A Swiss Wedding

Some of us worried my brother Jim would ever get married. But they worried about me too, and I managed. So I shouldn’t be so surprised it happened for Jim. But we are surprised at how well it happened.

And it could very well not have. Like me, my brother Jim spent a lot of time in a charismatic church that emphasized inner healing. I did a lot of inner healing myself, but sometimes it seemed like you were supposed to wait until you were healed, before you were qualified to go out and have a life. I got out after ten years, but Jim stayed in, going from conference to conference, waiting for God to Do All The Healing So Jim’s Life Could Happen. A couple years ago, Jim looked at his half-lived life and got very angry.

Jim got the worst deal from my father. My father berated Jim for being a musician. At Jim’s college graduation recital, he conducted the university orchestra to a packed auditorium. Jim got a standing ovation. My father sat in the third row scowling, refusing to applaud. Refusing to stand up. Is it any wonder Jim spent years trying to heal himself of that?

At one point, someone prayed over Jim and said they had a vision of Isaac getting Rebecca. Well, our last name is Isaac. Then a pretty, young German violinist showed up at Jim’s grad school with talent, faith, and the name of Rebekkah, James fell for her. She didn’t fall for him in return. But he chased her anyway, for several years. We all thought Jim was whistling Dixie. But then I heard some of the things she said to him, and she encouraged his devotion. But she was young, she had time and people to burn.

It’s really hard to see someone you love get stuck. Jim is the smartest sibling in my family. He’s like scary MENSA smart. He’s a classical musician, and those guys are brainiacs at math, not to mention steel traps for the most arcane minutiae. I jokingly wondered if he had Asperser’s, the high functioning autistic behavior that geniuses like Bill Gates have. Jim's that kind of smart. Still we all ached to see him stuck, and worried that he never would get unstuck.

Along the way Jim ended up touring with a well-known Christian musician. That took him overseas a few times, where he often went to visit the German violinist who was still leading him on with the whole comenzie here goenzie way routine.

But four years ago, the tour stopped at a church in Zurich, Switzerland. He stayed in a large house where several people from the church all lived; among them was this sweet young German pianist. He said he lay awake thinking about his life, and how cool it would be to live in a place like that with different church friends on the floors, to play classical music in one of its rooms. But he lay there despairing of how far his dreams had escaped him. The German pianist was on a floor below him.

Two years ago, the same Christian musician toured Europe, with an extended stay in Zurich. Jim was put up in the same house, got to know that German pianist a little better; flew to Egypt for a few weeks, then back to the house in Zurich and the pianist. And he didn’t take a side trip to Germany to follow the violinist's lures. He’d found a different German musician, one who was an accompanist, not a soloist. In music and life. YEA!!

Flash forward to a few weeks ago, and my brother Jim – “James” as his Swiss friends call him – got married to that delightful German accompanist. There in attendance were all the people at the church and the house who went to the same church. Some of the people who’d prayed different kind of prophecies over him, and ones that were ready to kick his butt if he ever did any harm to their beloved pianist sister.

At the evening dinner James recalled a vision he’d had years ago in one of those healing conferences. James had a heart for Germany and classical music all these years, and he envisioned himself playing classical music in Germany. But he was conflicted about what Germany did during WWII. And then he told the story about staying at the house with all the people from the same church, wishing he could stay in Switzerland and play music, while the German cal played music a few floors down.

Annkatrin is beautiful, funny, incredibly talented, quirky like us, and shares not only my brother's faith but his kind of faith. I am delighted to have a new sister! I'm sad they are far away, but now Larry and I have family members we can crash with, when we tour Europe.

It made me rethink how I’ve dismissed the more charismatic elements of the church; the prophetic, the need to heal. I did a lot of it myself, but after I got burned I locked all of that away. Jim/James and AK reminded me that God doesn’t ever stop inviting us to a bigger vision for us.
Jim got the girl, the music, and the community to support him, whoop his ass when he gets out of line. What better vision is there than that?

Here's their friend, jazz saxophonist Bene Muller, serenading James and AK on the day.

Rotisserie Chicken Gospel

Larry just informed me that Christianity Today's interview with me just got posted. Here's the link.

The Rotisserie Chicken Gospel: Author Susan Isaacs on comedy, church hopping, and having a 'middle-class white girl's Dark Night of the Soul.'

In the meantime, here is a pic of my trip to Zurich.






















My sister Nancy, Sister in Law AnnKatrin, brother James, niece Emily
My brother is one lucky dawg. AK is terrific! The only downside is, they're going to live in Switzerland so I won't get to see enough of her. Upside: Euro travel just got easier!

My Sister-In-Law on Swiss TV!

My brother Jim is getting married! For a 52 year old classical musician to have found love is probably more remarkable than Larry and me. Jim met Annkatrin at a classical music worship conference in Zurich four years ago, saw each other again at the same conference two years later. We love AK, she is beautiful, talented, and such a bright wonderful personality. My brother is one lucky dude.

On top of that, she is an accompanist for the Zurich opera. And well, Jim is a classical music journeyman in LA. Where would YOU rather live? Exactly.

Anyway, there's some new hip opera bar in Zurich where these two groovuen dudens play classical music instead of hip hop. They were interviewed on TV and who should be in the bar but my sister in law to be! This is in German. At about 1:45, the interviewer asks Annkatrin what she thinks of the groovendudens, and she says, "They're no where near as cool as my fiance!"

Chocolate Bunny

We had the pleasure of this little man's company the last couple weeks. He's so gnawing yummy I want to call him Chocolate Bunny. But you can call him Abe.

Here he is, very interested in Honey. Lori told me Honey allowed Abe to pet her. Later he became interested in specific tufts of her hair, and she was just not into that.

You can read all about Ted and Lori's amazing adoption journey on their blog, Our Own Rooney.


I'm returning from a New York but he won't be at the house. And I'm sad. Lori, bring Abe back soon!

Awww yummy chocolate bunny I miss you already...

A Rooney Of Their Own

Our house owners, Ted and Lori, applied to adopt a baby from Ethiopia. It's been a year-long process, from starting paperwork, passing screenings, getting approved by "Gladney," the adoption agency in the States, then by the orphanage, then waiting for a child referred to them. They 'met' their referral baby via pictures in December. Lori had started a blog back in May chronicling the whole journey.

The day came in the Ethiopian court. Gladney has a great reputation and never had any problems with adoptions. But this time the judge didn't trust the paperwork. Adoption Denied. That was January 4. Ted and Lori were crushed. But the attorney who works for the orphanage launched a vigorous appeal, made sure all the paperwork was in order, backed up and attested to, so no judge would doubt it. But even with everything in order, nobody knew what to expect.

Lori came down from Portland this weekend. The court date for the appeal is tomorrow.

My plan was to fast and pray today as. Ethiopia is 11 hours ahead. This morning I was in my office, and heard Ted and Lori on speaker phone with someone. After some time the speaker phone went silent. I went out to the dining room.

"Was that Gladney?" I asked.
"Yes," Ted replied.
"Were they prepping you for tomorrow?"
Ted smiled. "We're parents."
Court officials reviewed the paperwork a day early and said, "Why was this ever denied?" They approved the adoption without the court date! You can read more on their blog, but here's a picture of the peanut.

The community of parents who've adopted from Ethiopia is tight, and the Rooneys have gotten a lot of support. Lori pointed to me to the story of one couple who've adopted two children. On their last visit they stayed a while at the orphanage, playing games and visiting with the children. They met an adorable 8 year old boy, Samson. When they finally left camp, the boy he whispered in the man's ear, "choose me."

The good news is, the three of them are coming to The States they're going to The States to the "Bright Futures" camp, where families who are interested in adoption older children can come and meet lovely children like Samson and his sisters. If you're the praying sort, please pray that Samson and his siblings find parents who are worthy of them!

84-Year Old Granny Hikes 125 Steps.Or: Family Visit

Life kind of stopped for the past couple of weeks. My 84-year old mother and my 11 year old niece came to visit us. Niece Emily came for four days and my mother stayed on for a full week.

The week prior, Larry and I had an argument. We don't have many. It's remarkable how well we get along and manage to work through disagreements. But this time we both got hurt. We resolved it later that night, talked about it again the following day. But for the next week we were tip-toeing around, the distance around us expanding and contracting like a jellyfish. finally the night before our guests were to arrive, we talked about it. We both still felt hurt and raw. Relationship books and seminars make it seem like, all you gotta do is talk it out and it resolves things. It does to an extent. But feelings remain.

