Ilse, a childhood friend of mine, once found a raspberry in the camp and carried it in her pocket all day to present it to me that night on a leaf. Imagine a world in which your entire possession is one raspberry, and you give it to a friend.                                                                                             Gerda Weissmann Klein, Holocaust Survivor

Ask anyone in my family, and they will tell you that I don’t view television programs or movies. I experience them. We’re talking full-body experience of the often painful sort. I’ve clawed my way through suspense, wounding myself and companions and leaving bloody reminders of climatic scenes on forearms and hands. I’ve tented myself with sweatshirts or jackets, peering through a neck peephole at horror that is predictable (every seven minutes or so–I’ve timed the interludes between hackings) but nonetheless scream-worthy. I’ve outfitted myself with kleenexes and cried at the opening theme songs of Lassie and countless other poignant programs.

When I experienced Schindler’s List for the first time, however, this was both a full-body and out-of-body experience. Even today, having seen the film thirty or more times, within seconds, I am standing behind a barbed wire fence, my hair shorn, my hand clutching my mother’s, awaiting the selection. This film assaults my senses in ways I cannot begin to describe. And yet, it also ushers me into the Sanctuary of a Single Raspberry, that tangible and intangible place in which singularity matters.

Imagine a world in which your entire possession is one raspberry, and you give it to a friend.  Yes, imagine this world of single possessions given willingly to another. In the Sanctuary of a Single Raspberry, one thing, one word, one touch or gesture can save a life and soul. In the final scene of Schindler’s List, Oskar Schindler speaks through tears to a crowd of Jewish survivors, grieving his inability to save more of their families and friends. His accountant, Itzhak Stern, presses a gold ring into his palm, a ring that he and other Jewish survivors created in tribute to the man who gave them work and, as a result, saved their lives. Inscribed on the ring is this Hebrew line from the Talmud: Whoever saves one life saves the world entire. A single life, a single raspberry. In this sanctuary, singularity saves the world entire. 

For there is magic math in the Sanctuary of a Single Raspberry. One word from a sideline coach affirms the efforts of a team, one raised hand, one question opens a room for many voices, and one touch–a hand that covers another–encourages one who sits weeping, solitary in his loss, to touch another, who touches yet another. In Mark 6:41, we read how Jesus fed 5,000:

Taking the five loaves and the two fish and looking up to heaven, he gave thanks and broke the loaves. Then he gave them to his disciples to distribute to the people. 

So little fed so many. This is the “new” math in the Sanctuary of a Single Raspberry. It defies numerical logic. Turn your head, blink your eyes, and where there was a base of one, you find the exponent of many has performed its magic.

Don S. was the only fifth grader who was never chosen for a kickball team at recess. He was always the last kid standing in the middle of the field after the two captains had picked their teams. By default, he earned a spot as last man standing. As such, he had never heard his name called until one October recess when I was captain. To my shame, I had never chosen Don, never actually given him much time or thought. Until that recess, when I called his name. First pick. I’m not sure what prompted me to really see him that day. I’d like to think it was the prompting of the Holy Spirit or, at least, a sense of social responsibility, unfamiliar yet urgent. I called his name, and with that, I presented a single raspberry on a leaf to a friend.

Years later, I received a phone call in my college dorm room. Given his one phone call from the county jail, Don called me. I don’t remember what he had done to land himself there, but I do remember his voice, a voice that carried me back to that elementary playground on the day during which both of our lives were changed. In the Sanctuary of a Single Raspberry, one moment in time can forge a bond that spans years.

Truthfully, too much of my life has been defined by the pursuit of many and more. I have chanted more is better when I knew better. More time, more money, more knowledge, more accolades. And at my fingertips? Single moments, single things, single words and ideas that could be–should be–served up lovingly on a bed of leaves.

When I was in Nigeria several years ago, I was smitten with this little girl who came out to meet us in the village of Bambur. Before I left Iowa, I had been warned–by family and friends–that I wouldn’t be able to bring any children home. (They know me all too well, I’m afraid.) All I could offer this girl was my hand as we walked the dirt paths of her village. Still, in the Sanctuary of a Single Raspberry, I had felt the power of a single hand and understood that long after I left Africa, I would carry this child with me.

A month after I returned, I thought about Gerda Weissmann Klein’s words and imagined myself in Bambur, a single mango my entire worldly possession. I imagined myself gathering cassava root for drying, working the maize fields, the mango stowed lovingly away until I could return to the village. Until I could give it to my friend.  An ocean away, however, I had to settle for writing my intentions.

To My Friend

In the dry season when little grows,

everything is edible:

bark from breadfruit trees,

termites, even goat dung.

When land and skin turn ashen,

you feast on the memory of mango,

now a shimering specter

in the noonday sun.

In the absence of sweet meat and juice

that once stained your fingers and chin,

you drool dust.

.

In a world gone dormant,

how can your loveliness live?

If there were one ripe mango in your village,

I would carry it in my pocket

all day.

