our stuff out to the truck. They complained every single minute. By the time they had finished, they were a regular Greek chorus: "Don't Go! Don't Go! DON'T GO!" "You can't move those beautiful girls to Littleton," they went on and on, and on. "It's not safe." We moved to Littleton Colorado a few months after Columbine. That Columbine. As Henry picked up a stack of four big blue Rubbermaid tubs filled with Polly Pockets and My Little Pony, stuffed animals and Beany Babies and Barbies, he pleaded with me, "It's not too late. You don't have to do it." Up until the last minute when they slid rakes and shovels under the barbeque grill and then set the bikes up before padlocking the heavy double doors they begged. "Please, don't move to Littleton." The great irony, to my mind, came in hearing these black men from the south side of Chicago warning us against going to the -- up until recently -- milquetoasty town of Littleton. The moving van rumbled off. We, okay, I cried. A lot. Then we all cried. I was in a state of shock. I knew it was the right thing to do but it seemed unbelievable, an out-of-body experience. We walked through the house one last time, found a forgotten baseball, hugged our beloved Linda, next door neighbor par excellence, and set off in our caravan of, oh, how cute: Caravans. Both Dodge minivans -- yes, we had two -- we likewise stuffed to the gills with computers and such and all we would need for the next week until the moving van was scheduled to unload. Heading west, one parent and one kid per car, we set out for Iowa, and Nebraska, and Colorado. There are two ways to drive west from Chicago. We took the tollway that requires an easy transition up to Interstate 80 two miles before the Mississippi River Bridge. You might think these are tedious, irrelevant details but, oh no, watch. Something's coming. The signs from I-88 to I-80 began five miles out. "INTERSTATE 80 IOWA NEBRASKA WESTBOUND EXIT RIGHT 5 MILES." Another sign reminded us at the three mile mark. And another, very big sign, a banner sign spanning the width of the highway, at the two mile mark, "EXIT RIGHT TWO MILES INTERSTATE 80 WEST MISSISSIPPI RIVER BRIDGE IOWA." I moved to the right lane. One mile, another big sign. One-half mile, another sign. And even at the quarter-mile point, another enormous sign. "NEXT RIGHT: IOWA 80 WEST." Well, duh. At the exit, another banner sign with a long arrow pointed right, "EXIT NOW I-80 IOWA." I missed the exit. Kaia looked over at me, "Mom?" Within the mile, the road petered out. Dave pulled up next to me and asked, "where are we going? Do you need to stop?" "No. I just missed the exit." "You missed it!?" "I missed it." "How do you miss that?" A very good question. We backtracked, Dave led the way, we got on the road and drove on. West. In Iowa. We had planned to drive through the night. Probably, a bad idea. We pulled over on a side street in some town in the middle of cornfields and took turns taking naps. By ten o'clock on the morning of Friday, September 10, 1999, we had made it all the way west past Grand Island and Kearny, and were almost to Gothenburg -- where my grandmother, Hannah, settled as a three-year-old, arriving with her parents and six siblings after their ocean crossing from Sweden in June of 1886. My cell phone rang. I signalled Dave to pull over. The call was from Win Wehrli, our real estate attorney in Naperville, letting us know he'd completed the closing on our old house and the money was in the bank. The girls whooped and hollered, "we're homeless! We're homeless!" What a privileged life we lead. To joke and make light of the fact. Knowing, of course, it was temporary. It took my grandmother, Hannah, days to get to Colorado from Gothenburg. We zipped through Ogallala and Big Springs and were in Denver four hours later (yes, I drive very fast! and Dave will too, to keep up), and had closed on our new home by three that afternoon. And so it is that our family came to live in Littleton. Ten years ago today. Even tho' I missed the exit. Should that have told me something?

How do you say that?

Let's get the most important business done first. Caroline Wozniacki has the best outfit in the U.S. Open. Not Serena or Venus this time, or Maria Sharapova. But the Polish girl. Of course! Polish women are all about style. Even in the most desperate days, designers were whipping up clever, cutting edge fashions. "Go to Chmielna, then two doorways down and into the first courtyard, through the arch to the second passageway and around the corner to your right, the third doorway and down the stairs..." Sure enough. Bold, dynamic fabrics and cuts, lovely dresses, always elegant and sensuous. To die for. So, with flounces, delicate mauve color, and smashing deeper lilac coat, of course it's the Polish girl who shows up in the loveliest tennis dress. Oops, not Polish. Danish. Caroline Wozniacki is from Denmark, wouldn't you know. Her parents are from Poland. Boy that does that sound familiar. Over the centuries Poland has lost some of its very best (but not all of them!) to emigration. Sadly, Poland has proved an inhospitable and stifling environment for too many of its own. Chopin, Madame Curie, to name only two of their most beloved native sons and daughters. Caroline's parents, Anna and Piotr are top flight atheletes and moved from Poland in the late 1980's to pursue their sports, especially Piotr who joined a professional soccer team in Denmark. Caroline was born and grew up there and so, of course, if you ask her, she's Danish. Except for tax purposes. Like so many of Europe's wealthy celebrities, now she's from Monte Carlo. The late 1980's were horrific in Poland, a depressing period when many young adults decided to give up on the possibilities of change coming soon enough to do them any good. I have Polish friends who left then for Australia, Paris, England, the States, and Sweden. Now my Polish friends are Swedish and have thoroughly Swedish kids. We find that ironic -- I was the Swedish-American about whose Swedish background much was made. Caroline is Poland's best hope for glory at the U.S. Open this year. Even if she speaks English with a strong Scandinavian accent. And, oh my goodness, a class act. For the record, Oudin and Wozniacki played an entire set of tennis in the time it took the President's special guests and Cabinet to entire the Joint Session of Congress. And they were halfway through the second before President Obama got in and started speaking. I'm not sure if that says more about our political traditions and falderal or the pace of this match. Now, let's get that name right. It is not Woz - nee - ack - ee. (emphasis on the third syllable) Say it with me, everyone, everyone: [emphasis on the second syllable] Vozh - n'y atch - ke.

Unremitting Relief

Time for a good Polak joke: The Pole has a dilemma when asked, "You have two prisoners in front of you, a Nazi and a Russian, and you get to shoot them both. Which would you kill first?" "The German, of course. Duty before pleasure." That joke is dated. Thank god. That era is over. Some of my favorite Poles would not think it a pleasure to shoot Russians in any case. But the age-old conflicts still stir about. Unresolved history stands in the way of moving forward. And not only between nations. One of my favorite things about myself is my sense of humor. Perverse, perhaps. Droll, wry. But unremitting. My old friend, Steve Elde, wrote tonight, "I laugh, therefore I am." It is the truth. It is the absofricckinglutely pligging truth. The first thing I read after I'd been attacked was humor. Calvin Trillin is my drug of choice. I reread everything he'd ever written and even the serious stuff I figured out a way to find it funny. Then it was the joke threads on the internet. And Calvin and Hobbes. And Dilbert: "Since when did ignorance become a point of view?" I still want an answer to that one.

I Am My Dog, My Dog Is Me

I am just like my dog. Daisy and I have too much in common. It disturbs me. It does. Something happened to her before she came to live with us, something to do with lightning. More than thunder, she is terrified of lightning. And she has a visual radar that alerts her to lightning that can be seen only from the other side of the house, only by peering out a window while standing sideways on tiptoe. In other words, her threshold for anxiety about lightning is, roughly, nil. If there is lightning in Wyoming, I'm convinced Daisy is aware of it. Likewise Kansas, Nebraska, Utah and New Mexico. And probably Oklahoma. Aware of it and anxious. There is one spot where she feels safe, but only sort of. She is too nervous to settle down tonight and now I'm antsy myself. Anxiety is contagious. I've held her and petted her and given her a million little love talks. I don't know about you but I baby my dog and speak to her as if she were an infant. If she only understood me when I tell her it's okay, she's safe. But I understand that. I understand that she doesn't understand. I understand her animal brain oh, far too well. In acute danger, our brains switch to auto-pilot. This is not the night for a serious scientific discussion of brain function, I'm sorry, I'm too anxious. But it is a night I can relate to you that the brain on terror is a brain that gets fried, fast. Too much cortisol, too much stimulation, the circuits fry. Mine did. It takes a long time for them to heal. In the mechanical, inanimate world, recovery is not possible. In our human world, our sophisticated brains, it is. But it doesn't come quick. There is nothing rational for my dog to be worried about tonight. The lightning is miles and miles away. Almost to Kansas. But she doesn't get that, her brain doesn't sort out that kind of complex information. It is on a default setting. It sees lightning and goes bananas. DANGER! And there is no talking her out of it. It's like that old setting has been baked in, or programmed to the point it can barely be undone. I'm like that. My brain is still practicing -- okay, all of us, our brains are still practicing -- and it has a long ways to go. It is locked on the default setting that says, "DANGER" whenever I see people, in person. That's a problem when it comes to living on this planet. I see people and my animal brain goes bananas. I don't sort out complex information as readily as I used to, as -- I hope -- you do. But I'm healing. Learning, or unlearning, or relearning. And it's coming along. Frankly, I'd rather be terrified of lightning than people. But people were my lightning. Out of the blue, from the most unexpected sources, people did very dangerous things that caused me grave injury. I don't trust them. I don't feel safe around them. It's irrational, I know, I know. But it was burned into my animal brain. It took me a long time to figure out why I felt safe in Poland. Nobody there tried to kill me.