Friday just as I was running out the door to the airport, I got an email from Lar. He'd had a revelation . "I was making you responsible for my feelings. I had to slap myself silly on the way to work. Come on Lar, be a man."

That's mojo.

We were worried about how on earth my mother was going to make it up the 125 steps from the street to the house. My mother is frail at 84. She had a stroke that left her weakened and damaged her language skills and short term memory.

But lo and behold Mom marched up the steps. One at a time. I had placed a chair at the half way point, but she declined, and kept going. Way to go, Mom!

My niece is only 11 years old. Her parents are very protective of their kids. They moved to rural Colorado in part to get away from the debauchery of the American culture. My friend Lori Rooney pointed out, billboards for American Apparel with teenage girls in sexually suggestive positions. Come on, do we really need adverts for pedophilia?

We drove to Blockbuster to pick up "March of the Penguins," a safe G-rated film that had received great reviews. Emily and I walked into the M section and there sat a soft core porn DVD. Hot chicks in bikinis french kissing each other. I maneuvered myself in front of her and got out of that aisle. But I still couldn't avoid tthe death metal rock on the loudspeakers.
I'm sorry about that, I told Emily.
She shrugged. That's OK. We get it in Colorado too.

How could she not? The supermarket check out is littered with People and Us magazines.

Larry and I were both excited about entertaining Emily. It was her first big adventure away from home. But we were concerned with how well my mom would fare in the heat and the exertion of the steps. I got a free wheelchair on loan from the Convalescent Aid Society. We pushed Mom down to the beach, to Griffith Observatory, we went on walks through Pasadena, past Craftsman homes. And we sat at home and ate scones, we watched Peter Pan and What's Up Doc. Both twice.

My niece is such a creative, expressive, gentle, funny, and beautiful young girl. We were delighted to have her.

When Emily left the house got noticeably quiet. But it was nice to have time just with my mom. My mother and I never got much time together, alone, just the two of us. It wasn't until 1999 when she came to New York to visit me. A year and a half later she had her stroke that would rob her of some speech, mobility, and short term memory.

It was great for Larry to spend some time with Mom. During our quick courtship, Mom was in Colorado, except for a few days around the wedding, and a couple of days over Thanksgiving. So she got to know him this visit.

"Your husband is very nice," she said when he was at work. "I'm so glad you married him."
"Me too."
"He's a very lucky man."
"And I'm a lucky woman."

Mom's vocabulary is damaged from her stroke. She can't find the word, she'll talk around it until you say the right word and she'll remember. I was "Emily" some times. Larry was "husband." Oddly enough, her Spanish is impeccable. She chatted up the waiters and busboys at restaurants, and chatted back when she heard it on the street or in parks. Perfectamente. Makes me want to re-learn Spanish, just to have conversations with her.

The oddest moment was the day Emily left. Mom asked if Emily had gone back (short term memory loss). When I reminded her we had taken her to the airport she said, "Yes of course. ... But you.. When does YOUR little girl wake up?" I reminded her I don't have children. "No, but you have a daughter." I wondered if she was trying to say husband or Larry. I convinced her I did not have any children, and when I asked if she meant 'my husband Larry? He's at work,' she brushed it off. I think she tried to cover for herself.

My mom climbed the stairs every day without a problem. Until the second to the last day. she had been walking along a flat section and reached for the railing. I think she grabbed the light cord instead and fell back. I was a distance behind her when I heard her cry "OH!" and heart a horrible thud. I found her lying on her side. She had a huge bump on the back of her head, but she said she was alright. I brought down a chair and some ice. We sat for about 20 minutes, and then she climbed up. She was fine in the end, but it was a terrifying moment.

It has given me a lot of respect for my sister's family, who take care of mom mostly year round. It's also reminded me that it's a privilege and honor to care for your parents. And it's also reminded me that the chance to serve her may not go on much longer.

We were standing in the kitchen one afternoon. She took my hands and said, "I remember you once said you couldn't go on without me, Susie."
"I remember that too."
Well, you'll do just fine," she smiled.
"You mean, now that I have Larry?"
"Yes."
"Okay but please don't go just yet."
"Okay not yet."

Love Wash Over A Multitude Of Things

I don’t remember a time in my life I ever felt so hopeful. Maybe when I was young and naïve, and my life was ahead of me. But then life happened, and it was a long road down to disillusionment. But lately the road has swung upward toward hope. What, with marrying the greatest guy, building community together, and getting a book deal and paying writing work.

And I can’t help it but feeling scared at times. First of all, what bad thing is going to come and ruin it? When are we going to get struck with some horrible tragedy to “build our character?” Like cancer or a freak accident. Or a series of small things to undermine our marriage?

It’s ironic that in movies and books, the characters we love the most are those who face insurmountable odds, who endure hardships and heartbreaking loss. We call them our heroes. Think Frodo Baggins, Rocky Balboa or Ugly Betty. Some of them fail or even die. But we love them for their courage and strength. And yet we wake up every morning and want God to make things go our way.

But you know what actually scares me even more than those AFGO's: "Another F'ing Growth opportunities"? It's this. Success. What if my character stops growing? What if things get so good, and I get lazy? And that monster I know I can be comes out to scorch it all?

I had coffee with an editor friend who has worked with lots of big names in Christian publishing: authors, pastors, leaders, celebrities, et al. The editor had never seen someone achieve success who and not get corrupted or turn into a jackass.

When I was going through my dark night of the soul and hating God, I got a job at a church office. Yeah, har dee har har. My pastor was awesome. He got it, what I was going through. He listened, commiserated and understood. And proceeded to have a melt down and leave his job, due to his own issues and a lack of accountability. Know what's scary? That pastor and I had a lot in common: charisma, intelligence, and demons. He didn't have a team of accountability. Neither did I. But I wasn't leading a church. If I heard God say anything it was, "Susan, he's just a guy."

I've observed celebrities, leaders of every kind, turn into jerks and destroy their lives. Not because they're were any different than you or me, but because they didn’t have accountability: good friends who would be ruthlessly truthful with them. We all have that potential, for good and evil. And the more success and power we have, the more chances to really mess things up.

I’m not going to evade success to avoid becoming a Success Tyrant. You can be a Failure Tyrant, too. But I know I need an accountability system, Larry and I both do. It’s one of the reasons we’re trying to build a community around us, be it at church or our friends. We need it. So do you. Everyone does.

So, I’ve tried to learn to allow God to throw obstacles in my way. The other day, after a particularly deep time of meditation and quiet, when I started to fear what hardship might befall me, I remembered how I God has used everything unfortunate in my life to mature and change me. So in a moment of optimism I said, “Okay bring it on.”

A Series of Small Things

Larry and I had a bunch of people over, and they left a lot of beer. I told Larry I didn’t want the beer in the fridge because, well, I’m a recovering alcoholic. Larry took me by the arms and smiled: “You won’t drink it. I know you. I know you won’t risk what we have.” He meant it to be encouraging and full of love, but I suddenly felt unsafe. “He’s being naïve and grandiose. He doesn’t understand me. Love doesn’t conquer all. At least it sure doesn’t conquer alcoholism!” Plenty of people have loved their spouses, and kept on drinking. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been sober. Something could come along and trigger your addiction and Bob’s Your Uncle, you’re drinking again. Triggers like resenting my husband for not ‘getting it,’ or envying my friends who can drink with impunity; them I'm entertaining the idea that maybe now I could drink moderately. That’s why don’t want a six pack of Coronas in our fridge sitting there, just waiting for me to try it out.

Maybe Larry doesn’t understand alcoholism. But that doesn’t mean our relationship is doomed. It just means I need to educate him. So after being firm about it, Larry was happy to have it moved out of the fridge.

Well, we got through that small thing. And we’ll get through the next one as well. As long as we’re awake and alert.

Lost Objects

That afternoon I got a notice from the post office that I had three parcels waiting for me. I had been expecting a script, but not a parcel. Maybe my former landlords had sent me a packet of mail. So I drove to the post office to pick them up. They were boxes from my sister. I recognized them: It was my mother’s crystal.

When my mother moved in with my sister, her precious items came with her. By default Nancy got the dining room set and my mom’s Desert Rose china. This was a popular pattern in the 1940s when Mom got married. Mom said I could have her crystal and silverware.

Last Thanksgiving Larry, my brother Jim and I drove out to visit my sister’s family in Colorado. Mom gave me the wooden box of silverware to take home. Nancy brought out the boxes of crystal,hoping I could take them with me. But there wasn’t enough room in the car. Besides I didn’t want the crystal riding home in a car packed with three people’s suitcases. “Let’s wait until Larry and I move into our next place. I can get the crystal when I come out here next time.”