And tonight when you lie outside your mud hut—

one perfect piece

in a quilt of small, sleeping children–

imagine me kneeling,

then placing my gift on a leaf

near your face.                                                                                                                                                                            .

Imagine me your friend.

The Sanctuary of a Single Raspberry opens up before us daily. I’m training myself to do the “new math” and present single gifts for multiplying. For if a single raspberry or soul can save the world entire, then I can think of no greater singularity to steer my course.

Lighthouse, Harmon Park

In the Sanctuary of a Park, you can have Disney Land in your backyard. Or nearly your backyard. Two blocks from my childhood home is Harmon Park, 6 1/2 city blocks of bliss. In 1924, having received a Harmon Foundation grant, the city of Kearney, Nebraska purchased land, designated as Harmon Field, for a playground. A plaque in the park reads:

This playground was made ours through the assistance of the Harmon Foundation, 1924, dedicated forever to the plays of children, the development of youth and the recreation of all. “The gift of land is the gift eternal.”                       Wm. E. Harmon

Lighthouse, Harmon Park, circa 1936

And what a gift eternal it is. From the window of Park Elementary School, the magic kingdom spread out before me as far as I could see. Once these acres held chautauquas, pony rides, and a petting zoo complete with monkeys. But for me, my sisters and friends, they held something better: the promise of what could be. In the Sanctuary of a Park, if you can imagine it, it will be.

Just outside the Youth Center, a WWII tank found a permanent home on a concrete slab. Wars were fought on and around this tank. Dares were made. Can you shimmy out to the end of the gun and drop to the ground? Can you stand on one foot on the top of the tank? And lunches were eaten on its fenders, while the stories of wars and war strategies continued through pb & j and baggies of crushed potato chips.

The Sonotorium, an open-air Art Deco theater, was constructed in 1938. Home to concerts, dramas, graduations, and community gatherings, the Sonotorium hosted our childhood pageants and plays, performed for park squirrels and neighborhood dogs.

But the real magic was found in the Rock Garden at the northern edge of the park. Initiated in 1936, the Kearney Daily Hub reported that if all Kearney residents who travel to mountain country, the Rockies or elsewhere, …will pick out just one or two odd-shaped rocks or stones and bring them back to Kearney, the park would soon have a very good start toward its proposed rock garden. A rock pyramid near the entrance of the Rock Garden testifies to the fact that residents did, indeed, contribute rocks–from every state–to the project. Still, the Works Progress Administration did the majority of the construction during the Depression years, creating a paradise from rock.

And the rock came in. Union Pacific flatcars brought stones from Wyoming, Utah, North and South Dakota, Kansas and Nebraska. WPA workers unloaded them and moved them to their final destinations. According to personal interviews with Kearney residents and records from the Kearney Daily Hub, this was no small task:

The story is told of one huge rock weighing 8,400 pounds being moved on a sled through the park and while crossing the stream the rock rolled off blocking the water. It was too heavy to move so workmen dug under it to let the water flow. The rock stayed where it fell and can be seen today. 

In the Sanctuary of a Park, something as common as rock becomes the stuff that dreams are made of. The Rock Garden was not professionally designed–no blueprints for its design exist–but rock by rock, the garden took its shape organically, perfectly, until the whole became so much greater than its mineral parts. At the northern end of the park on its highest point, the headwaters of the Rock Garden flows from its largest waterfall down through a series of streams and small pools, around islands, through more waterfalls, and finally to the larger pools at the foot of a magnificent stone lighthouse with a curved exterior staircase. From the balcony of the lighthouse, you can look out upon a grotto, carved in the eastern hillside, and over lily pads that color the summer pools below. There are eleven stone bridges; some are wide slabs of rough rock, others are narrow cuts of smooth stone, but all lead to adventure for those of us who grew up in the park.

For who can boast that they owned an island before they were 12 years old? My sisters and I laid claim to an island near the lighthouse, having chosen it carefully from a host of other islands and christened it TES Island (Timaree-Erin-Shannon Island). We spent hours on and around this island, spinning stories of love and loss, venturing into less familiar Rock Garden territory, and grounding ourselves in the other-worldliness of this place that was, remarkably, so close to home and so accessible.

TES Island, Harmon Park

In the Sanctuary of a Park, there is a willing suspension of disbelief. Legend had it that a disgruntled fiancee threw her diamond engagement ring into the pool, an angry flash of brilliance cast into the mossy water below the falls. I can see us still: a cozy clutch of children, huddled beneath the big cottonwood tree at the base of Diamond Ring Falls, whispering the legendary words that held us all, spell-bound, in the magic of the moment. We would find the diamond ring. Who else but us, those who loved and haunted the Rock Garden most, should be the beneficiaries of this treasure? We would willingly suspend our disbelief, refuting the obvious: that the pool’s 18 inches of water was drained in late October, that if–and this is a BIG if–there really had been a diamond ring thrust into the shallows, it is more than likely that some park worker would have found it as they prepped the park for winter. Summer after summer, we spoke the legend into life, searching the water for some hint of the gem we carried in our hearts and dreams.