Tellin' Ya Now, Just So You Know

I can be a voyeur anywhere. Chancey Gardner had it right. "I like to watch," he said, and I am all over it. If I had my way, I'd spend the rest of my life looking. I'd happily wander the face of the earth, from the south of France to middle Siberia, gliding across the icy north with my Lapplander ancestors and sail over sand dunes in Namibia. I'd buy a Range Rover and roam the back roads and dirt lanes, logging trails and dried up streams nearer my home, through ghost-like prairie towns not far from here, like the one where I spy a grungy old hippie through the grimy, smudged window of his tiny trailer, brooding, idle in the middle of the afternoon, surrounded by squalor that extends from the broken-down, rusted rubbish strewn and tumbleweed filled yard that I can see to the whisky bottles standing empty on greasy counters that I imagine, inside. The shell of an old greyhound bus is fading nearby, while a scrawny white horse looks for a few healthy stems of grass to munch. Rocinante, anyone? It all makes me wonder. I'll watch anywhere, spy on anybody. Mind you, I'm no peeping-tom. I don't go in for kinky, or intrusive, but it's probably safe to say that my habit verges on nosy. Today I'm watching tennis, of course, but a report has just reached me from the Taste of Colorado downtown. Poco -- heard of them? remember them? -- played a few sets on the main stage in front of their old, and now I do mean old, fans. And some of them still light up. The fragrant aroma of sweet grass wafted through the crowd. Well into their seventh decade, a posse of five passed around a reefer, just like the old days and they'd clearly not lost their touch, cupping it close. A mixed bouquet of establishment and barely funky types, baseball caps over not-long, wavy hair joined by a guy wearing a pony tail way down his back, tattoos, nobody blinked when the pot appeared. Sunday afternoons in Warsaw tend to be a bit more traditional. Last Labor Day weekend, I wandered the Old Town along with families and young couples, queueing for ice cream, tripping over cobblestones. Ancient men in long white beards drove old-fashioned carriages led by Percherons down chimney-wide streets and toothless old biddies hawked cracker-crusty baby bagels. Six-year-olds with flaxen hair begged for mylar balloons, a pink unicorn being by far the favorite. I flirted with the prospect of stepping in and buying one of those miniature metal license plates with your name on it, for a sweet-faced kindergartner who wanted one the worst way, Andrzej. Lovers snuck kisses in dusty vestibules. Ladies gossiped. Children pulled, hard, on their mother's arms, they begged for cotton candy and whistles carved from beechwood. I walked behind two matrons in mohair hats (it was much too warm for any sort of hats) who seemed to have it in for their missing neighbor. I assume her ears were burning. Teenagers horsed around, climbing on the town wall and laughing at tourists who tripped. A bunch of kids were clustered around a ball of string attached to a kite so high you could barely see it. I took a step backwards, to get a better shot from my camera, and almost fell off the wall. The boys laughed. So did I. But, I swear, this is how I'm going to die: stepping backwards off a wall, a cliff, a rock, a roof.

Blanka, Bold and Beautiful

“We knew the war was coming. They taught us to shoot.” Halina pulls me down to sit right at her ear, down into the faded upholstered sofa, an overstuffed shelter that invites secrets and has, over the years, harbored confidants from London to Kiev, Montreal to Minsk. I ask why she decided to join the resistance and take up fighting. I had might as well have asked her, why didn’t she live on the moon. “Was there a choice? Not for me. What else would I do?” Algebra comes to mind. Halina’s gem-blue eyes are not the least bit clouded, not with age or with sorrow, and her tone is nothing but blunt as she answers my question, “but where, how did you learn to do this?” I could be asking her telephone number, for all the drama I get out of her. She is all matter-of-fact, cool, unencumbered by emotion. “In school,” she goes on. “Our teachers prepared us for war. For life.” The tiniest edge of exasperation creeps into her voice as 86-year-old Halina, code-named “Blanka” by the Polish resistance in World War II, describes her school curriculum in the months leading up to Germany’s invasion of Poland in 1939. “What else would we do? What else should we be learning?” Of course, I think. This makes sense. I think again. Fifteen-year-old school girls, learning to shoot? People. Learning to shoot people. To shoot soldiers. Using torsos for target practice. Preparing for war? This makes no sense at all. Halina is the best friend of my best friend’s mother, Leonarda. They lived in the same building, across the hall, for thirty-five years, and Halina lives there still, climbing six flights of stairs up and down, maybe more than once a day, avoiding the elevator unless the steps are being washed – she knows what time this is done daily – or she is exhausted from too many errands, from too long a trip across town. Halina makes me feel lazy. She has taken three buses and a tram, no, two trams, to get here today, to Leonarda’s new home, a garden apartment on the far edge of town, a long subway ride from the center – if you’re a subway sort of person – or the three buses, two trams and, did I mention, the mile walk at this end.. Halina is impeccable in her everyday outfit, a tailored, silky blue blouse with pearl buttons and delicate ruffle detail around the collar, handsome wool sweater and coordinated, plaid skirt, fashionably sturdy shoes and leather handbag. I, on the other hand, look like a campaigner just in from the march, blown through a windstorm, by the time I arrive, shirt half-untucked, scarf askew, and hair falling out every side of my bun. Halina has not a hair out of place; it is exquisitely and, it seems, effortlessly swept up in a silver chignon. She is perfectly prim and proper, and tailored to a “t”. I quickly imagine that she would have been the well-turned out lady at the finishing school. And I would have come in need of a whole lot of finishing. She has a teacher’s mien. You feel obliged to say, “yes, ma’am; no thank you, ma’am.” I suck in my stomach and try to sit up straighter. Unfailingly gracious, she doesn’t raise an eyebrow, sigh, or silently groan. Rather, she greets me warmly, ignores my disheveledness, shakes my hand in the manner of a queen, then takes me to her bosom like a long-lost friend. I feel as though I should curtsy. Halina gossips to me about politics, customs and, surprisingly, Dancing With the Stars – the Polish version. We agree to disagree about our favorites, dancers and otherwise. After a fine chat about this season’s strawberries and breaking news from friends in Kiev, she resumes her stories about her history. “Every day we had shooting practice. Eventually, we stopped our other studies and spent all day preparing for war. Guns. Ammunition. How to run through the woods without being seen. What to do if we were cornered, caught. It was a routine.” Routine. In the same spring of 1939, my mother was perfecting her pie crusts, preparing embroidered towels for her trousseau, crocheting the edges of bed linens, making the antimacassars that remain carefully boxed in tissue paper to this day, passed on to her daughter, to me, safely tucked away in an antique carved bureau. When she was fifteen, my mother studied flower arranging, the care and keeping of fine fabric, and menu planning. Exactly the same age as Halina, my mother came of age in another world. In the days of middle adolescence, in the class for practical arts, my mother was sewing. Halina’s world required a different sort of home economics: Defend. And preserve. Halina learned to shoot. On the dry Colorado prairie, my mother maintained a steady battle with errant mice, straying under doorsills and up into rafters. A world and more away, in eastern Poland, Halina fought against invading Nazis, an army intent on the devastation of everything she held dear. In class, Halina learned to take apart, clean, put together, and load a gun. Blindfolded. All of a sudden, she stops. Interrupting herself in mid-sentence, Halina intuits a certain energy emoting out of the ether and she clicks the remote. Across the room, channels change and familiar music comes through the television. She is gone, lost to me now, enveloped in a reality as intense as the one she had been describing. She lets go my hand, drops it like lead, left awkwardly in her lap until I pull it back. I am forgotten. Her exploits are forgotten, she has dropped the thread of her story and it has vanished as surely as the world it recalled. Halina now exists entirely within the world on the screen. I turn to look at her face, concentration so intense it is unnerving, captivated by these characters who stand in a Hollywood apartment, with metal blinds and galley kitchen, and again, at a grim, hospital bedside. She is as there as they are. She penetrates through to their reality and she is part of it. For the next thirty minutes, she is Blanka, with The Bold and The Beautiful. Halina never misses her soap opera. Neither would my mother.