Well, there were the crystal boxes at the post office: covered in Priority mail stickers, and “Fragile” written on the sides. As I picked up one of the boxes, I heard the distinct sound of broken glass..

Hmm. Well maybe one or two glasses didn’t make it. I called Nancy to tell her the boxes had arrived, but that something was broken.

“Uh oh,” Nancy worried. “Did you open it up?”
I was too afraid to open them there. Fortunately Nancy insured the boxes. Well no worries, I only heard a little bit in one box. But then I picked up the other boxes to put in my trunk. There was that same ugly gut-wrenching shatter sound in all of them.

I wheeled all three boxes back to the post office.
“Excuse me, there’s some broken items in these boxes,” I called to the woman who had delivered the boxes to me. She ignored me and went into the back. I called out to someone else, a short Filipino man who shrugged. “You need a form.” He slapped one on the counter and walked off.
“Sir, I’m doing to need three forms!” I called out to his retreating back. He was gone for a good length of time, during which I read the form, which stated I couldn’t file a claim until 21 days after the date of mailing. Finally the man slumped back to his station, and started to call another customer.
“Excuse me, you were helping me with these packages.”
“Oh, yeah.” he sighed.
“Sir, this form says I can’t file if I can’t a claim for another 21 days.”
“Oh, yeah.” He sighed again.
I wanted to ask him why he didn’t just tell me this from the start. But what would the point of that be?

I got the boxes home. My sister called, nervous to discover the outcome. I told her I’d open them the next day. Frankly I was afraid to discover what damage was inside. After all it would be 21 days before I could do anything about it.

So the following afternoon, I opened the three boxes. One by one I pulled out the glasses. Some wrapped in paper, some wrapped in bubble wrap. And almost all of them were broken. Some shattered beyond recognition. Some had the stems snapped from the bowls. Gone.

I found myself howling with anger and grief. How had Nancy even packed these? Why did she mail them without telling me? What, did she just want them out of her hair? This was my inheritance. She had most all of Mom’s priceless stuff, and here she had sent off these boxes so carelessly. They don't make this crystal anymore. There was no way to get it back.

Larry walked in the door just as I was unwrapping the last hope … even a cocktail cup with no stem was snapped in two. Grief and anger gushed out of my mouth, like I had found my cherished cat, dead in the street. Larry bent down and put his arm around me as I sobbed. Poor Larry. I don’t know if a guy would feel the same way about family heirlooms, maybe it’s a girl thing.

I called my sister. What was I going to say? How could I say it and be real and honest but not hurtful? Yet there I was with none of the family heirlooms. How could she have done this?! She just sent it off, wrapped haphazardly, with no thought! This was supposed to be mine. I have nothing!

Nancy picked up the phone. And I cried in her ear, wept out my anger and hurt, how I felt my inheritance had been disregarded and thrown away. how I felt robbed of it, and well, just so heartbroken over it being gone. Part of our family history, gone.

And Nancy listened. She explained that it was a spur of the moment thing. She was thinking, Hey now Larry and Susan are settled in their new home, now they can have Mom’s crystal! But she had completely forgotten that she had packed it for a car, not for the postal service. She felt sickened at her error. And she reassured me that anything she had of Mom’s I could have. She wished she could go back in time and change things. She felt horrible.

I thanked her, but it wasn’t really about divvying up ownership. It was about the loss.

So we sat and talked about the things we remembered, associated with the crystal. Of Sunday dinners, of cousins coming to visit. In high school my friend Julia and I learned how to make crepes. We served them on the Desert Rose china and served Martinelli's in the crystal. The crystal that now lay in shards in front of me. I thought of my mom, and how hard she tried to bring some semblance of structure to our family. I thought of all those Christmas dinners she planned and slaved over, served on that china and crystal; each year the family drifting further and further away, but the china and crystal remaining on an ever-shrinking table. My mother is so frail today, she couldn’t cook now to save her life. She doesn’t have the strength to hold a pan or the memory to follow a recipe. Most of all it reminded me of my mother, and of a time when we were all alive and present and together.

Nancy and I sat and cried it out. I thanked her for listening. I realized it was a lot harder for her, to be the one who caused the loss; than for me, the one who absorbed it. I reminded her that I loved her far more than any crystal glass. So there was hurt and anger and grace and understanding. And a loss that we just had to grieve out.

A couple of days later, I saw the name of the crystal etched on the bottom of a snapped stem.
"Fostoria." I did an ebay search and found a vintage store that had our glasses! I called my sister, excited. "Buy it up!" She cheered. So a week later, Larry and I had dinner with the new replaced glasses.

Several days later I called Nancy to ask how she was doing, and to ask if anything I had said had hurt her. She said no, I had just said how I felt. I thanked her for her graciousness.

"And you know, Suzer. I feel closer to you from it. Like we walked through something big and painful, and did it the right way."
"Me too, Nanno."

That afternoon I was listening to a song by Sara Groves, “When it was over.” And I thought about how apt the lyrics were for us at that moment.

When it was over and they could talk about it
They were sitting on the couch
She said, “What on earth made you stay here
When you finally figured out what I was all about?”
He said “I always knew you'd do the right thing
Even though it might take some time.”
She said, “Yeah, I felt that and that's probably what saved my life.”

Oh love wash over a multitude of things
Love wash over a multitude of things
Love wash over a multitude of things
Make us whole

There is a love that never fails
There is a healing that always prevails
There is a hope that whispers a vow
A promise to stay while we're working it out
So come with Your love and wash over us.

I think of my life ahead, and the possibilities in my life, with Larry, with friends, with my vocation. I don’t want to shy away from the success or the sadness ahead. But I also know, the only thing that will get me through is that Love that washes over a multitude of things.
So come with Your love and wash over us.

Lessons from Christmas

Larry and I started to do morning devotions for Advent. Advent is about waiting: and I wanted my Christmas to be spiritually rich. I wanted it to be about more than just getting excited about our trip to Portland or Larry to open his gifts. I wanted something to offset the stress of holiday shopping. I wanted it to be about the birth of Christ. Or more pointedly, I wanted to put myself into the reality of what the birth of Christ means: that God squeezed himself into a person. That God became incarnate. A vulnerable crying, pooping child who needed his parents. God putting himself at our mercy.

So what was I expecting? God to put me into warp-speed spirituality as a result of this? I didn't know what to expect, but I did remember one Christmas, shortly after I'd taking my faith seriously … I was maybe 18 then. I remember sitting in my parents' living room, reading the Gospels, and crying. And I don't remember over what. Maybe it was gratitude or wonder, or maybe longing. But most of my ensuing years, my spiritual life has been about wanting to get that longing back. I've spent so many years angry or bitter or over it. And I've wanted to get back to that place of longing for God.

So that's a hefty expectation for just a simple devotional. And the readings weren't all mind-blowing. In fact maybe noen of them were mind-blowing. But they've had a positive effect.

For one thing, it's just good discipline to wake up and give time to something other than the news on the net; or whatever emails I've happened to get that day. If I'm not an email junkie, I'm definitely email-dependent. And that's ass-backward, if I'm going to read my Word-a-day or the latest forwarded jokes attributed to George Carlin.

Second, it's been good just to set aside "real time" for Larry and me, first thing. The "tyranny of the urgent: things I gotta do that convince me they're so important I'd put them in front of God or Larry. Tasks that seem so important to focus on, that skip my quiet time, which could actually help me focus: not just focus, but approach those urgent matters with a wiser, skeptical and grounded mind.

So having a devotional, or quiet time, has grounded me and given Larry and me time to get grounded together. What's not to like?

The Hell of Self

The self that crops up in the silence. That's what's not to like. Larry said that marriage is 24/7 therapy, and he's right. You can't run or hide who you are. And the thing about this God becoming real, and flesh, and in my face, has sort of gotten in my face these last few weeks. And I haven't liked it.

For example: the other day I was driving west near one of the movie studios, and a car was stopped in my lane trying to park. Actually it had pulled into the parking spot but was too far into traffic. So I veered over into the lane to my left. No one was there, but there was a sports coupe racing toward me on the left, maybe a car length or two behind me. He started honking his horn and screaming at me, as he raced past me at maybe 10 miles above the speed limit. He was pissed that me veering over in his lane clipped his speeds from 25 above to only 15 miles above the limit. I waved him the peace sign. And that only made him angrier. We spent the next couple blocks riding side by side: him flipping me off and screaming, and me smiling and giving him the peace sign. By the time I turned off of the street I was crying and picturing the man dead in a gruesome car accident. I wanted to rip his head off, and the images were strong in my mind. I said it out loud, "God I want you to kill that man. I want him dead."