Diamond Ring Falls, Harmon Park

And we were willing to suspend our disbelief as we climbed the winding stairs to the top of the lighthouse, where we stood in front of the grafittied and padlocked black door. In truth, behind this door lay park workers’ tools. For us? Behind this door lay glorious possibilities. Kidnapped children (the ones who stole lunch money and cut in lunch lines, the ones we hoped would someday vanish)? Treasure (bags of gold, neatly stacked in circular rows inside the belly of the lighthouse)? Skeletons (of old people–the scary kind who invite you into their homes BEFORE they will give you candy on Halloween)? And what were these words scratched into our line of sight? Clues to mysteries long unsolved? Cautionary words to STAY OUT, to BEWARE, to WATCH YOUR BACK? Never mind that closer, more critical looks would reveal the work of vandals, drunks, and lovers. Never mind that the door was repainted yearly to remove the remnants of adolescent mischief. Just never mind. We could willing suspend our disbelief, fueling our adventures another summer.

In the Sanctuary of a Park, you can find magic when you need it. Even as I grew and understood, all too well, the workings of the real world–the world in which you do not make cheerleader even though you desperately want to, the world in which you remain ordinary even though you yearn to be extraordinary–the Rock Garden in Harmon Park remained a temporary stay against confusion, a Neverland, a refuge. In the small pool at the top of the waterfall we called Wishing Well Falls, I lovingly placed coins that I hoped would bring me luck and love. It was there that unspoken words of hope found their voice. It was there that prayer found me, sustained and chastened me. And it was there that, 1/4 mile from my high school, I could be utterly alone, cocooned in rocks and leaves, the songs of water over rock as familiar choruses, and the vista of the Rock Garden ever before me.

Wishing Well Falls, headwaters, Harmon Park

While many dream of people and plots, I dream in places. Though I rarely recognize or remember the people or stories of my dreams, I am fixed in the places of my dreams. I return to them, each time more familiar than the last. I know their nooks and crannies, I feel their colors and shapes.

Harmon Park is a place I return to–in dream and in person–time after time. This is a place for time-travel. This is a place for unraveling the best stories, those tightly wound balls of narrative twine, unconsciously or subconsciously hidden from the world. This is a place for gathering, a cloud of witnesses from days of swinging, climbing, frog-hunting, and adventuring who hold your hands and your dreams. And this is a place for children and grandchildren whose stories might also find the magic of water and rock and sky.

                                                                                                    The author of a book is a voice with a new body.                                                               Don Welch

As a girl, I lived in and through my books. I read and reread both the Judy Bolton and Nancy Drew series. Even today, I carry Carolyn Keene’s voice with me: Nancy Drew, smartly dressed in a navy suit, white pumps, and a patent leather clutch bag. . .  I understood, all too well, that Nancy never went anywhere until–and unless–she was smartly dressed. Carolyn Keene’s and Margaret Sutton’s voices took on new bodies as they narrated the Nancy Drew and Judy Bolton mysteries. These voices in their new bodies became essential characters through which I grew to love Nancy and Judy. I flew through pages, eager to solve the mystery but always grieving the inevitable final page. My only solace was the fact that these were series, and I could begin a new book the very moment I finished one.

In the Sanctuary of a Book, voices do, indeed, take on new bodies. And these bodies become companions and confidantes. Although they are birthed through words, through images and rhythms, through dialogue and rhymes, they live and breathe as tangibly as your best friend, your next-door neighbor, your mail carrier. They sit beside you at the dinner table, whispering in your ear: Tell them about. . .  In the moments before sleep, they kneel beside your bed, and the breath of their prayers rustles the bed covers. And when you wake, they take your hands, pull you from your dreams and say: Come. 

Last weekend, I had the privilege to participate in a book launch event for my father’s final collection of poetry, Homing. In the midst of family, friends, colleagues, and fellow poets, my father’s book became a voice with a new body. As we read his words, giving our best voices to his voice, from beyond the grave his new body, a palpable presence, filled the room.

In the Sanctuary of a Book, there is this kind of transfiguration. On the mountaintops of our rooms, the author’s voice, bathed in searing white light, takes his place alongside the likes of William Butler Yeats and Nathaniel Hawthorne. This voice takes on a new body with arms that turn the pages of a lifetime and with eyes that fix you–helplessly, blessedly–in the moment. And then, a cloud wraps you into the translucence of consonance and assonance, and you have ears to hear: This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased. Listen to him. 

One of the world’s leading New Testament scholars, N. T. Wright, asserts that bodily resurrection distinguishes Christianity from other faiths and beliefs. In his book, Surprised By Hope, he writes:

According to the early Christians, the purpose of this new body will be to rule wisely over God’s new world. Forget those images about lounging around playing harps. There will be work to do and we shall relish doing it. All the skills and talents we have put to God’s service in this present life–and perhaps too the interests and likings we gave up because they conflicted with our vocation–will be enhanced and ennobled and given back to us to be exercised to his glory. 