Was It Just Yesterday?

It seems like yesterday. Thank you, so many of you, who sent notes asking if I was okay. It didn't happen yesterday. Even though it seems so. It was, in fact, several years ago, not long before the attack in the parking lot. The car crash was only one incident in a long, ugly chapter. But it does seem like yesterday. In fact, it was yesterday, in 2002. Seven years ago. More than the memories are fresh. So too the sensations, the fear, the paralysis. That is the legacy of profound trauma. It comes back. Lurks around, lingers. And sometimes erupts into full-blown panic. Seventy years ago. September 1, 1939. The night before, Warsovians were living their lives, somewhat wary, worried. But not expecting the bombs to fall. They did. The first day of the war, bombs fell on Warsaw. Bombs fell on fleeing civilians on the roadways, intended to incite panic. Not quite out of the clear blue, but not what they expected, either. Shock. Terror. Panic. Paralysis. Frantic fleeing. We respond differently to traumatic events. Depending upon our life experiences, our current situation, the resources around and available to us, our health, our intellectual and emotional framework for understanding and absorbing the blows. And we respond differently to trauma at different points in our own lives. Again, depending. So many variables. I confess, I cannot imagine, just given my experience, how the citizens of Warsaw got through the experiences of war. Of course, the same can be said for other survivors of other wars but this story is about Poland and a significant reason for telling it is that it is so terribly unknown, unappreciated and it needs to be known and understood and given its due. Dresden, Coventry, London, we know. Warsaw, we don't. And we need to. My car crash was the beginning of the end of a tragic and terrible period in my life. It was also the beginning of the beginning of a different painful and challenging period in my life, of complete collapse and injury, and then, healing. My "war" was a lot shorter than the Poles, and a lot less physically injurious. Their war, WWII, was a six-plus year war that brought devastation and catastrophe on every level. Six million Poles, including three million Jewish Poles died during World War II, in those six years. They died in the most hideous ways. The survivors witnessed evil beyond comprehension. They experienced evil that defies imagination. How did they go on? How could they get up afterward and rebuild? Their experience continues to teach and encourage me. It also humbles and challenges. I too encountered unimaginable evil. I hope in these blog posts to explore, with you, the stories of anguish and renewal, of hope and courage, of conscience and humility. By weaving stories together, I hope we can see together how our lives and the lives of others are more connected than we might think, and to find new insight into our own messes. Meanwhile, getting back to the action.... For the third day in a row now, we woke up to the smell of wood fire smoke, and to see a reddish glow reflecting from the sunrise. I looked over at the wall opposite my eastern window to see the shadows of the sun dancing on the white paint. It was red. More than a thousand miles and several mountain ranges away, California, here it comes. It is eerie to wake up to the smell and the hazy air from fires. I can't begin to fathom the experience of waking up to the acrid smells and thick smoke from bombs falling on my city. September 1, 1939. To the survivors, it seems like yesterday.

After Midnight

After midnight. It was not all peaches and cream. It was 12:04 a.m. I stopped at the red light. A firetruck and accompanying ambulance spun out of the firehouse with lights blazing and the siren already blowing. The light in front of the station had turned red and, dutifully, I stopped. I'd been at the hospital that evening with Deanna and her family. Waited with them through an interminable interval as an ambulance was requisitioned, tracked down, and finally sent to transport her to hospice. She was dying of bone cancer. Actually, it was melanoma metastisized to her brain and her bones. Gruesome. Excruciating. Depressing as all hell. Deanna was not old by any measure. And if you counted age in terms of liveliness and generosity, Deanna was easily in her prime. She'd got a hole-in-one on the golf course not long ago. She was a vital and loving mother to her five children. She was a delightful partner to Ron. And then she got cancer. And got it again. And again. And finally, this was going to be it. Traditional, experimental, every kind of treatment -- all failed. It was awful. Awfully sad. But the family had been given a good day of time together. Take-in Chinese food, an aroma that beat the hospital smells all to death. Laughter. And peace. They were done fighting. At their request, I hung around, in and out, getting other work done in the waiting room as I waited for the ambulance and Deanna's final trip as a living, breathing human. They'd asked for a blessing when that time came. It got very late. Very very late. It was almost 11 when I left Swedish Hospital. I needed to stop in at my office on the way home. I arrived at the church at 11:15 to find a meeting still going on. It was one of those kinds of meetings, not a useful, good-spirited gathering. I clearly interrupted discussion that did not welcome me. But I answered questions, chatted a bit, stopped in my office and headed for home. Exhausted. More emotionally and spiritually than physically. Diabolical, that's what I was thinking. Deliberate, willful meanness. I wasn't familiar with it. Why are people like that? 12:04. Red light. Sirens blaring. And, BOOM. CRASH. CRUNCH. (There's got to be a better way to write about a car crash.) The SUV going 45 mph behind me didn't stop at the red light. It stopped when it slammed into me. No braking. That's what the cops told us, later. The driver just plowed right into the back end of my beloved green minivan. My head bobbed back and forth several times, hitting the steering wheel. My torso slammed into the wheel and I ended up sort of skewed on the floor between the front seats. Everything hurt. Badly. Ironic. To have an accident directly in front of the fire station but no ambulance. The firefighters heard the crash and ran out, assessed me and dialed my cell phone to call my husband at home. Not the call he wanted to get. A dispatcher inside tracked down a neighboring emergency unit and I heard it coming a mile away. I was in shock. I couldn't move my torso. And I was completely spent. Whatever heroic resources I usually summoned in a crisis had been used up. I ended up on a backboard in the back end of an ambulance and then in the Emergency Room. It was the beginning of the end.

"A flash of red"

The ship was there on a "Friendship Visit." Some friends. The first shot of World War II came at exactly 4:45 a.m. on September 1, 1939, from a German battle cruiser moored in the bay off the Free City of Danzig (Gdansk). "At that moment I saw a flash of red and the first shell hit the gate." Ignacy Skowron was a 24-year-old soldier from the south of Poland whose regiment was charged to guard a military depot on the peninsula at Westerplatte, near Gdansk. 182 young Polish soldiers faced the superior fire power of a battleship and 3,400 German troops. The Wehrmacht assumed the first battle of the war would be over in minutes. At the end of seven days, between 200-400 Nazi fighters had been killed, and 15-20 of the Polish troops had died, five of them in a dive-bombing attack on Day 2. Cpl. Skowron and his comrades fought back with machine guns against the persistent shelling from the battleship, bombing attacks, and, finally, flame-throwers. In an interview last month for the BBC, 94-year-old Skowron remembered the first moments of the war. "I took the telescope and looked out at the channel, first right and then left and then at the cruiser that was moored in the bay. At that moment I saw a flash of red and the first shell hit..." Indeed, the Schleswig-Holstein shot off a barrage of 170mm and 280mm shells that should have devastated the compound and demoralized the Polish army in hours, if not minutes. "I grabbed a machine gun..." the old soldier recounted. The ship shelled the depot for hours, then called in bombers. The barrage lasted for days. The site, and the regiment should have been vanquished immediately. Instead, heroic fighting continued for a week, inspiring the nation to continue its fierce resistance elsewhere in Poland, long after the Fuhrer's "Mission Accomplished" victory tour had come and gone. I visited Westerplatte in 1980. The concrete ruin of a guard house is imprinted in my memory. Skeletal, elemental against a piercing blue sky. Symbol of courage. Holding out. No surrender. It moved me then and it moves me now. Where does such courage come from? What made those men so brave? So determined? What kind of character does it take? Five men died when that building was bombed. Five men who could have given up already, the first day. Five soldiers who fought shells and bombs with machine guns. And darn near won. Westerplatte still stirs Polish hearts. As well it should. Doomed from the start, a small regiment held off the superior firepower and numbers of the enemy until, when forced to give up, the German commander allowed the Polish commander to keep his ceremonial sword, telling him, "If I had such an army I could fight the whole world." German Prime Minister, Angela Merkel, Russian leader, Vladimir Putin and 18 other world leaders joined Polish Prime Minister, Donald Tusk at Westerplatte today. Wreaths were laid. Words were spoken. Healing continued. The legacy of war stretches well into the third and fourth generations. Some things were broken that will never be repaired. Some things were lost that will never be regained. That's the way it is. Apologies, regrets or no. Lasting consequences. Lasting changes. History teaches hard lessons. And meanwhile, the Colorado Corvette Club made the local news this morning, on its way in caravan to Kansas City and beyond, to a national convention. No note of this anniversary in the headlines of U.S. newspapers and broadcasts. Life goes on.