And then I started weeping. It was still with me by the time I reached home, and so I tearfully told Larry about it. He came and embraced me, comforting me, consoling me about the holidays bringing out the worst in other people. But not other people, me. I was disturbed by that man, but even more disturbed at how violently angry it made me. Wishing that man were dead.

That's me. That's the incarnation that's being revealed to me this Christmas: this is the all too human self that is me. And it's the asshole in the sports coupe, and it's you and it's all of us. And that's my helpless self that cannot help itself into goodness. Not without God coming down and being here.

We were watching a National Geographic special about the origins of Christmas. They interviewed some people, put them into a studio and put nice lighting behind them. And they waxed on about Christmas. One woman said Christmas was the one time people really look at each other and smile and they're their best selves. I thought, she must live on a giant dairy farm in Vermont, and Christmas is the only time she goes into town. The rest of the year she has everything fedexed to her farm.

Don't Go To Therapy Right Before Vacation

The afternoon before we left for Portland, Larry came home from a therapist appointment, and he was really down about it. That's all he'd say, was that he felt like a failure and a loser.

That's when I got up to embrace him. But I didn't have angry drivers in sports coupes to put the blame on. I initiated the meetings with the therapist, because Larry and I needed to learn how to talk about the hard stuff in our marriage. We are so compatible and mature. But conflict isn't easy for anyone. And I tend to dive in and he tends to retreat. And we've really had only one major issue: finances. "Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?"

Yeah this is a hard one, because it's about more than just money, but about who's in charge of our relationship. Apparently Larry never lacked for writing work for 25 years. Until a few months before we met. His friends attest to the uncanny timing of him hitting this slump when I came into the picture. What could it all mean? I don't know, because as long as I've known Larry (only a year) he's been unemployed or under employed, and in limbo about what direction to go. He's gotten freelance gigs here and there. But none pay well, none offer insurance benefits. But he's taken it, because he's had to.

It's hard to see him not get paid much, and it's worse to see him thrown around by the will of others. As much as I've brought up the subject, Larry's circumstances haven't changed.

Right after Thanksgiving I told Larry we both had go to out and get jobs -- any jobs, after January 1. I also said we needed to go see our old therapist, so we could learn how to talk about these things without alienating each other.

So I had my turn: I talked to "Rudy" about my frustrations and fears, and how I wanted to do things right with Larry. I wanted to learn how to encourage and motivate him, and not fall into being the resentful nag. It felt healthy and good. I felt encouraged.

Meanwhile, Larry was watching his 25-year career as a writer-editor die in front of him. And his wife was telling him to get a life. But I understood, too. I remember going through that very same death three years ago, and I told Larry about it. I had wept about it to my sister, and she replied, "Why don't you do acting as a hobby?" Like I could downgrade my life's pursuit to an after-school CRAFT. I wanted to yell back, "Why don't you be a mother as a hobby?"

I didn't want to tell Larry to go do writing-editing as a hobby. But I also knew that whatever death he was going through, something better could be born out of it.

"I know what this is like, Larry. I know because it happened to me. And I look back and think, that God torched my so-called acting and writing career was the best thing that happened to me. I started writing and performing things that mattered to me, because I stopped expecting to be compensated and acknowledged for it. And I was free. Yes God torched that life, and part of it sucked then and still does. But God spared me from a life of triviality. I knew that God was good." I knew that, even if Lar had to get a regular job and do his passions for fun and for free, he might end up doing the best work of his life.

"But this I know, Larry, I know God is good. I know it. I just know it."

I turned to the wall and wept. Because as I was saying it, I felt the reality of it absorbing into my skin. That God was so good. That God was so good to these flesh and bones of mine. That I was loved with a fierce and grand kind of love. And it was terrifying and good.

A few days later, Larry was offered a full time writing job. Not the most glamorous kind of writing, but it would be for causes he cared about, and with people who really liked him. Then he got an offer to edit a spiritual book. Not great money, but it was a start back down the road of doing what he really loved doing.

As he read the galleys and vented about how frustrated he was with the way people wrote about God, he got all fired up. He started to see how he could reshape the book. He got excited about what he was doing. I have never seen Larry like this before. All our courtship he was floundering, faltering, and losing his way. Now he was finding it, firing himself up, stepping into his calling. He was doing the thing that I guess was what got him fired up for the last 25 years. It was so terrific to see.

But then he went to see our counselor, who was going on information I had related weeks before: The Larry who was lost. I wasn't at their meeting, I only know Larry came home feeling like a failure. And I felt partly responsible.

So what happened in his session? Larry wouldn't say. He just said he felt like a failure. I embraced him as he had me. Only this time the bad guy wasn't the guy in the convertible, maybe it was me. Or maybe whatever in Larry's life had robbed him of his spirit to stand up and fight. I reminded Larry what I'd seen happen to him in the last couple weeks, with getting the job offer, and getting the book editing job that fired him up, I told him how excited that made me feel, how encouraged.

He nodded his head. And then we went to Portland.

We stayed with Larry's sister Dianna, and her husband Tony and their son, Joe. We'd been looking forward to this for quite some time, and we were excited to be there. Yes, the weather sucked and we slept on the floor. But it was Christmas, we were on vacation, and we got to relax.

Sitting around the kitchen table Larry's sister exclaimed, "Wow Larry, you got 16 comments on your blog about that therapist."

What blog?

I went to my computer and read Larry's blog. It was all about the counseling session he wouldn't tell me about. He made it sound like the therapist was telling him, unless he was making a lot of money, he wasn't supporting his wife. And then Larry pointedly asked his readerss: "Should I pursue my dreams, or money?"

Is that what Rudy told Larry: to pursue money and kill his dreams? Is that what Larry thinks I'M nagging him to do? And who are all these women chiming in, giving him advice: "WHO says you have to support your wife? WHO is asking you to forsake your dreams? WHO is behind this?

It was not a good moment for us. We talked about it, and he admitted he just threw it up on his blog without thinking, he didn't mean it to become a flashpoint. He felt bad that he didn't come to me first. But that blog still sits there, with a mushrooming list of comments back and forth between a few women who are deciding Larry's fate. And it sits there, evidence of me, the nagging wife, telling him to "get a frickin' job already!"

So this is Christmas, and what have you done?

I know what is true, Larry knows what I think about art versus money. You never kill off your art. But we can't expect the world to fund us. That's juvenile. And I was guilty of that childish notion that the world owed me my living. I was blindsided by the fact that my art stopped paying for itself. Wondering why it was happening. Hadn't God called me to do this work? Didn't he open the doors? What gave? And after all, it was What I Was Supposed To Do With My Life.

But I've come to accept that the world is unfair and is full of sadness and disappointments. But just because we aren't making a living at our passions right now, doesn’t mean we never will. However, until then we do it for fun and for free.

For fun and for free.

The Incarnation In My Face

Christmas was about the incarnation, God becoming flesh and dwelling among us. god showed up not as a fully developed human but as a crying, pooping, defenseless child, who needed people to feed him and protect him and love him. Jesus needed humans to help him grow up.

Here was the incarnational truth, showing up in my life this Christmas: Larry, the same flesh and blood, crying and vulnerable and making a mess; doing and saying things that hurt me or made me angry and defensive. And I thought of what Jesus said: "whatever yo udo to the least of these, you have done it to me."

And here was the incarnation in me, allowing me to love, forgive and understand. Teaching me to speak with grace and forbearance. Learn to love Larry in his failings and successes, and trust he will do the same for me.

The incarnation was also evident in the experience of being together. Watching movies, playing cards or going to Saturday Market in Portland. Watching Larry's sister Dianna and her husband Tony holding hands, after 18 years of marriage. Watching them make each other laugh and love on their son something silly. That was the incarnation. Not in just some profound idea of God becoming flesh; which is true and beautiful. But knowing that it changed us all, and that we experience love through flesh and blood. Not just some idea of love we can sing about or preach about, but a love that is active and in your face, be it laughing or playing cards or hurting one another and learning to forgive and be forgiven.
For fun and for free.

Thanksgiving, Pt. 2

Larry and stayed in at the Comfort Suites in Castle Rock, courtesy of my mom. We were just a few miles from my sister Nancy's place: they're a family of six, plus my mom who lives with them. My brother Jim was there, and so was Phill's dad Lowell. SO with nine people in their small ranch house, Larry and I welcomed the hotel: a quiet place to relax, a bathtub with no toys, and a toilet with no trainer seat or urinal cake. Yes, it would be great to have a little place to retreat to.