There will be work to do and we shall relish doing it. My father walked the streets of my hometown daily, finding his rhythm and his voice as he moved through the alleys and down the sidewalks of Kearney. And then he wrote. Sometimes he would stop to record images and lines in small notebooks he carried in his pocket; other times he would carry the images and lines in his head until he returned home. This was his greatest work, and he relished–and continues to relish–doing it. For my father’s new body and voice are enhanced and ennobled through the pages of his books. They live more urgently today than ever. Such is the glory in the Sanctuary of a Book.

In The Great Divorce, C. S. Lewis asks us to consider resurrection bodies that are more solid, more real, and more substantial than our earthly bodies. Through the poems in my father’s books, I hear his voice still. I would recognize its timbre, its cadence and inflection, in a room of a thousand voices. For me, like many others, this voice has, indeed, taken on a bodily presence that comforts, instructs, and inspires–a presence that is more solid, more real, and more substantial with each reading and rereading of each poem in each book.

The voices of so many great authors have taken on new bodies for me over the years. I have had tea with Kate Chopin, walked with Henry David Thoreau, cried with Elie Wiesel, sung with e. e. cummings, raged with Richard Wright, wondered with Toni Morrison, and grieved with Sylvia Plath. In my four bedroom home in rural Iowa, I have housed untold authors.

In the Sanctuary of a Book,  you can leave the light on and the door unlocked because you always have room for more new bodies. And as you welcome them in and their voices resonate, expanding to the very corners of your home and your soul, you know that it does not get much better than this.

My name is Shannon, and I am a color addict. The fact that I looked through endless images of color, searching for just the right ones and losing myself in my obsession with the next image, and then the next, is testament to my ongoing addiction. I drool as I near the paint section of home improvement stores, hiding my predilection for color from my husband as I desperately sneak paint swatches into my purse. We are not painting anything in our home or even planning to paint anything. Still, when there are perfectly good paint swatches with glorious colors to ponder? And they are free for the taking? In the Sanctuary of Color, fellow addicts understand that it is impossible to pass up those small cardstock squares of color in all their shades and tints and wonder.

And then there are the names of colors. In the Sanctuary of Color, there is legitimate sensuality reserved for color names. When one speaks mauve, amber, aquamarine, azure, cyan, cinnebar, orchid, saffron, emerald, fuschia, indigo, jade, taupe or topaz, the consonants and vowels should be rolled around the mouth, languidly like fine wine, before they emerge into the spoken air. Color addicts, like me, will always saturate their language with indigo and azure. Never just blue, which marks even the most enthusiastic color initiate as simple-minded and downright uncouth.

In the Sanctuary of Color, the newly commercialized adult coloring fad is neither new nor a fad. I will concede that because so many adults have embraced coloring, this has made it more socially acceptable for me and has–on many occasions–saved me from my granddaughter’s scrutiny and concern as I mindlessly filled up the pages of her Dora the Explorer and Disney Princesses’ coloring books with my own careful coloring. The moment when Gracyn turned to me and said, Grandma, you need to stop coloring. I mean it–you just have to stop, was the moment I knew I had a coloring problem. It is humbling, indeed, to be confronted by a six-year-old who has staged an intervention, hiding your newly purchased box of crayons who-knows-where. . .

Those who live in the Sanctuary of Color scoff at the displays of 12 count crayon and colored pencil packages. Twelve? What a joke! Twenty-four? Seriously! Seventy-two? Now, you’re talking. More is definitely better. It doesn’t get much better than spreading your colors out before you, a panoply of such marvelous pigments, all yearning for white space.

Color obsession has not been contained only to the confines of my home. No, it has reared its ugly head as I have created power point presentations for instruction and professional development. This is not a great color scheme, I would think as I created. No, this will never do. I’m going to try this combination. And given the multitude of colors and combinations from which to choose, I would create, recreate, and recreate, looking for the perfect colors. Minutes would pass–sometimes a half hour–and I would be bent over my computer, trying on better-still color combos. Who does this? Sadly, the type of color addict who also has to limit herself to looking at five (not six, and certainly not seven!) wallpaper books lest she enter an alternate color universe never to return again.

Claude Monet, perhaps the most influential Impressionist, wrote: Color is my day-long obsession, joy and torment. Monet has a permanent seat in the throne room in the Sanctuary of Color. He gets it. The obsession that skips along the line between joy and torment, flirting with bliss–at one moment–and with suffering at the next. In his later years, Monet’s sense of color took on a characteristic reddish tone, a common result of cataracts. For a self-professed color addict/aficionado, I cannot begin to imagine the sense of loss he must have felt when he realized that he was not seeing color as it really was. Some have wondered if he could actually see ultraviolet wavelengths of light–wavelengths that most cannot normally see–after he finally had cataract surgery. They propose that he may have perceived colors differently after surgery, for he returned to earlier paintings, imbuing his water lilies with even bluer pigments.