The Day Before the Days After

I remember exactly. The moment we first contemplated the unfathomable. The moment, the time of day -- early evening, the sky outside my window -- hazy but cloudless, the feeling that came over me -- stunned horror. Unbelievable. Surely, not. Dave came in to where I sat reading, "Turn on the news," he urged. "New Orleans could be entirely under water by this time tomorrow." I remember thinking, "impossible." Surely this was a worst case scenario, the nightmare exaggeration. This is what could happen. But it won't. It couldn't. A whole city? Nothing like this, nothing of this magnitude had ever occurred in my lifetime, in my world, close at hand. It couldn't happen. Surely, not. We watched, glued to the screens through that night, just four years ago. I reluctantly went to sleep in the early hours of the morning only to come fully awake in an instant to blurry images on the television screen and the shocked voices of news reporters confirming the worst fears. Because I do what I do from home and on a flexible schedule, I stayed stuck on the story all day, as the flood waters poured in, buildings were submerged, and lives were lost. It was absolutely unbelievable. "This isn't happening." Yet, the odd sense of inevitability was coupled with the nagging questions, 'couldn't something have been done?' to prevent this horror. It was awful. And I was a thousand miles away. Life there, unimaginable. Absolutely unimaginable. My god. Crossing that devil ocean, to another time and place, another late August, this one 1939, Europe. Poland. The day before the day of, the days after. In one of his novels, Isaac Bashevis Singer writes of the last evening, August 31, 1939, in Warsaw. The cafes were filled with old friends sharing gossip and funny stories, families enjoying the late summer warmth, romance blossoming, shy lovers having a light supper. The scene he sets is not one of desperation but of life, ongoing, quite normal. As it was. Except. To be sure, soldiers were on alert, scouts were out scouting, diplomats were negotiating. But the die had been cast. Open archives from the British Foreign Ministry document the dozens of telegrams back and forth between Hitler himself and his high command, on the one side and the British foreign officers on behalf of their government, on the other. The duplicity of the German offers of continuing negotiations are heartwrenching to read at this late date. As late as 9:15 p.m. that last evening, the Germans acknowledge the Polish commitment (conveyed through the British) to enter into direct talks aimed at resolving the supposed issue, namely control of the port city of Danzig / Gdansk and a 'corridor' connecting Danzig with East Prussia, to the Germans' satisfaction. The tone of the telegrams alternates between respectful diplomatic protocal and imperious entitlement. The Poles are promising to talk, "we'll talk, we'll talk, we'll talk," they are saying. But even then, the Germans were poised and prepared to commence their attack in the wee hours of the morning, September 1. And, on this very evening, a small cadre of German convicts dressed in Polish uniforms "attacked" a German radio station in southern Poland, providing the final pretext for the Nazi's full-on assault on Poland. The next morning, the rest of the world awakened to the ridiculous news that Poland had attacked Germany. The promises of British and French assistance were the finger in the dike against a German declaration of war on Poland. Formal treaties were in place, promising assistance. But, Hitler knew something the Poles were unwilling to accept. France and Britain would not come to their aid. They would face the blitzkreig and the onslaught of the Nazi War Machine all on their own. The levees would not hold. Shock and awe. Do you remember the eve of the war against Iraq? How strange to watch it all develop on television. I think about the horrors that followed. And can almost begin to imagine the level of cruel, vicious assaults on Poland. But not only its military. The German bombers targeted civilians. This is what Hitler said on the eve of this war, a war he had no intention of calling off, for any reasons. There was a people to exterminate. No, two. The Poles. And the Jews. Hitler told his command, " I have sent my Death's Head units to the East with the order to kill without mercy men, women and children of the Polish race or language. Only in such a way will we win the Lebensraum that we need."

"In the Meantime" Living Between Memory and Hope

St. Augustine describes our human life succinctly, "We live between memory and hope." It is hard to live "in the meantime." In fact, it often feels like the mean time. Remembering is the mood of this day. Teddy Kennedy is gone from us, and the memories are pouring forth from his sons and daughters, his family and colleagues and friends, including Boston Celtics great, Bill Russell, who was just interviewed on MSNBC. Russell and Kennedy became good friends over the years, especially in the days when Black basketball coaches and players were unwelcome in Boston (and elsewhere). We've been hearing wonderfully poignant stories of Ted's commitment to the poor and disenfranchised, the outcast and the sorrowful. Remembering remarkable stories of generosity, perserverance and heroism enriches our lives by lifting us up above self-interest, self-pity, and self-concern. It was deeply moving hearing the words of Matthew's Gospel, as Jesus says, "inasmuch as you did this to the least of my brothers and sisters, you did this (good) to me." Kennedy's life was framed by these words that are suspended between memory and hope, command and fulfillment, expectation and reward. His sense of moral responsibility came straight out of the Scriptures. The meantime often feels to us like empty time, between already and not yet. I am frequently frustrated with impatience as I wait for what I trust is coming but not yet real. It can be a time of wallowing, paralysis, and distress. As the poet, T.S. Eliot, wrote, "suspended in time ... the soul's sap quivers." So, what do we do in these mean times, between starting and completion? Kennedy got busy. And his example and commitment inspire me this day. We're not there yet -- wherever we believe 'there' will be. There is so much to do. So much completing and fulfilling to be accomplished here on earth where "God's work must surely be our own." On the other side of the Atlantic, the Poles are remembering too. On any given day I can open the Polish News Agency compendium of news releases to find a list of anniversaries, and today is no different. The big anniversaries this weekend are the significant -- and epoch-changing -- agreement signed between Solidarity and the Communist government in 1980. And, also of epochal importance, the beginning of World War II, in 1939. This is the 70th Anniversary of the start of World War II and European leaders are gathering to commemorate this tragic occasion. Yesterday, the Polish President traveled to remember the anniversary of the liquidation of the Jewish Ghetto in Lodz. So many anniversaries. Poles are excellent at remembering, articulating the stories of past heroics and victories along with the tales of suffering and loss. Perhaps it is some influence of the large Jewish population within the Polish nation for centuries, this penchant for remembrance, for reciting the ancient stories. Nobody does it better. Dreams of future fulfillment are legion, too. Or have been. One of the difficult realities of Poland in this modern era is the lack of articulated vision. Once the future opened up and the euphoria of victory over Communism wore off, the long, hard sog of refashioning society commenced. Unlike the urgent needs of the Post WWII period, when the country lay in ruins and housing needed to be put up quickly and basic infrastructure restored, and there was still an external enemy to contend against, these last twenty years have been tedious and tendentious. Infighting and fractured loyalties have characterized this recent period. Nevertheless, and perhaps in spite of government actions (and the lack thereof), Poland has developed a strong economic engine, strong enough to be holding its own even in the current economic crisis. It is the mean time in Poland, as it is here. Listening to the litany of legislation written and passed under Ted Kennedy's leadership, one is profoundly moved by the legion of changes: Voting Rights and other civil rights legislation, Title 9, Medicare, Cobra, the Americans With Disabilities Act -- you've seen the lists. To think that only 50 years ago, segregation was legal. Only 50 years ago. In my lifetime. A "whites only" lunch counter, in my memory. I sat there. You may have, too. Or on the other side of that same counter. "Colored only." It went on too long. That it went on at all, morally reprehensible. We have accomplished a lot, changed so much. Bill Russell was asked what one might consider an absurd question this morning, to wit, Given the great changes that have occurred since the days when you were a scandal as a Black NBA coach to this morning when an African American President of the United States offered the eulogy for Senator Kennedy, can you say Kennedy's work is completed? Of course not. Russell was tactful, "It's not complete." We still live in the mean time. As Lech Walesa leads the celebrations of Solidarity's victory in 1980, and later, the observances of the start of WWII in 1939, we will remember sacrifice and success. But, with wars ended and a nation rebuilt, with democracy established and a much higher quality of life, there is too much yet to be done. A recent poll indicates that a startling number of Poles long for the [bad] old days. I get the sense at times that many Poles don't quite know what to long for, to work for, to aim for. Not yet. Suspended between initiation and completion, Poland still lives in the mean time. Between memory and hope.

What would you do?