After being awakened by the terse discussion between a motel tenant and security guard, Nancy called to recommend a place for Larry and me to get breakfast, in downtown Castle Rock. So Larry and I headed a bit south to the old area of Castle Rock.

The Comfort Suites was fine, of course. But it felt weird, like I'd stayed there before. Maybe because I had: at the Hampton Inn in Franklin, Tennessee, the Holiday Inn in Provo, Utah; and the Residence Inn in Salt Lake City. Same building.

And come to think of it, each hotel was situated in the "hotel chain" section of town, across from the "restaurant chain" section, down the street from the Target/Wallmart section. There must be only one urban planner in the US, and he's phoning it in.

Larry and I loved going into old town Castle Rock and finding the place Nancy suggested: an old diner with high wood-backed booths and a real soda fountain. Problem was, they didn't serve breakfast after 11am. Who did they think they were, McDonalds?

We strolled around the local antique mall and headed over to Nancy and Phill's place in Sedalia. Nancy and Phill's 13 year old son Matt was happy to see Larry: that meant an extra hand to help them dig a trench for the new electrical cable, going out to the barn. Larry hurt his wrist in a bicycle accident a few weeks ago and he couldn't work a shovel, so Phill insisted Larry not worry about it, but Matt was a little bummed.

A few minutes later, I found Larry and my brother Jim, plopped out on the couches with their dueling Mac laptops and reading glasses. While Matt was digging a trench. But soon their second son, Jonathan, persuaded Larry to go to the barn to see the goats and their one chicken, Goldie: the Lone Free Ranger. There was Larry in the middle of a Green Acres episode.


The day went by quickly. Nancy offered to make broccoli cheese soup for dinner. I saw a look of terror wash over Larry's face. Fortunately, none of the trench-digging men wanted for soup either; they wanted restaurant cooking! So everyone else took off for Applebees, and Nancy and I stayed home to make pies.

I wanted time to talk to Nancy. We don't get to see each other enough. We're a thousand miles apart. And it's not just physical distance.

Nancy, Phill and I shared a house, back in the 1980s when Nancy was getting her masters in English at UCLA. She had short hair with a streak of electric blue in it, and she listened to Paul Simon and U2. Nowadays she wears long hair and longer skirts; she listens mostly to Christian music, and she talks mostly about God. She got rid of her Thomas Pynchon novels to make room for her home schooling books.

Yeah, Nancy home schools her four kids, takes care of my mom, drives her eldest daughter Emily to dance class, and Phill takes Matthew on hiking expeditions. I've watched my sister get quieter, and it hasn't sat well with me. Come on, what's wrong with Paul Simon or U2? What's wrong with girls wearing bathing suits? What's wrong with TV? (well, now that I've watched a bit of TV, I understand but .. but …

Phill and Nancy have retreated from much of American pop culture and "the world." What's wrong with the world? Didn't Jesus love the world?

But with Britney Spears recent foray into partying commando in mini-skirts, who can really blame them? In fact, who can blame the Muslims for detesting us? But that's another story. And while we disagree on a lot of things, I look at their kids: they're terrific. They're well-adjusted, they treat other people with respect. They get a lot of discipline and a lot of love. And it shows.

Still, I often miss that fighter part of my sister; the one who loved Charles Dickens and literature, who wore dangle earrings and her hair like Princess Diana with a blue streak.

A couple years back my sister and I had a big argument over my ex-boyfriend, because we'd become friends again.

N: Susie. You can't do that.
S; He's going through a hard time. I'm trying to be a friend to him.
N: What if tomorrow he meets someone and tells you he doesn't want to see you ever again?
S: If he meets someone, great! But he's not going to blow me off, because I'm his friend.
N: No, he's a wolf, Susan.
S: Nancy, I can't talk to you about this.
N: Susie. you're hardening your heart to the Lord. I can hear it in your voice
S: What you hear is me, trying to keep from telling you off for treating me like a child!

The conversation devolved until I told her I had to hang up. We didn't talk for a couple months. That was Thanksgiving, 2004. We didn't talk until January 2005. She admitted she was still hurt about a comment I'd made about James Dobson back in May 2003 … I'd gone back to New York to move out of my apartment, three weeks after I'd broken up with this same Ex. I called her in tears, and she scolded me: "do you really want to go back to a guy who isn't going to heaven?"
I hung up on her then too; and later wrote her, saying I identified with the broken and wounded than with the James Dobson people who seem to have everything together.

So in January 2005, I apologized for whatever I said about James Dobson in May 2003.

I had another apology to make: she was right about my Ex: he sucked me dry for emotional support, and then snuck out of town without telling me. He WAS a wolf.

Whatever disagreements I had with my sister and her life, she'd been right about many things. And maybe ditching her Thomas Pynchon novels for Second Grade spellers wasn't too "off" either.

When I got engaged this past summer, she sent me this book by some neo-Amish woman about how to be a good wife. Defer to your husband. He's head of the house and his opinions are now yours. Dressing like a man is an abomination. The book freaked me out. And when Nancy came to visit in July and met Larry for the first time, she asked me, "Susan: Does Larry put Jesus first?" I got very angry. It seemed like her idea of being a Christian was wearing Amish clothes and memorizing scripture and retreating from life altogether.

But now here we were at Thanksgiving, 2006. A lot had happened. I got married. And you know, I did want to defer to Larry. I didn't want to be some passive idiot, but I was tired of being a Lone Ranger, Leader of One. I wanted to relax and be a woman, and let Larry lead. And that's not easy for Larry, leading.

I don't agree with Nancy on a lot of things, but I could stand to be open.

She's gone through a lot as well. Nancy and Phill had been part of an independent church, led by this 31 year old pastor who likened the spiritual life to climbing a mountain. In fact, Everything was an analogy to mountain climbing. Their 13-year old son Matt said: "I know Jesus spoke in parables, but he didn’t' keep using the same one!" Their church imploded when the pastor had a meltdown and went off on one of the members, and nearly half the church has left.

The refugees have been gathering at my sister's house, and Phill has done a lot of emotional mop-up of the people who got hurt. Phill said it's been difficult, but also very healing. "I've been reading Galatians, and it really needs to be about grace!"

Nancy said as much as we stood there making pies. She talked about grace, and how hard this year was on their family, but how much she has learned about grace. She's got a peace I want. I don't want the long skirts, but I sure want the peace she has.

And on this trip, she didn't ask me if Larry put Jesus first. She just said, "Larry's a great guy. And he's so perfect for you."

The Road To Thanksgiving

Early Tuesday morning, Larry, my brother James and I drove to Colorado to spend Thanksgiving with my family. I grew up in Southern California, but home base is now Sedalia, Colorado, a little town half way between Denver and Colorado Springs. My sister Nancy, her husband Phill, and their four kids moved there in 2003, and my mother lives with them.

Larry and I are going to Salem, Oregon, to celebrate Christmas with his family, so this would be the only time we could be with my side. Finances are still an issue, so we decided to drive. Plus, Larry and I love road tripping. So does my brother James. But it's 1100 miles from West LA to Sedalia, Colorado, so the three of us were on the road by 5am in hopes to make it to Sedalia by midnight.

With no desire to head through the oppression of the Inland Empire, we decided to take the 405/5 to Palmdale, cut across the north side of the Angeles Crest Mountains, and hook up with I-15 at Victorville. From there it's straight through Vegas to the I-70, where you head across the Utah plains, through the Rockies, and on into Denver.

The first thing I noticed was the shocking stream of headlights coming south into LA. Cars streaming in, not just from the San Fernando Valley, but from Santa Clarita, Agua Dulce, Canyon Country (aka "tract homes in the middle of the desert"), and as far north as Lancaster, 70 miles north of West LA. There was that stream of white headlights, already thick and slowing by 5:30 am. This is the morning commute to LA.

When I was growing up, we used to trek out to Lancaster to see my uncle and grandmother. The space between Van Nuys and Lancaster was empty. Agua Dulce was nothing but a small outcropping of farms in between the arid nothingness.

Now the arid nothingness is jammed with tract homes. People can't afford to buy in LA or work in the desert. So they live in the desert, work in LA and commute up to 2 hours EACH WAY. You think that's bad? Think of the alternative: living in a 1960s building on Venice Blvd, or in one of those stucco 70s beehives abutting the 405, the ones with the neon banners boasting, "if you lived here, you'd be home now."