By Wikipedia Loves Art participant “shooting_brooklyn” – Metropolitan Museum of Art, CC BY-SA 2.5, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8947762

I like to imagine Monet with his new set of eyes, sans cataracts, sitting on a veranda, his easel before him, as the best morning light washes over his canvas. I like to think that he, like me, would be so enraptured with the marriage of light and color, that he would speak to the canvas and to himself. More cobalt. And more opaque here–use the full force of the pigment, Claude. Make it right. Make it true. In the Sanctuary of Color, those like Monet would never tire at looking critically at color, finding its truest hues. This is the sacred work they were called to, and all else pales, pitifully, in comparison.

In contrast to the Impressionist’s juxtaposition of color to color, dabs of maize alongside dabs of saffron, I have seen the meticulous work of single-haired brushes that unload the smallest bits of color on the wings of mallards and other water fowl. Watching my husband paint this way, his eyes and hands extensions of the drake’s wing, minutes becoming hours, and color unfolding slowly but surely from the breast to the wing to the tail, I have understood how inclusive the Sanctuary of Color truly is. Paul knows the anatomy of a mallard in ways that only an artist and a life-long hunter can. Each brush stroke, each color comes from a primeval and wholly personal place. For him, like other artists, color matters greatly. Neither technique, subject, nor style matter as much.  The noble pursuit of color makes all welcome in the Sanctuary of Color. If you can talk color, if you live and breathe color, you’re in.

When I visited Yellowstone Park, I remember standing in something close to rapture at the edge of Morning Glory Pool. While others were snapping photos, the names of colors were rushing through my mind. It was a kind of Rolodex-of-color moment, and it was essential for me to name what I saw before me. I would like to say that after collecting thousands of paint swatches, buying yearly big boxes of new, pointy crayons, and studying color palettes for decades that I would have been able to name the colors of the Morning Glory Pool. But I could not. These were colors yet to be named, colors that defied naming and yet longed for it. I decided that it was more than enough to have seen these colors and to have pocketed them, as only a color enthusiast can, in my soul’s treasure chest.

Morning Glory Pool, Yellowstone National Park

Those who live in the Sanctuary of Color understand that they can return to their treasure chests and admire a lifetime of colors.  Meticulously packed and sorted, one can remove them, love them, and speak their names. Crimson, cerulean, cerise, and celadon .  .  .

Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis

My first foray into the Sanctuary of Elegance came through my maternal grandmother, Shirley Margaret Zorn. My cousins and I were visiting and playing in her living room when Grammie entered and told us to take our feet off of the davenport. When she could have said couch, Grammie said davenport. With a single word, I was momentarily transported into a world less common and unspeakably fine.

Years later, I recall my grandmother describing a home in her community as elegant. Even as she spoke the word, I took note. This was an event, not a passing moment. Elegant. From the mouth of Shirley Margaret Zorn, each syllable emerged, equally rich and wholly unrushed. In the  ceremonial hush that followed, I became a willing initiate into the Sanctuary of Elegance.

Elegance is rarely–and not necessarily–opulence. It lives in the clean lines of Jacqueline Kennedy’s pillbox hats, and not in the spectators of British royal women, hats that sprout exotic feathers and that sport bedazzlements crafted in the workshops of Willie Wonka. Although most Americans preferred to call their First Lady Jackie–a name that warmly bridged the gap between American political royalty and the common folk–card-carrying members of the Sanctuary of Elegance deliberately deferred to Jacqueline–a name that sounded just as elegant as the woman herself.

Those who truly understand the nature of elegance, however, know that it must not be confused with simplicity. The messages in commercial greeting cards are simple. Their rhymes and verses are simply sentimental, leaving their saccharine residue on the soul. One would be hard-pressed to ever call these verses elegant, comforting and well-intended as they may be. But the rhymes and verses in the Sanctuary of Elegance? They defy simple description or definition. They suggest something profound: fine and lasting.

In my father’s poem, “Listening to a Pavane by Gabriel Faure,” he writes:

The flowers of a pavane turn                                                                     slowly in the wind.

In a world filled with killings                                                                     they offer you their petals.

The voices of the flowers                                                                               are ocher and umber,

the voices of the flowers                                                                                 are vermillion and rum.

Sometimes it is like this when                                                                     you listen to a pavane,

the petals of the flowers,                                                                             their sounds in the wind,

amaryllis, sweet william,                                                                         vermillion and rum.

Amaryllis, sweet william, vermillion and rum. Now these are rhymes for the likes of Shirley Margaret Zorn and Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. And these are sentiments from the pure maple sugar, the deep tap root of the heart. These are words of elegance that will stand the test of time, returning as a soul-chorus like words of scripture stored away for just a time as this.