Today is one that never passes without bitter, painful memories for a good friend of mine in Eastern Europe. It doesn't matter if she was from Poland or the Soviet Union, from Hungary, Czechoslovakia or the German Democratic Republic, East Germany. The same despicable thing occurred in all of them. She remembers the date easily because it was the day after, and the day before, two uniquely signicant occasions in her life. The birth of her first nephew. And the day of her own wedding. Something between twenty and thirty years ago. She is not one of my closest friends but we've had a longtime friendship and have shared some deep conversations and a few wild adventures. She told me this story not long after it happened, a bold move on her part as the dangers implicit were still at hand. It grieves me every time I think of this. She's given me permission to relate it so long as there are no distinguishing characteristics. Because she still is a little bit afraid. Amidst the last minute preparations for her wedding -- a civil ceremony at the town registrar's office followed by a party, a reception, if you will, at a lovely restaurant -- she was stopped in the florist's shop by a woman in the serious, ugly, ill-fitting wool suit of a bureaucrat and directed to come along to an office some blocks away. It was a time when very few people had cars and so, of course, they walked. In silence. Through the busy streets. Until the frumpy henna-haired official opened a door and pointed up the stairs. It was a dark and narrow stairway, behind a facade that was so nondescript one never noticed it. A small office with grungy yellowed walls awaited and behind a desk sat a stern doughy-faced and rolypoly man in a cheap black suit. She remembers noticing a flimsy metal chair opposite his and a lamp on the desk and flickering overhead lights that buzzed slightly. The details of the conversation that followed are so painful she has never found the nerve to speak of them except in generalities. She was asked questions about members of her family, and her family-to-be. She was asked about two of her former colleagues. She was given information that was intended to intimidate, to frighten her, with awareness that she and these friends and family had been under surveillance. The man in the black suit and the henna-haired woman suggested to her that embarrassing information could come to light in ways that would be damaging to her own career and that of these others. She was offered a choice. Compromise. Blackmail. Intimidation. It was excruciating. The stakes were not small. What would you do? Of course, I think, from the luxury of my world far away from hers, I would never give in. I would never allow myself to be coopted, to be bought. Nor would I succumb to the threat of humiliation, the loss of career. Oh, no. I think, I would be strong. Really? Am I sure? They offered her time to consider their 'offer.' She told me she felt cold dread come over her like a shroud. She alternately felt feverish. She began to shake, her entire body was shaking. She remembers it as an out-of-body experience, looking down at herself, so small, so scared, sitting in a battered metal chair. She turned her hands over and over again. And then she looked up. And, still feeling as though she was on the outside looking in at herself, she stood, still shaking, and squared her face into a firm grimace, looked at her two inquisitors, and said, "no." She turned and walked down the stairs and out the door. She didn't dare to stop and lean against any of the nearby doorways so she moved back across the streets of her town and walked for a half hour or so, faster and faster, until she felt she had begun to reinhabit her body again and was regaining control of herself. She went back to the florist, apologized for the interruption and completed her purchase of big blossoms for the reception. She carried on with the rest of her errands, went home, said not a word to anyone, and got up the next morning, put on her wedding clothes and was a beautiful bride. I'd known her for some time before she told me this story and it did not surprise me at all. By then, her character was clearly before me and she oozed integrity. Other choices she'd made were consistent with this one, if not so dramatic. Her courage took my breath away. Later in my life, I came to see that we too, even here, in not such a grim place or circumstance, are presented with difficult dilemmas, to compromise, to let ourselves be bought off. To tell secrets, to keep secrets, to give in to threats of blackmail. What I learned from my far-away friend is that such decisions have far-reaching consequences. She was free -- Free! -- to move through her life lightly. She was far less fearful than others I know, in a similar time and circumstance, who gave in. She never looked over her shoulder. And, not entirely surprisingly, none of the dire outcomes that were threatened ever came to pass. She is still a strong person of great resolve and integrity, well-respected and constantly creative. And a lot of fun! Complicity corrodes one's character. And undermines the good. It brings great harm to many people. I remember this on days like today, when I think of her, her wedding anniversary tomorrow, and her unflagging determination to do what is right. Happy anniversary, my friend!

Can you count on your allies?

The last days of August, 1939 were gloriously bright and sunny. The always fashion-forward women of Warsaw were home from summer holidays with the latest Paris couture. The streets were filled with color, smiley, kissy greetings, gossipy conversations. But. But. Looming just over the horizon, an ugly storm was brewing. An undercurrent of fear and impending doom frazzled nerves from Gdansk in the north to the Czech border in the south. And most especially along the western frontier with Germany. Hitler had already claimed the Sudatenland. Furious conversations flew across the continent, attempting to stave off the impending war. There were signs. Signs pointing to trouble. Disaster. But what could you do? Do what you could. That's all. Poland was counting on England and France. They had signed treaties, promising to come to the aid of the Polish nation in the event of a Nazi attack. Would this be enough to intimidate Hitler? Now, please. Don't ever misunderstand me to equate the magnitude of evil events in Poland, especially during the War, with the experience I had while a pastor here in Littleton. I only seek to make some extrapolations in order to help me, and perhaps help you, make some sense of basic human behaviors and events. Having said that.... It was gloriously sunny and bright here in the last days of August, ten years ago, 1999, as I prepared to move my family and to take up the responsibilities of serving as pastor of a local Lutheran church. No Parisienne fashions for us but we all had new clothes. I bulked up on clergy collars and skirts that work with black shirts. The girls prepared for a new school year, and a move. Dave started packing away his suits and ties, preparing for a more casual lifestyle. There would be hikes and trips to see golden hillsides of aspen, easy visits with extended family. But. But. There were signs. Not far over the horizon were disturbing signs of trouble. The allies I had to depend upon, colleagues in the regional offices of the church, were evasive, not altogether forthcoming, or even honest. It was worrisome. But I held off judging, and hoped for the best. Frankly, I hoped I was misinterpreting or misreading what I heard. What could I do? Be wise. Be open. Be careful. I did what I could do. I had promises, assurances of support. The question was, could I count on these allies? I believed I could. I believed them, believed in them. With all my heart, all my might. Poland learned in the long, awful month of September, 1939, that England and France were not jumping to their defense. It was disaster. I learned a little later that my allies would betray me. It was disaster. Devastating. Poland's allies came late to the war but they did come. And, while the alliance was fraught with difficulties for the duration of the war, they did work together. I wish to heaven I could say the same about the situation here. Not only for my sake, and my family's, but especially for the sake of God's work in the world.

"Is there any chance....."

I had x-rays on my bum foot the other day. I will forever remember the technician with gratitude. "Is there any chance you may be pregnant?" The last time I was pregnant was in 1992. August 19, 1992, to be exact. I was pregnant on that day for ten hours and four minutes. And then, and then, and then, Annika was born! Seventeen years ago today. The birthday bagel has been lit and the candles blown out. Birthday bags have been opened, oooh's and aaaah's have been expressed, the singing card has sung, the gifts have been gathered up and thanks for them has been given. The birthday dinner is being digested and the birthday girl has now gone to bed. Her alarm clock goes off in the morning at 5:15. We've hugged and laughed and been glad together for this amazing gift of Annika in our world. So, no. I'm not pregnant. Not a chance. Not even. But, oh, it was fun for a moment, to ponder the question. No, not of how it might feel to be pregnant again, to await another birth. But of what it might be like to be young enough again so the question could be something other than ridiculous. I took my time answering. And didn't say what I was thinking then, "are you kidding?" "Hell, no!" "Not on your life, sister!" I smiled sweetly. And gently said, "no." It's a little bit like getting carded, for an ID, when buying beer. Could I, really, look young enough? No.