We cut over to the two-lane Pear Blossom Highway, which runs along the north side of the Angeles Crest Mountains. Quickly the scenery changes. There are still tract homes going up, but they're spotted between the spaces of the old life here: cowboy buildings: barn and ranch places, feed stores and old filling stations. Some just the foundation is left, as if the owners quit when the traffic started taking the interstates. There's a joint selling cactus jerkey and date shakes and snake skins. There are crosses with dead flowers along the road, indicating a place where someone died. It's only a two lane highway but the drivers have faster and bigger cars, and even bigger egos.

I used to drive this highway as well. There's a Benedictine abbey out here, and one summer I fancied myself a Benedictine, I drove out and told the monks my ideas and strange dreams. But that was back when I was just thirty years old, and my life stretched out in front of me.

We get into Las Vegas by 9:30. We hit a bit of traffic and mercifully move on. I hate Vegas. Hate it. All yellow lights and distraction. Vegas looks creepy in the daylight. It's just big buildings and slot machines. Gross.

The time is going by quickly. Larry and I love road tripping. And once we get past the eyesore of Vegas, it's just gorgeous territory, so there's plenty to look at. That, and the fact my brother keeps talking. Jim jockeys between facts about the road we're on and whatever else flows over the transom of his mind. Jim's IQ is off the charts, and his brain has kept track of everything he's heard. He's a walking encyclopedia of facts and factiods. He talks about Gnosticism, the pool chlorine that sweat out of him when he was doing yoga; where the wood for clarinets comes from. It's all fascinating, but after a while I long for silence. I put in my orange ear plugs, lie down and take a nap. When I wake up again, Larry and Jim are exchanging stories about dating women with "borderline personality disorder."

We reach the I-70 and head across Utah. The terrain turns otherworldly. Rocks jutting up, weathered and rounded over the millennia. Jim says one section is an ancient barrier reef that was once underwater. We talk about the fundamentalists who think the earth was created in seven days, starting 7,000 years ago. And we decide these people must not really take a good look at what's out here.

The sun is setting over the ancient barrier reef, the dust and the rocks turn colors, and the Rockies are looming in the east. I look out at the rock formations, the shades of red and green in the rocks and dust. I notice the way that the tectonic plates have shoved one over the other, millions of years ago, and I start to feel something I haven't felt in a while.

I feel awe.

That's the thing about us self-proclaimed sophisticates who live in our 1960s cubist blocks off of the 405 freeway. We're so caught up in tracking our ebbing careers and the Nielsen ratings, that we miss those things that the idiot commuters come home to every night. Beauty. Beauty that exists quite apart from Hollywood and commerce and man's piddly attempt to be immortal.

Jim points out that we are in the great western desert, that these little outcroppings of old horseshoe stores and curios are much more a part of Vegas than they are of LA. They are part of the culture of the Great American West. I am glad Jim and all his facts are along for the ride.

I'm also glad because I don't get to spend all that much time with my brother. Sure, we meet for yoga once and a while, or he calls to talk about this trip we are now taking. But right now it's my brother, with whom I share a history stretching back into my past; and Larry, with whom I'm forging a road into the future. Larry has heard me talk about aspects of my history, but now Larry gets to hear it from my brother's point of view. Larry gets to listen to Jim and I talk about it, parse it out in jokes and phrases and memories that are part of the Isaacs lexicon. Short hand words like "lonely childhood" and "lost opportunities" and regret.

After transversing a 100-mile stretch of no gas or food or lodging, we stop in Green River, Utah to get gas and coffee. The Sinclair Trucker Center has showers and laundry services, and a Burger King with big screen TVs. It also caters to the professional trucker, and as such sells all sorts of gadgets you can plug into a cigarette lighter: coffee makers and mini TVs and a small oven. Jim jokes about buying the oven and getting a head start on that Thanksgiving turkey.

When we were kids we did a lot of road trips with our dad. He took us on long family vacations, trips where we'd be in a car all day for three weeks. Dad said it was to show us the world, but I think he was trying to hang onto a time when he was God and we all still loved him. Sinclair will always remind me of Jim. When he was young, he loved the Sinclair mascot, a green dinosaur, and he fought to get my parents to buy him one of those green dinosaur stuffed animal. Maybe he was trying to hang onto a time when my father pretended to love him.