I will admit that I am a fan of kitsch. Those who know me well have seen my penchant for the tacky and utterly uncivilized. At any given moment, I can make a kitsch impulse-buy (my collection of early 1960s American Whimsie Dolls is more than enough evidence to support my claim here). Still, I am equally a big fan of elegance. Black and white photography from those who have an artistic eye for compositions that suggest–rather than announce–is powerfully elegant to me. Just a square of fine, dark chocolate or a single cup of perfectly-brewed Brazilian coffee is elegance extraordinaire. And the eyelashes of my sleeping granddaughter and grandson? The personification of elegance, to be sure.

Shirley Margaret Zorn ushered me into the Sanctuary of Elegance. Although my cousins and I will most remember the games we played in her ordinary basement and ordinary yard, the comfort food she lovingly fed us (caramel cinnamon rolls and magnificent pie), and a lap big enough to hold all of us, I remember and revere those moments during which I could see beyond our commonness into elegance.

If she were here today, I would ask her if she wanted to go furniture shopping with me, for I wished to buy a new davenport. She would understand that, in the Sanctuary of Elegance, you should never settle for a couch.

Indeed a picture is often worth a thousand words, and this photo of my son and his buddy, John, defines buddy in ways that words fail.

According to Merriam-Webster, a buddy is a companion, a partner, a friend.  I look at the way that John’s arm encircles my son, how he leans into Quinn, and how his eyes say I’ve got you, buddy. I see how Quinn rests his head on John’s shoulder, how he gives himself fully to John’s embrace, and how his eyes return with I trust you, buddy. All of this seems so much more than mere companionship, partnership or friendship.

In the Sanctuary of a Buddy, there is so much more. In John Steinbeck’s novel, Of Mice and Men, he presents us with a picture of more through the relationship between George and his mentally-challenged and wholly dependent buddy, Lennie, single men who are traveling in northern California to find ranch work during the 1930s.  As they camp one night and cook their beans over an open fire, Lennie asks George for ketchup to smother his beans. When George tells him that they have no ketchup, Lennie says: “I was only foolin’, George. I don’t want no ketchup. I wouldn’t eat no ketchup if it was right here beside me.” George returns with: “If it was here, you could have some.” Lennie’s final response in this scene epitomizes how much more a buddy truly is: “But I wouldn’t eat none, George. I’d leave it all for you. You could cover your beans with it and I wouldn’t touch none of it.”

In the Sanctuary of a true Buddy, you would “leave it all” for another: the ketchup, the last piece of cherry pie, your time and your love. A buddy’s mantra is It is not all about me. Moment by moment, day in and day out, a buddy hands you the ketchup bottle, serves you the last piece of pie, gives his time and her love away. Selflessly.

Buddies understand the glorious bond that defies companionship or partnership. George reveals that “Guys like us, that work on ranches, are the loneliest guys in the world. They got no family. They don’t belong no place.” He continues, “With us it ain’t like that. We got a future. We got somebody to talk to that gives a damn about us.”

This is the story that Lennie has heard and longs to hear again and again from George, the narrative bond that defines them as buddies. While there may be other lonely guys drinking their sorrows away, Lennie reminds George that “I got you to look after me, and you got me to look after you, and that’s why [we are not like the other guys].” The truth at the heart of the Sanctuary of a Buddy comes quite literally out of the mouth of a man-child here: I got you to look after me, and you got me to look after you. This sincere and constant looking after another is the best of buddidom.

In the children’s classic, Charlotte’s Web, E. B. White writes:

“You have been my friend,” replied Charlotte. “That in itself is a tremendous thing.”

In a world in which we tend to complicate relationships, often missing the proverbial forest for the trees, Charlotte understands that the real value of being a buddy is, in itself, a tremendous thing. You may enter the Sanctuary of a Buddy empty-handed. No tangible gifts or entrance fees are required. You may wear your favorite, holey Rolling Stones or Willie Nelson t-shirt, your go-to sweat pants with little elastic left in the waistband, and refuse to comb your hair or brush your teeth. Seasoned buddies go without make-up and never check to see if they have matching socks. Come as you are takes on deliberate and pure meaning in this place, for you offer yourself in sacred friendship to another. That is enough. That in itself is a tremendous thing. 

The Sanctuary of a Buddy is often a place of pleasant, soul-sustaining surprise. C. S Lewis writes that “Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: ‘What! You too? I thought I was the only one.'” I remember a sleepover that one of my young daughters had with a friend. When her friend opened a small suitcase, revealing a pull-up that had been carefully, lovingly packed just in case of an accident, my daughter burst into genuine buddy glee: You too? I thought I was the only one. In a world of grilled cheese lovers, I  thought my family members and I were the only ones who professed to love grilled peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Until I found a true buddy who confessed that she, too, had grown up eating and loving grilled peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. You too? Our buddy bond began with that simple exchange. It grew, through many such moments and realizations, over years.