Collateral Damage

Violence takes its toll on a much wider swath of the community than simply the few persons directly, and physically, harmed by attack. It is an oddly sad day for me. I've listened this afternoon to the live stream from the Churchwide Assembly of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, to which I belong and which I serve (albeit passively now) as an ordained minister. The annual gathering is in Minneapolis yet through the magic of internet technology, Twitter, facebook, and several blogs, I can feel as if I'm in the convention center. (And, at the same time, eat an ice cream sandwich and, more importantly, pet and comfort my dog, Daisy, who is terrified of the ongoing thunderstorm.) I watch my friends make speeches on the video screen that introduce the Lutheran Malaria Initiative, our partnership with the larger UN Foundation's "Nothing But Net" campaign to provide malaria nets to everyone in Malaria-prone areas of Africa, Cindy, Andrea and others. This is the same campaign that Bill Gates, Ashton Kutcher, and Bono champion. We're part of it. $10.00 from you buys a net. Saves a life. We Lutherans do this sort of thing really, really well! We get resources on the ground and with less overhead than almost anybody else -- including organizations such as the Red Cross, national government, and UN aid. In the aftermath of the tsunami in Asia, Hurricane Katrina, and other disasters, we had money and supplies in people's hands within hours. Our ten bucks a head will go directly to purchase the nets. We're very efficient at this sort of thing. Besides buying "nothing but net" we are very good at delivering medical care, training medical professionals in Africa, and promoting the development of essential infrastructure that brings long-term, self-sustaining progress in Africa and elsewhere. It is moving and wonderful to learn of this activity. It makes me proud of our church. It may be just about the best thing we do. My daughter plans to become a medical doctor, her special interests are public health and medical care to underserved communities. This initiative is something I could easily imagine her getting excited about, and perhaps even committing her time and talent to. Sadly, because of what happened to me, and the church's response to it -- this same larger church that does some things so well -- she will have nothing to do with it. Of course, my daughter's vocation will be carried out in fulfilling and important ways. And the church will find the personnel required to deliver the care it seeks to offer. But I always rather expected, and imagined, that my daughters would also serve through the church, in part because, in this arena, it does such a great job. Not only my daughters and husband are lost to this church, but scores of others. And not only as a consequence of my experiences, but in relation to hundreds of other instances where the church has failed to care for victims of violence within the church. There are millions of Americans who have become estranged from churches, ours and others, because of the crass, self-serving, and mean-spirited actions of its leaders. I respect their decisions, especially as many of them are deeply spiritual persons who have found creative and meaningful ways of serving the world and honoring its people. They are often profoundly compassionate, humble, and hard-working in the ways they do divine work, even without so naming it. My family has taken other paths over the past several years, ones in which they have discovered new ways of engaging their values and commitments. I am so proud of them. I honor and respect them more than I can tell. The world will be grateful and make excellent use of their gifts. And they will find exciting ways to give. But on a day like today, I'm reminded that we have come out at a very different place than I expected years ago. And I can not but feel melancholy and a bit sad. There is never a containment policy for violence. It spills out. In ways we could not have imagined. Beyond boundaries we could not have predicted. We need to count these costs. The church can get along much more easily without me than it can without all these others. And they are legion. Legion.

Don't Get Even, Get Odd

I am exhausted. A broken-down treadmill, a spindly-legged white wood table, a conical -- and comical -- yellow metal Christmas tree and two very large boxes filled with junk blocked the driveway when Annika got home late last night from time out with her friends. She entered laughing. And texting. Seems the friends decided to deposit a load of leftover garage sale junk at our house. A prank. A very funny prank, to my still juvenile mind. The kids came over soon after and -- isn't this nice? -- put all the stuff back in Tyler's truck. Good guys. Then they came inside. "Mom, we have some hungry teenagers here." We offered string cheese, Doritos, and popcorn. Easy crowd. "This is so great," I told them, "because I've been wanting to do just this very prank to some people and now I've got the stuff to do it with." Matt looked at me as if I were joking but I assured them I was not. Oh no. I'm serious. Very serious. PTSD does funny things to people. It left my brain with a hankering, no, a craving, an almost uncontrollable urge to do mean pranks to mean people. It started soon into the recovery period. "Let's deliver flaming bags of poop!" my friend suggested, joking. I wanted to do it. The very first reading I did as I started to think again in coherent passages was to surf the internet for "Prank and Practical Joke" threads. I printed out a few hundred pages of possibilities. It occupied my mind -- and offered the sweet promise of revenge -- for months. Eventually, I compiled a book of my favorites. My family got worried. Insomnia was also part of the package. I was awake long after everyone else had gone far far away into REM sleep. What if I took the car one night and did these deeds? What if I did post crime-scene tape and leave a chalk drawing of a victim on the sidewalk of someone's house? What if I had a load of sand delivered to the home of the man who stalked me? I am proud, I guess, to tell you now that I never did a thing. Not one. I helped my friend teepee her neighbor's house one night a couple of years ago but that's it. That wasn't even on my list. I've been very good. All things considered. No prank phone calls, no tomb stones on the church lawn on Halloween, no loads of crap in anyone's driveway. But, oh the temptation. Last night. Here was a ready-made opportunity. And I had six teen-agers all hepped up and dying to do the deed for me. "Just give us the address," Tory begged. "We'll do it!" "Ah, c'mon!" they urged. "We won't get caught. And you won't even be involved." I tied myself to a chair and put a sock in my mouth. This is so hard. My fictional alter-ego will not be so pure. She is going to haunt and annoy the perpetrators of dastardly deeds, relentlessly. Maybe. But not me. Not the real me. I did get odd but I can't even imagine how I could ever get even. Ever. I can't do it. I think this is a sign that my brain is healing. I hope so. Impulse control. A good thing. But, exhausting. I am, according to my family and friends, less odd every day. It does occur to me to wonder, do you think nations could ever get to this point? Maybe a few pranks (more of these another day) would be good. Just don't ask Cuba to do any teepeeing; they have a critical shortage of toilet paper at the moment. What if Poland left a pile of junk on Russia's driveway?

After Party for the Madonna

My fifteen seconds are up. That's how long Kaia was willing to listen to my explanation of the Immaculate Conception of Mary. When we got to the word "concupiscence," she bailed. You may wonder what prompted this explanation in the first place. That's easy. The Feast of the Assumption of Mary. And, should you wonder about that, the Feast of the Assumption of Mary is a national holiday in Poland. And it's today. "You have got to be kidding," she says. We say that a lot in this house. There are an awful lot of outrageous things said around here and most of them are not true. So, when someone says, "You've got to be kidding!" chances are they are. But not about this. Today, August 15, is a national holiday in Poland. That's right, on a par with Independence Day, Easter and Easter Monday, Corpus Christi, two National holidays (May Day, and May 3), New Year's Day, and the first and second days of Christmas (December 25 and 26). Tell me Poland is not still very much a so-called Catholic country. At least on the calendar. Mary, as in The Virgin Mary, is often (and still, though more rarely) referred to as the Queen of Poland. You may remember the late Pope John Paul II's reverence for Mary, and perhaps you saw Lech Walesa back in the day, never seen without an icon of the Virgin on his lapel. Mary saved Poland. In a most famous battle with the Swedes, in 1655, the Poles were pushed back to their battlements on the hills of a small village called Czestochowa. To make a long -- and lovely -- story short, a miracle occurred in the night. The Swedish army was repelled by a small band of monks and local volunteers. The Jasna Gora monastery itself at Czestochowa was saved and along with it, Polish sovereignty. A beloved icon -- portrait -- of the Virgin Mary presided over this monastery in Czestochowa and it was to her the Pole's had prayed in preparation for this monumental battle. The portrait had become darkened over time and was known by all as The Black Madonna. She is still there, a gorgeous painting, a mystical icon, revered by Poles, including some who are not even religious. She saved Poland. The Virgin Mary, Queen of Heaven, interceded on behalf of the fervent Polish nation and they were saved. Throughout the Roman Catholic Church communion, today is celebrated as the day Mary was assumed into heaven. And, in gratitude to her, and in her honor, today is a national day of celebration in Poland. There are some who will be celebrating a bit differently this year. In fact, it is not likely they will be paying much attention to the Virgin Mother, Queen of Heaven, at all. Madonna is giving a concert in Warsaw tonight. And not only was I invited, I'm invited to the After Party at You & I club. Irony of ironies. There are a lot of ticked off Polish Catholics today. "How dare she?" Today, of all days. And it wasn't even planned by those infernal communists. They're gone. Nah, it's those capitalists who set this up. Music as business. Madonna as a hot property. That's the way it is these days. It's all about the dollar. Isn't that the meaning of freedom? About the party...shall I go?