We hit Vail, Colorado by 9 pm, which means we should get into Sedalia by 11pm. The last two hours are long, and I try to nap.

~~~~~

My sister Nancy and her husband Phill moved to Colorado in 2003. A few families from their church in Northern California had already moved there. Phill is an accountant, and he went out to Castle Rock, Colorado to do one of those friend's books. I remember Nancy talking about it then, that she had the sense she should be ready to move. And sure enough, right before Thanksgiving 2003, they moved to Sedalia, with their four kids, two cats, my mother and my mother's two aging fox terrier dogs. They left to escape high home prices and the insanity of American pop culture, in hopes to find a simpler, more innocent way of life.

Sedalia proper is only about two square blocks of old west style storefronts, a filling station, and a mini mart. They've only got two traffic lights, and those are only there to reinforce the trains ... make sure those cowboy ranchers don't drive their pickups around the crossing arms when the 10-car coal trains come through.

The rest of Sedalia extends for several miles to the west. It's mostly ranches and farms, or homes with a little land so the owners can play rancher or farmer. Nancy and Phill bought a modest home on 5 acres, and they've got a barn with two goats and a chicken. They had four chickens earlier this year, but three of them got picked off by coyotes, like their cats eventually did. While we were driving out there, Phill, his dad, and their oldest son Matthew were digging a trench out to the barn to bring electricity and a motion detector to the barn, so their lone chicken could have a heat lamp and a running start in case another coyote came looking.

But we didn't get to see that until the next day. We arrived in Sedalia at 11:15 pm. The street that promised to take us from the highway to their house was blocked by a coal train. The northbound and southbound trains had ended up on the same track and were stalled in a Mexican standoff. We drove a few miles north and met Phill on a frontage road, handed my brother and his luggage off to Phill. Larry and I headed in to Castle Rock. Mom had bought Larry and me three nights at the Comfort Suites. Which was a good thing. As much as the Ericksons were anxious for us to spend Thanksgiving with them, the house could only hold so many people. And as much as Larry loved my family, he was also an introvert. So retreating to a motel with a mini fridge and free wi-fi was perfect for us. We checked in, took hot showers, caught up on our emails, and fell into bed.

We were awakened at 7:30 AM by a terse conversation outside our room. I peered out and saw a security guard having a discussion with the tenant of the room opposite ours. Something about who did what when. I shushed them and went back to sleep.

We were up for a slice of the Wild West. Just, not at 7:30 am.

More Wedding Pics

I'm going to post some pictures from our wedding weekend on my website, but until then, here are a few I've received from friends.

Here's Martin and Debbie Garcia, and their daughters: Tristyn, Briana and Brisa. Martin married us, Debbie coordinated our whole wedding. We could NOT have done this without them!










The night before the wedding, we had our rehearsal dinner barbecue.
Briana and Brisa turned daddy into a hobby horse, but he took it all in stride, even if he had to cringe a little.





Larry's friend Buzz brought his wife Shirley and daughter Julie.
Buzz and Larry are pub buddies at Moose's in Pasadena. They talk politics, religion, sports, and well, girls once I came into Larry's life. So Buzz has had a vested interest in our dating life.

Buzz lives in Indiana but comes out to visit his son and daughter who live here in LA.

My dear freind Chris Myers flew out from Los Angeles to do our flowers.

Chris and I met at the Vineyard in 1988. We've been freinds ever since. When I moved out to New York in 1998, I stayed at his place in Amagansett. He was there to prop me up when I got my heart broken a few years ago. And I was visiting Chris in New York this past February when things with Larry were starting to get interesting.
I told Chris at the time that I thought Larry had potential, but I just couldn't tell how interested Larry was. "Just enjoy it," Chris told me. "Enjoy the moment." Okay, I thought. Larry called me from LA a few minutes later.
"See?" Chris smiled. Just go with it.

It was great that Larry and Chris got to hang out at the beach a couple days before the wedding.

Bliss

There was a knot inside my gut
Probably most of my life.
I probably came to know that knot as normal.
Well, that knot inside my gut began to unravel.
Little by little, until I awakened this morning and it was gone. Unstead, there's just contentment.

Thank you, Mr. Wilson

My Norwegian Cousins

We’ve got too many people. That’s what Larry said. Too many people are coming to the wedding. What, so "too many people" want to see us get married? When did it get to be too many? 89 was OK, but now 101 isn’t?

I wouldn’t know how to get married with less than a hundred people. I’ve got 21 first cousins. They all got married (so that's 42) and most of them had multiple kids. Some of their kids have kids. I have nephews and nieces who've procreated and I'm only NOW getting married. More on that later.

Fourteen of those 21 cousins are the Thompsons, my Mom's Norwegian side. I showed Larry a photo of one of our yearly family reunions. In Solvang of course. This photo wass from 1983, I was 21 years old.

Cousin Sherri’s son Jay is in the picture, back row far right. He was only 8. Now Jay is 31, married with 3 kids (and a fourth on the way). Thompson Cousins, with their spouses and children, make up over 60 people. If Larry wants to complain about inviting them all to the wedding, he should have married me when I was 22 and there were only 30 of us. But we didn’t know each other then.

He's not complaining. He's just new to the big family idea. His extended family amounts to four people: a mother, sister, brother-in-law, and nephew. And only two of them can come to the wedding. Larry’s marrying a social girl with a social family. What can I say?

This past weekend, Larry went with me to my cousin Deedee’s house. DeeDee’s youngest daughter Haileigh just graduated from 8th grade. Haileigh gave us a piano recital. Then she played the Irish drum while her father played the guitar, and they sang Irish worship music. It was lovely.

And two more of my cousins (deedee's sisters) were there: Roxanne and Janice! Roxanne, her hubby Jeff, and their three kids were visiting from Uzbekistan, where they do outreach. Cousin Cousin Janice and her two daughters, who are in YWAM. Sherri wasn't able to come, but her two children, Jay and Tia, were there. And Jay and Tia's own kids. Plus, friends from Deedee and Scott's church came to hear Haileigh play. It was a lot of fun.

I remember as a teenager feeling like I was in a privileged position compared to my cousins, because I was going off to college. Most of them got married out of high school. But I went to college, grad school, I studied abroad. I had the world in front of me.

Now at 44. I’ll have a family of two people. And I’m witnessing my cousins and the family that fills up their living room with noise and love and music and laughter and praise and prayer. And I think, so who’s got the privilege?

Here’s my Norwegian family tree. All of my first cousins are married, 99% of them have kids. And some of those kids have kids.

And then there are the Isaacs. Only Nancy is married so far. One could attribute it to social and ecucational conditioning. All of us Isaacs kids went to college and grad school. Collegiates get married later. But my brothers are in their fifties. I'm 44. I think it's less due to college education and more due to family experience. My father was such a broken sick guy, he did so much damage, it’s a miracle any of us had relationships, let alone got married.

Thank GOD we grew up with faith. At the same time, my mom often used her faith tBut my mom used her faith to hide from a lot of life’s problems. Like uh, my dad. And much of my siblings and my experience with faith has been having to undo bad habits and beliefs. That's the thing about sin and its effects. Doesn't just 'go away.' I think the Bible says something about that. Figures.

Well, enough of that. It took a lot of church and prayer and bailing on church, and counseling, and letting go, to get to this place. I’m just glad I did. Now I can take the Yellow Ø off of the family tree.

But don't expect Larry and I to add any names to the right column. We're 44 and 51. Larry's not going to host a high school graduation party when he's 70.

Fun Facts and Fotos of the Felicitous Couple

In 1973, Susan and Larry looked like this:

In 1974, Larry and Susan looked like this:

They both took geeky family pictures. (He in '74, She in '76)
Only Larry's parents look decidedly more happpy.

If you mushed Susan's brothers together, you'd get Larry.

But that's just because beauty recognizes itself.
Oh, just go with it.

Wedding: Who, What, When ...Where?

I'm getting married! I've got my Who, my What, and My When.
Now about the Where.

Larry and I have picked a day for our wedding. August 26. Yeah, in 2006. No, he's not pregnant, his eggs are too old. it's just that, to quote When Harry Met Sally, "when you realize who you want to spend the rest of your life with, you wnat the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."

We are two months away. Our friend Debbie pointed me to an online wedding Planning calendar

“12 months before the wedding…”

* Envision your wedding and draw up a budget.
* Assemble your "planning team.".
* Pick a wedding date and time.
* Look for and book ceremony and reception sites.


12 months before? 12 months ago I didn’t have groom!
“Hell, 12 months ago I didn’t believe you existed,” Larry laughed.

Well, we did exist. And even more miraculous, we found each other … no thanks to our mutual friends who never thought to introduce us. Because of your negligence, we’re now too old to bear children, and we are way behind on planning the wedding.

Seriously, though. We’ve got two months to go. Here are the things I should have done by now:

8-10 months before:
# Bride: Think about, shop for, and order your gown. (Did. Banana Republic)
# Envision reception food. (It's pot luck. Just come with chips)
# Decide what type of entertainment you want. A pianist for the cocktail hour, strolling violinists, a DJ, or band? (a cocktail hour? you kidding? What world do you live in? Music will be my ipod and speakers.)
# Think about your floral decor. (preferably alive)
# Research and book your wedding professionals. Interview vendors: photographer, videographer, reception band or DJ, florist. (wedding professionals? I hate them)
# Research a wedding insurance policy to protect your deposits. (insurance? Deposits? What's a deposit?)
# Research and reserve accommodations for out-of-town guests. (Woodland HIlls, you do the math)
# Register for gifts. uh, okay I can do that. Need sheets and towels.
# Contact rental companies if you need to rent anything for ceremony/reception, such as chairs, tables, and tent.

6-8 months before:
# Book ceremony musicians. ....
# Order bridesmaid dresses. ( oh gosh, bridesmaids. I gotta call my friend...)
# Start planning honeymoon. (Larry's domain)
# Send save-the-date cards. (everyone reading? Consider this your save-the-date card)

4-6 months before :

# Attend prewedding counseling, if required. (okay that we did. And on time!)
# Shop for and order invitations and wedding rings. (we did that on time)
# Shop for formalwear. (did that! Hey I'm feeling good)
# Envision your wedding cake and research, interview, and book a cake designer. (Mais oui. our pastry chef is Monsieur Costco.


3 months before : Order wedding cake. Attend your shower. (hey, friends!) Groom: Rent the men's formalwear. Hire wedding-day transport: limousines, other cars.


2 months before : # Mail your invitations. Write your vows. (I do, let's go) Purchase gifts for parents, attendants, and each other # Book your stylist and try out big-day hairstyles # Book a makeup artist and go for a trial run.

No wonder people elope.

Let's just start with 12 months before: planning a budget: I’ve already drawn up my budget: $128. And I spent it all on my wedding dress. I got it at Banana Republic. It’s a really pretty summer sun dress, has kind of an Audrey Hepburn air about it. I showed it to some friends and they smiled. “And if you find something else, you can always wear this for fun.”