The Sanctuary of Buddies often requires patience. Aristotle claimed that “Wishing to be friends is quick work, but friendship is a slow ripening fruit.” True buddihood may grow slowly, green experiences deepening until, saturated with the pure flavors of friendship, they ripen fully. And ah, when they do! The sanctuaries they create are those in which buddies never feel compelled to fill silences in the presence of their best buddies. Over time, they dream their buddies’ dreams and sing their life songs. Over time, their buddies’ narratives become second-nature, well-worn, comfortable stories woven inextricably into their own narratives.

In the Sanctuary of a Buddy, no one loses. In the classic film, It’s a Wonderful Life, George Bailey plans to kill himself. Through divine intervention, two angels send an angel-in-training, Clarence, to save George’s life. Ultimately, Clarence is successful in receiving his official angel wings by showing George that he has lived a life of purpose. And he writes, “Dear George: Remember no man is a failure who has friends. Thanks for the wings. Love, Clarence.” By their very nature, buddies cannot fail, for they are never, never alone.

I have lived much of my life in the Sanctuary of Buddies. Blessedly. I plan to live the remainder of my life there. And if my residence there grants even one angel apprentice her official wings, so much the better.

Ottumwa High School Principal, Mark Hanson, at 2015 graduation

If I were to devote every waking minute for the remainder of my life to reading all of the books, listening to all of the audio tapes, and to watching all of the videos marketing leadership, most certainly, I would not live long enough. But then again, I don’t have to. In the Sanctuary of True Leadership, it is more than enough to live and work alongside a genuine leader. For the past five years, I have had this privilege in working with Mark Hanson, Principal of Ottumwa High School.

True educational leaders have little time to market themselves or their work. While others are consulting their publicists or editors, true leaders are rolling the large garbage cans around the cafeteria–during three lunches, mind you–to pick up student trash. They are standing at the door when students arrive, greeting each student by name; they are listening, always listening, to those who have questions, comments, concerns; they are leading cheers at student pep rallies and acknowledging teacher efforts during staff meetings; and they are humbly professing their own mistakes before those whom they lead.

When I first met Mark Hanson, I was working as a literacy specialist at the area educational agency. As I was presenting during a professional session one day, I spotted an unfamiliar administrator. The session finished, I approached a colleague and asked, Who is that guy? The one sitting in the middle table with some of the Ottumwa teachers? My colleague said, That’s Mark Hanson, the new principal of Ottumwa High School. Why do you ask? To which I responded, I just wanted to know the name of the best listener I’ve ever seen. 

Many leadership books and seminars peddle talk and actions, but few give more than lip service to listening. And this is where they get it so wrong: true leaders are true learners. To learn, really learn, they understand that, above all else, they must listen to other leaders and to those who will follow them. Mark Hanson is the type of listener who listens with every fiber in his being, eyes locked on the speaker, pen in hand, his upper body bent forward lest he miss one thought. For true educational leaders, the speaker may be a fellow administrator, a teacher, a custodian or cook, a student, or a parent. It matters not who the speaker is, but rather, what can be learned.

After 40 years in education, I’ve had my share of leaders, some better than others. In truth, most were so far removed from the real work of the classroom that they could only spout the latest educational theory or drop the name of the latest educational guru in response to my questions and concerns. As if merely mentioning Robert Marzano’s name would magically make the boys in my fifth period class write the argumentative essays that were due two weeks ago. As if thrusting a copy of Vygotsky’s work on the zone of proximal development would cure all of the challenging behaviors in my freshman English class. Years from the authentic work of the classroom, many educational leaders flounder in the face of real school with real issues and real students.

In an educational world in which many principals have taught but a few years, Mark Hanson’s 13 years of classroom teaching make him an anomaly. Yet, these are crucial years. The fact that they were spent teaching students to read and write makes them all the more crucial. I recall Mr. Hanson relating an anecdote from his classroom years. Having collected a group of student essays, he worked long into the night until he had graded all of them, so that he could return them the next day. As one who has prided herself on timely feedback, I must admit that this anecdote gave new–and impressive–meaning to timely. True educational leaders can draw upon their own classroom experience, which gives them much-needed credibility in this age of anyone-can-lead-with-proper-training. 

In the Sanctuary of True Leadership, leaders talk the talk and, more importantly, walk the walk. They understand that walking the walk requires constant soul-searching: Am I modeling the kind of words, acts, relationships I wish for others? What should I do differently and better? How could I be a solution to this problem? This kind of soul-searching is not simple reflection; rather, it is the down-and-dirty type of introspection which often raises more concern than it does self-satisfaction. In short, this is not for the faint of heart. Mark Hanson has demonstrated his continual willingness to ask the tough questions and to look, first and foremost, to himself before he looks elsewhere. I don’t think there are many chapters on soul-searching in most leadership manuals, but there should be.

In the Sanctuary of True Leadership, it is not nearly enough to be a good building manager. The task of management–although necessary–pales in comparison to the tougher work of creating and sustaining a culture in which all can safely learn. This culture is carved from crucial conversations with students, staff, and parents. It is nurtured through continuing conversations and teamwork. And it is sustained when all players buy into a vision of what a school could and should be. Mark Hanson has never been one to settle for a statement I’ve heard far too often in my 30 years in Ottumwa: You have to understand–this is just Ottumwa. 