To Tell the Truth

...is boring. Truth, apparently, is too plain. Mousey, limp-haired, dull, flat-chested. Dull brown eyes, gangly, washed-out. Truth is boring. It must be. For all the dressing up it gets. I can't listen to the news anymore. I get apoplectic. Congressmen hung in effigy. Death threats. Loaded handguns at town hall meetings. The health care reform debate has degenerated into gutter-snipe. I'm scared. The truth of the matter at hand is boring. Thousands of words typed in eight point font, subjunctives, and subordinate clauses. Complex ideas and proposals. All of which is reduced to provocative slogans. That mislead. Misrepresent. Misinterpret. Slogans ginned up to excite and disturb, adverts paid for by stakeholders. Elected officials sounding more like two-bit pundits. Scare tactics. Fear-mongering. There is more obfuscation than clarification coming from the -- yes, I'll tip my hand -- right side of the aisle. "Obama will kill your grandma." "Mandatory abortions." You've heard them. I'm waiting for somebody to announce that frontal lobotomies will be required for the parents of teenagers. Or teachers of grammar. I'm not here to argue about health care. I've already got the best health and wellness insurance policy in the world (seriously) so I really don't give a damn about the rest of you all. No. Just kidding. In fact, because I do have the best health care one could possibly hope for, I believe I should not be especially privileged. You should have it too. I'm here to advocate for telling the truth. And specifically, to not shroud it in lies. Truth can be boring. And inconvenient. Not always but often, and especially for those who like the status quo, who have something to hide, something to gain from keeping the lights off. The guy who attacked me in the church parking lot was egged on by folks who were afraid that I was about to tell some inconvenient and upsetting truths about the history of the congregation I served, to disclose hidden information that had been poisoning its atmosphere for decades, about clergy sexual abuse. They stirred up an enormous fuss about the dangers of, well, me. I ate babies. I pooped bunnies. I cooked up cauldrons of toddlers for lunch. I don't really know what all was said, but it was ridiculous. I was a monster. I was dangerous. I had to be stopped. The issue at stake was not the threat of universal health care but a threat that I could disclose dangerous, old, and some not so old secrets. What if I told the truth? I had to be stopped. Ironically, I didn't even know all of the dangerous secrets at the time. I learned them afterward, from colleagues who helped me to understand why I was targeted and why the attacks were so vicious. It is true that sometimes, people will stop at nothing. And distracting lies get the mob stirred up. In that situation, as in the current one, the real perpetrators, those who have the most to lose, are in shadows, hidden behind preposterous accusations lest the real issues come out. I woke up trembling again this morning. Another nightmare. I don't have them as often as I used to, not even close. But they still come and they are debilitating. It takes hours, sometimes a day or two, to shake off the terror and devastation I feel afterward. When this page is not updated for a few days, you may assume this is the cause. Evil has faces, and voices, in those nightmares. Deceptively sweet smiles and smoothed, coiffed hair, pious words, disarming goofiness. Diabolical determination to mask the truth, to twist and hide it. It's an old trick that magicians depend on. Deflection, distraction: look here so you don't notice what I'm doing over there. It is dangerous. It was for me. But it was dangerous to the community too. They too were harmed and perhaps in some instances, more than I was. And it is dangerous now. For our national community. Let's debate the real issues. Starting with the truth. Meanwhile, move aside, Warsaw. We got you beat. Poland has a reputation for contentious politics. It is well earned. There are days when headlines in Warsaw remind me more of middle school than national government. Feuds over chairs -- who gets to sit at the head of the table and, literally, on what kind of chair --and crude accusations of collaboration with Communist era secret police. It is ugly. Has been for centuries. The Poles are said to do much better when fighting together against a common enemy -- Russians, Germans -- than when stuck with the tedium of getting along with each other. In twenty years, they are still waiting for the cooperation required to build a decent long-distance expressway. Too much sniping. More of that later. For now, though, they can't hold a candle against the deliberate efforts we've got going to keep the health care debate away from the real questions, the workable ones, the problems that a consensus can come up with solutions to resolve. It is dangerous. To public leaders who are being targeted. And to us all. Telling the truth seems dangerous sometimes. But not telling it is far, far worse.

"Dear mom, Please send blankets. And mittens."

And a warm coat. "We just crossed the border and saw the gigantic red CCCP and a sign that said, I think, 'Welcome, crazy Americans!' "And now we've stopped to let a squadron of Soviet soldiers onto the train. The scene outside my window is peaceful, a blanket of snow, frosted drifts piled high against the pale pink horizon. Russia is simply beautiful. We just saw and heard the romantic chuffing of a steam-engine go chugging off down the track, huffing, puffing, and belching smoke. Forgive me but, as I peer out past these red velvety curtains, I have the sense of being in Dr. Zhivago's world. Cue music. "We stopped a few moments ago at the edge of a woods, birch and fir. So clean, clear, and fresh. The air looks chilly but not frigid. Darkness comes quickly now, creating a stunning contrast between the wide expanses of brilliant white snow and the deep dark trees. Long shadows are fading into the night. "On the hills beyond us an occasional spotlight casts a purple glow, glistening crystals of light, frozen snowflakes caught in slow motion. We heard the boots of the soldiers squeaking, even through the glass windows of our sleeper car, as they approached the train. Maybe it is colder than it looks. "Schmaltzy, I know, I know. But arriving in Russia, the Soviet Union, but really, this is Russia, in this way feels hopelessly romantic. This beautiful, snowy countryside is breathtaking. I am sure the reality will strike sooner or later. Perhaps if I paid more attention to... Ah, whoa, it is time for reality therapy: they've told us to get off the train. Here we go." It was November, 1980. Entering the USSR for the first time. Fences, gates and spotlights and uniformed guards with flashlights and dogs checking under the train. A lone soldier standing guard at his post at the frontier, rifle in hand, spotlight trained along the concrete wall alongside the track...that is the reality. Before the curt announcment, "you must go out now," there were border patrols on the train, politely -- politely! -- asking to see our money and to go through our bags. "You will open, please," she said pointing to my ugly hard-shell, yellow Samsonite case. She actually seemed more embarrassed to have to do it than I was to have her spend several minutes carefully pawing and sifting through my clothes, papers, electric rollers. Those puzzled her. There was no station in sight as we climbed down the metal, grated steps off the train and began our forced march through the snow. An icy path was stretched out before us. Our motley crew of six slipped and slid and grabbed on to one another for support. And not only to stay on the track. We walked on in silence at first. Then, as there seemed to be no end in sight, we got a bit jittery. A few nervous jokes. Ed got us singing, "We are marching to Siberia. Siberia. Siberia. We are marching to Siberia. Siberia, ola!" More than a mile. "Dear mom, please send mittens," Fran joked. "Dear mom," Steve continued, "please send dollars. In small bills." Bribery came to mind. A faint light in the distance, finally. But what kind of building was it? Where were we going? To what fate? Seriously, we had visas, official initations from high-placed officials. What could be wrong? We slid down an incline and trundled through a narrow tunnel under train tracks and struggled up a steep flight of 30 stairs into a brightly lit, huge room that was filled to bursting with the most gorgeous men I'd ever seen. Over 300 Soviet soldiers, officers, decked out in full winter dress uniform, long wool coats with epaulets on the shoulders, shiny black boots, and hats, oh, my god, the hats. Furry Russian hats with striking red insignia. I swooned. Seriously. They stood as one, all eyes on the six of us, and Harris, just behind me, mumbled, as if to the assembly, "I suppose you're wondering why we called you all here." They parted to make way for us to pass through and Ed began to hum in my ear, "Hail to the Chief." I started to snicker. Then to giggle. And then I just lost it. As we walked through the stately gathering, a formal old-European high-ceilinged train station with curled sculpture on granite pillars, under the gaze of the Soviet Army, I began to laugh absolutely uncontrollably. Out of control. We've all had those moments. At the worst possible time, high pressure, terribly serious. A friend had a fit of uncontrollable hilarity at his doctoral exam. Another at his wedding. Another on stage. It happens. But in front of a regiment of Soviet military officers? Not good form. But I couldn't stop. Could. Not. Stop. We did not get marched off to the gulag. We did not languish in a Soviet prison. I was not lashed about the knees for my insubordinate behavior. Turns out, we had to get off the train because Americans were not allowed to witness in any fashion the mechanical rite required whenever trains from outside entered into the Soviet Union. The wheels have to be taken off and new ones put on. I thought this was a joke the first time I heard it. But it's true. The gauge is different between Europe and Russia, always has been, to thwart invasions by rail. We were ushered into a warm, comfortable room where we had light refreshments and watched two ancient babushkas mop the floor. "I can't decide which method I like better," I wrote in my journal, "one wets a rag in her bucket and wrings it out over the floor to dampen it, then mops with a big wide push mop. The other method is more entertaining. She walks along flinging water out of the pail with her hand, then goes back and mops it up." They were the quintessential peasants, old drab dresses with rips in the seams and black cotton tights and wooly scarves. No teeth. But very smiley and friendly, "grateful for our putting our feet up as they mopped under our seats. The one in front of me is chattering away to herself and I am dying to know, what is she talking about? What does keep all these round old ladies chattering and puttering?" After a chance to read Pravda and Izvestia and look at a photo exhibit of the boycotted Moscow Olympics from that summer, we got an escort for the walk back through the snow and across the slippery path back to the train. The Soviet officers had gone, too, on their own troop train. Later, I learned that they were preparing for an invasion of Poland. I have no idea what Laura Ling and Euna Lee endured through their months of North Korean captivity. But I cried as I saw them come off the plane this morning. And I remembered that night in Brest, "Dear mom, I am in the gulag. Please send boots."