Well, yeah, I’m wearing this dress for fun … to my wedding. It’s amazing the expectations people put on you on what your wedding should be. And it’s hard not to have your own emotion-charged feelings about what a wedding should look like or be.

I never really envisioned mine, except that it would be in a church and there would be a groom at the altar whom I felt excited to walk up the aisle toward. In my last relationship, I could never bring myself to envision the guy at the altar. (that should have been my first clue …)

Now Larry is here and I can see him at the altar waiting, and it feels so right and inevitable it’s like I can’t imaging it having ever been any one else up there. And, I can’t wait to run up the aisle and marry him!

But I haven’t envisioned what he’d be wearing. He saw a pair of groovy bell bottom jeans at a vintage store this past weekend. “I could go back and get those," he said today.

Uh. Wait a minute. Banana Republic, OK. patchworked, holey jeans from Wasteland, not OK. Or maybe it is OK? Just goes to show you all the expectations you can even put on your future spouse, when it comes to your wedding.

Here’s the biggest issue: But we don’t have an aisle yet. We have the Who (each other) the What (a wedding) a when (August 26) but not a where. Larry’s friend Doug has graciously offered us his back yard.

For the reception, OK, I said. But not a wedding. I want to get married in a church.

I’ve always wanted to get married in a church. But in a really beautiful church, with stained glass and high ceilings that an organ can fill up with majestic music, so I can walk up the aisle to Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring …

But that vision alone will cost you at least a few grand. I went online to look for churches near Doug’s place, so it would be an easy commute from church to reception. Now, keep in mind the Woodland Hills area was settled and developed in the late 1950s through the 1970s. There ain’t no old school churches there. The churches were built between the 1950s and the 197os. You do the math. Cinder block structures, Trader Vic Tiki roof lines. James Bond meets Industrial Park. Depressing.

We thought about parks. Someone mentioned Serrania Avenue Park up in the foothills. But I went online and it’s also described as the Nanny park or the dog park. A dog park where owners let their dogs run free. You know where I’m going … away from Serrania Park. And anyway, if you figure renting the park location and renting chairs, and we gotta rent chairs and tables for doug’s barbecue … Maybe it's best to have the whole shebang at Doug's. that way we don't have to decorate two places. Maybe we WILL we’ll have it in our friend’s back yard. Larry’s got a small family, but mine is big. And together, our family of friends is big.

And then there’s money. If money were no object … I still wouldn't want to do all that wedding industry-generated stuff. I’m turned off by it. The wedding INDUSTRY is a billion-dollar industry. The average American wedding now costs over 26 grand.

When and how did this happen? I bet it really took off after Charles and Diana’s wedding was televised live all over the world. Know why we want the fairy tale wedding?

Marketing. It's the same reason women have convinced themselves that stiletto heels and pointy toed shoes are pretty. Marketing. Marketing sets up feelings of inadequacy and emotional hunger. It plays on your desires, even the legitimate ones, and twists it so you expect certain things.

Like the wedding dress: women go spend thousands of dollars on a dress. Why, because "in the olden days" a bride in polite society wore an expensive white dress. Right? Well but consider this: it was also customary that the bride wear that same dress e out in society for an entire year after her wedding. It was the bridal dress, so suitors wouldn't try to hit on her. IT's the same reason a widow was supposed to wear black for a year. . So next time you think about spending a few thousand dollars on a frock because ‘that’s what you’re supposed to do,’ ask if you'd want to wear it out to the movies or to Trader Joe’s or the Olive Garden. NO? Okay then.

My parents got married in 1947 at the Norwegian Seamen’s Lutheran church in San Pedro, California. Mom made her dress (and it was beautiful). They had a small ceremony with the family and a few friends. They had cake and punch in the reception hall afterward. And that was kind of it.

My sister and her husband got married right out of college. They had the wedding and reception at a church in Santa Barbara. We served cold cuts and carrot sticks with ranch dressing. I remember, because our motel room on State Street was cluttered with coleman coolers filled with ham and cheese. We were buttering rolls all night the night before. For anyone reading who attended Nancy and Phill’s wedding and got food poisoning, I am sorry for your loss.

So we want to do something simple. I want it to have beauty and meaning in it. Rituals are important. It’s important we celebrate the event. And paying some money to make it special is important. SO now we’ve got to figure out what makes a wedding feel special and beautiful? Well Larry cares about the reception, he wants to have a fun party with his friends to celebrate. I care about the ceremony, and want some beauty in it. SO I guess, he’ll do the reception, I’ll do the wedding. And we may do it all in Doug’s back yard.

I’m determined to never say, “let’s elope to Vegas.” We want our family and friends with us.

Zoo Story: Kids In, Out and Under Control

Saturday Larry took me to the zoo. (Read Larry's Zoo Story) What a great idea, we thought. Several animals had given birth to babies, and it would be fun to see the cute cuddly infants.

Well this was true and not so true. For one thing, some of the “babies” were over a year old. Like the tiger twins who were born in June of 2005. Still they were adorable, and the way they playfully knocked each other around like caroms, reminded us of how fun kids can be.

The human kids on display weren’t nearly so adorable. And they weren’t locked up in cages either. We were appalled at the behavior of so many of them. Screaming, throwing tantrums. I actually watched a four year old hitting his mother over and over and over. And over, with his stuffed animal: I WANT POPCORN! NOW NOW NOW! Fortunately, most of the parents knew to discipline their kids and teach them it’s not acceptable behavior. Wait, that’s the show Super Nanny. Here at the zoo the parents were letting their kids wreak havoc on them. Hey keep it at home.

I’m not a parent, so I can’t judge how hard it is to be one. But I can make a fair assessment of what I’ve observed in public. And it’s awful. I’ve seen it in department stores, from Robinsons May to Ross. The other weekend I trying on a shirt, when over the dressing room stall came the piercing sound of a Hispanic kid, screaming bloody murder at his mom. I peeked out to see four women in the hallway, chatting away, doing nothing to stop him. He stopped for a moment to see if they’d react, and then went on. He was working it. But the women did nothing. Finally I yelled over my stall, “SILENCIO, POR FAVOR!!!” I heard whispers and giggles. And more screaming. I should have yelled was, “Alguien da eso hijo una TIT!” Someone give that kid a tit.” Ay caramba. No wonder our prisons are filling up. No wonder the Kenneth Lays and Jack Abramoffs of the world violate the law with no compunction. No one has boundaries any more.

Why are parents afraid to discipline their children? Are they afraid of hurting them? Or are they so insecure, they can’t risk losing the approval of their own children?

My sister and her husband seem to be doing a great job with their four children. They’re strict with them. They make the rules clear. When the kids disobey they get warnings, and then they get punished. They also get rewards, and they get a lot of reminders of how much they are loved. My brother in law makes a point to do a one-on-one activity with each of his kids. They feel special. I’m really amazed at how well they’re doing.

But the oldest is only 12. What’s it going to be like when they all reach puberty?

Nancy and Phill home school their kids. Or rather, Phill goes to work and Nancy exhausts herself trying to teach four kids under the age of 12. I wouldn’t be so worried, except that they’ve come under the influence of this couple, Michael and Debi Pearl, an Amish looking couple who are big on discipline and spanking, girls staying at home and not going to college; men cut their hair but not their beards. Girls never cut their hair and God forbid they wear pants. Debi cites some verse in Leviticus that for a man to dress in women’s clothing is an abomination unto the Lord, and for a woman to dress like a man is an abomination that causes desolation or whatever.

Okay yeah, most conservative faiths have a problem with cross dressing or drag. I gotta admit, most drag queens or kings make me feel sad for them and icked out. But there’s a big different between trying to be a man and wearing a pair of jeans to the supermarket. And what about Scotsmen and kilts? What about those white wigs that the british barristers still wear to court? Indian women wear saris and pants under them. "The only cultures where women wore pants were the Eastern ones," Debi Perl says, as if they're already condemned pagans and the trousers are the reason.

My brother in law has already said his daughters won't date. They can be courted, and they'll have to be chaperoned.
What about going to the movies?
Oh, they won't do that either.
Phill's also said he doesn't believe his daughters should live out from under his roof until they get married. They need to be protected. They're my responsibility, I'm their covering.

This kind of thinking was normal in 1850. But this is the world my nieces and nephews are growing up in right now in 2006. Maybe they’ll pass right on into it. Maybe Emily will get married at 16 and start having babies at 17. Maybe Emily will want that life. She sure is good with kids, and she’s very mothering. But maybe that’s because it’s the only thing she’s been modeled. There are plenty of cultures who do that. Including the Hispanic cultures right here in LA. Who are we to say what’s the acceptable time to get on with life? I can’t help but think of Emily in Paris, learning to make crepes. As of today, it’ll never happen. Unless her father goes with her.

I’m not a parent, I can’t judge what it’s like to take on that job. But I am qualified to report what I see. And right now, all I see are two polar opposites:, out of control barbaric kids, or happy obedient kids with a narrow of acceptable behavior.

I realize our culture is out of control. Way out of control. Not just spoiled kids. But just go to the supermarket and the check out lines are littered with gossip magazines about Heather and Denise's war over Richie. Charlie Sheen's prostitution addiction. Go to 7-11 and the check out desk is papered with porn magazines disgused as "for men."

It's sad. It's really tragic. Kids can't grow up with any sense of innocence. Nothing is pure or good anymore. Make all sex OK, make it accessible and all OK, and nothign has any preciousness. Flood the jewelry market with diamonds and diamonds won't be worth anything. Plaster us with any and every kind of sexual pleasure. Nothing is bad any more. Well then nothing is good either. Nothing is special. Nothing is pure. It's like the artist squeezed out all his tubes of paint and made one big blob of gray.

What a sad, empty, valueless world.

I understand exactly why my sister and her family have retreated from modern American culture. But maybe God wants us out in this world, this culture. God loved the world he created. Doesn't he? Shouldn't we be out in this world, loving people, modeling a different way? and not having to put on a bonnet to do it?

I heard about this church in Vegas, where strippers are welcome. The pastor just wants them to know they're loved by Jesus. Maybe the girls don't leave their jobs right away. Maybe they never do. But isn't that first step knowing you're loved?

On a ligher note: Larry did get assaulted at the zoo, not by a human, but by a Peacock. Either he was challenging him to a duel, or trying to come onto him. Oh no, a gay peacock. The end is surely near.