Garden of Exile, part one

Exile is not altogether a bad thing. Often, in fact, you land in a better place. Hui looked absolutely radiant in her pink shimmery chiffon dress, a sweet bow sashing her tiny waist, layers of fabric billowing in the evening breeze. A matching ribbon in her hair, a beaming smile on her face. And heels! Glittery patent-leather sandals with one-inch heels together with her upswept pony tail gave this wippet of a girl a regal air. Hui grew up in a refugee camp in Thailand. Ten long years in an ugly, hot, sweaty jungle camp, primitive conditions. In exile. Enduring, with her mother and father and sisters, having escaped from the fighting in their native Burma, (Myanmar). She never looked so lovely there as she does on this Friday night in Denver. "I would like to become a pediatrician," she told me. "I would like to help other children like the ones in the camp where I lived." We first met two weeks ago, across a table here at the toney, private Kent Denver Academy. It was 'practice for the future' day. Hui is not yet a student at Kent itself, but a participant in Breakthrough, this amazing, fantastic summer program for gifted middle school Denver Public Schools students that my daughter teaches in and has given her heart to. Five students came in to a classroom to shake my hand, smile brightly, look me in the eye and tell me, "It is very good to meet you," just as they had been coached. I interviewed them, for practice, as if it were an opportunity for these worthy students to gain a scholarship, private high school or college admission. Every one of them was an immmigrant, and every one of them was in exile. They had ended up in Denver, fleeing from violence and wars in Myanmar, Sri Lanka, the Sudan, Somalia, Ethiopia and Kenya. Every one of them lived for some years in a refugee camp -- some for their entire childhood -- and every one of them spoke sweet, accented English in addition to at least two other languages. They were 11. And 12. And 13. Hui and Htoo spoke Keran, their native language for me, just a few sentences, so they could express themselves in a comfortable tongue and so I could enjoy the lovely sounds of this Southeast Asian language. I'd never heard of it before. And I'd never heard of the Somalian tribal language spoken by Hawa a few minutes later. I felt like an idiot. How many languages am I fluent in, really fluent, able to carry on a lively conversation? One. Some citizen of the world I am. But I digress. Here in this new world, having been exiled -- sent out -- from their old one, my daughter's young students are finding a new life. Their parents are having a harder time, as one would expect. The kids soak it up. The parents, not so much. I sat next to Hui's mother and father and younger sisters at the Celebration -- graduation -- Event on Friday night as the auditorium rocked with hip-hop music and a sea of gorgeous, deep chocolate faces smiled out at us from the video made of the summer's activities. "What must they be thinking?" I whispered to my husband. There is a world of difference between the quiet Burmese culture and the ones into which their daughter had been thrown. I am drawn to these exiles for many reasons, but in part because I feel as if I have become one too. It is almost seven years now, will be in October, that I was sent out -- that sounds so tame -- in a violent way from the community in which I had been at home for all of my adult life. The church. As several of you kind readers have noted in your messages to me, this is a story that will take some time to emerge, to tell. I thank you for your forbearance. No longer welcome, in fact, cast out -- there! that's the phrase I was looking for -- pushed off the cliff into a completely unknown, or so I thought at the time, new world, I was told to leave and not come back. It is a devastating experience. Time Magazine's Person of the Year, 2002, that year was not one person but three. My friends pointed out that I had a lot in common with them, and indeed, while no great cheese, I did feel a kindred spirit with them. And had paid the same price. The Whistleblowers. Three women. Coleen Rowley, from the FBI in Minnesota who tried to warn her superiors of the suspicious circumstances of young foreigners taking pilot lessons but not wanting to learn how to land their planes. Sherron Watkins, from Enron, and Cynthia Cooper of World Com both tried to warn of the financial disasters about to befall their respective corporations. All were fired. That's as much as I'll say for now about my kinship with them but the larger point is that in the aftermath of a violent attack, I found myself in exile. Not exactly officially. I am still a rostered clergyperson. I am the grateful recipient of the world's best disability benefits, through the church. But in this place where I live and had worked, I am persona non grata. Exile, it turns out, is not altogether a bad thing. It is devastating in a lot of ways. But I have learned some new languages. The language of survivors, from the inside, is different than it was when I spoke it only as a care-giver, from the safe antiseptic distance, outside the gut-wrenched, disoriented, disturbed axis of pain. I didn't want to know that language from the inside-out. But now I am glad I've got it. I'm not ready yet to become again an active caregiver to other survivors of violence but when I am, it will be with a deeper, stronger sense of compassion and with the insights that only come from one's own hard-won battles. It is not a bad thing to understand how servicemen and women coming home from war feel -- not that it is a good thing for one to have the same diagnosis, the same horrible symptoms of distress from a church, for god's sake. And I now understand and am a better friend to my Polish pals and their parents, who came through much much worse. I'm shaking as I write this, here at my favorite cafe, in 'my' chair, where my new friend and writing buddy, Judy, just stopped by to tell me, "you belong here, I expect to see you here, I hope to see you here in the afternoons, writing." Telling truths is still sometimes terrifying. I'm still afraid. But I'm also not going to stop this time. I was intimidated into silence once before. It's not going to happen again. Exile has its advantages. I like this chair. I like my new community of friends, very much. I am all the more grateful for my 'old' friends who stuck by me and with me and continue to enrich my life, in a rather new way. Exile has been good for me. My Polish friends, too, found themselves feeling giddy with their freedom, no censors, no snoops. My new Burmese friends feel fresh and new and light. Light as chiffon, in fact. That lovely pink dress that Hui had on is what exile can look like. I'm going for that.

Under the Mountain

It is not much of a mountain by my standards. More like a big hump, tree covered and climbable even by old ladies in sturdy shoes. There are stairs all the way up, with landings and benches along the way. You can stop and take a rest if you need it. The steps are wide and low, and even a car can drive up and down them. Not good for the suspension, I suppose, but it is possible. Beginning today, and for the next 63 days, a bonfire burns atop this hill. My friend, Margaret, and her family live at the base of the hill on a small street called Pod Kopcem. (In Polish there is a squiggle under the c in Kopcem so it sounds different than your usual c.) It means, Under the Mountain. I assumed you would see the fire burning, or at least the smoke from it, from their big picture window that overlooks a lush garden and the wide mountainside. But you can't. Nonetheless, they are keenly aware that it's there and they know it is burning. And why. Sixty-five years ago today the remaining residents of Warsaw, the ones who had not already been shot by the Nazis or sent off to forced labor or fled to the countryside, or were not Jewish and had by now been exterminated virtually to a person, these remaining citizens of the Polish capital commenced a carefully planned and, frankly, well-executed uprising against their captors. I saw the telex their commanders sent to Polish forces abroad, "we are already fighting." If you can imagine your city, or town, already bombed to smithereens, shells of apartment buildings and offices and hospitals and churches left standing amidst their rubble, you can begin to imagine Warsaw in 1944. The war had been going on for how many years already? Five. Since September 1, 1939. The city was decimated. Hundreds of thousands dead, gone, dying, barely surviving. The shock of seeing the Nazi's brutality against the Jewish uprising the year before was still fresh. The ghetto had been emptied, liquidated. The city itself felt like a dead place, ghostly, and ghastly. But throughout Europe, the tide had turned. Normandy was already part of the vocabulary, hope was rising. Allied forces were gaining ground. The Soviet army had routed the Germans in the East and were now in control of much of eastern Poland. In fact, the Red Army was at the outskirts of Warsaw itself, just across the Hudson -- I mean, Vistula -- River. You could see them. Ready to take Warsaw from the Nazis. The Polish resistance had been active throughout the war, engaging in serious battles and significant acts of sabotage. (More of all of this as time goes on, this is still just the beginning of the story I want to tell you.) And the Home Army was organized and ready to fight. The time was right. It seemed the moment had come. Sixty-five years later, Margaret and her family make the pilgrimage up the mountain behind their home. There is a ceremony today and there will be observances for the duration of the length of the Rising. Her children know this story, it lives within them, in fact, it lives under them. The mountain, under which they live -- at its base, that is -- is a mound of rubble. Warsaw's ruins are buried under the earth that has grown several hundred meters high and is now lovely to look at, covered with gentle birches and quiet oaks. It sounds gruesome, to live with this rubble and ruin. But it isn't. Somehow this mountain is a place of memorial but more than that, a place of resistance, of honor. Margaret has relatives, uncles, aunts, who fought in the Warsaw Rising. So does her husband. They like living here, looking out on the forest now grown up on this mountain. Their children don't think of it as gross, or macabre at all. They see it as another site of Polish resistance, resilience, of determination. Something quite lovely has grown up out of all this rubble. And so life goes on. "You meant it for evil..." From ugly death, life emerges once more. And from where I sit today, on the front seat of the old minivan, I look around at sites once associated with ugliness, deadly deceit and hate, in this town, here in Littleton, where I'm back home now, and I hope for life. I dare to hope, to believe. "Out of the rot and the ruin, comes a rumor of resurrection."* It goes on. *Thanks to James Avery for the quote.