No. Not just Ottumwa. This is Ottumwa: the Ottumwa we want to be, the Ottumwa we can be. In spite of the circumstances, the history, the naysayers, true leaders are missionaries. They forge into unknown territory, the vision always before them. And they lead with clarity, as well as a type of contagious passion that, like a snowball rolling downhill, builds mass as it moves. Over the past seven years, Mark Hanson has built critical mass. His passion for the vision of THE Ottumwa High School will be, perhaps, his most valuable legacy.

To say that Ottumwa High School will miss Mark Hanson is one of the grossest understatements I can imagine. He will be sorely missed–as a leader, as a colleague, as a visionary, as a change agent, as a friend and as a human being. When I think, however, of all those he has mentored during his lifetime, I take solace in the knowledge that there will be other leaders who will take up the mantle of true leadership. In the Sanctuary of True Leadership, there is certainly room for more members. Many, many more.

For Collyn and Marinne

Yesterday, Paul yelled from the front door, Hey come look at these purple flowers! I think your lilac bush is blooming! Lilacs? In mid-September? Nah.

But the picture above is visual proof of something quite unexpected: the lilacs are blooming amidst brown, curled-up leaves and the onset of fall. Honestly, for a moment we couldn’t trust our eyes, so Paul grabbed the branch, bent it towards us, and we sniffed. Sure enough, the sweet scent of lilacs confirmed what we thought we were seeing.

In the Sanctuary of the Unexpected, lilacs bloom in September. From afar, they tease you with a hint of violet. And then, upon approach, they shout Surprise! And you are–gloriously, gleefully–surprised. For who could imagine such an unexpected gift on a gray day?

As the mother of four–two adopted and two birth children–I have been schooled in the unexpected. The dry bones of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches shoved under beds and left to atrophy, the outfits-we-chose-on-our own (such medleys of colors and textures your eyes have never seen!), and the spontaneous and wholly unfiltered remarks: Where are his teeth? Why does she have blue hair? How can he walk with pants like that?

Indeed, when it comes to my children, I have been schooled and re-schooled in the unexpected. But there is another room in the Sanctuary of the Unexpected, a lovely, private room in which you stash away your children’s unexpected words, deeds, and sentiments, so that you may take them out on another day and experience the wonder all over again.

At age 19, my daughter, Marinne, committed to the Air Force. After months of deliberating, she made up her mind, contacted the recruiter, and began preparing for her new life. On the day she left for basic training, her father and I took her to meet the bus that would carry her from rural Iowa to Lackland AFB in San Antonio, Texas. Shouldering her gear, she hugged us, reminded us that she would have little contact with us for some time, and walked to the bus.

How did that 95 pound young woman walk with such resolve? From what deep well did she draw that strength? Who was this person? In the Sanctuary of the Unexpected, your daughter becomes a woman before your very eyes as she climbs the steps to a bus. And amidst your tears, you are astonished at the incredible life you have born and now release. Weeks later when she graduates, you enter that private room in the Sanctuary of the Unexpected and line the mantle with photographs of your daughter in uniform, standing resolute among fellow airmen. And when she goes on to carve a life for herself in Montana, hundreds of miles away from her home, you add photographs of her new family and home. Unexpected, but magnificent nonetheless.

The other evening, my daughter, Collyn, was sharing a story of one of her student’s responses to a writing assignment she had given. As she talked, I was taken aback at the words she was using to describe what had happened and how she had responded. In the Sanctuary of the Unexpected, you may be amazed at the power and beauty of genetic transfer. How did she think to assign this? From where did that sensitive, insightful response to student work come? And the sheer joy that oozed from each word and shone from her eyes? I heard my father’s words and felt his very presence as she spoke. From my father, the teacher, to his daughter, the teacher, to his granddaughter, the teacher, the transfer of word-love continues. In the Sanctuary of the Unexpected, these moments are treasure-worthy. In your private room, you record them in a leather-bound journal with handmade paper, for such moments deserve no less.

Perhaps the best thing about the Sanctuary of the Unexpected is that you simply cannot predict what will happen next. Just when you think you have stowed away enough treasures for a lifetime, someone or something shouts Surprise! And like the birthday girl who has flung open the door to her own surprise party, your jaw drops, you instantly lose your bearing, and you give yourself fully to the unexpected.

I admit that as a grandmother, I do really (REALLY) like the unexpected, unfiltered remarks from my grandchildren. Just yesterday, Gracyn asked me if I ever gave cowboy handshakes. Cowboy handshakes? I asked. Yes, you know the kind where you spit in your hand and then shake. I like to keep my salivas (plural) in my own mouth, don’t you? Smiling behind my eyes (only), I said, Yes, I like to keep my salivas in my own mouth, too. 

Still, I count my blessings when I can enter that private sanctuary where I have stored lovely unexpected words and deeds. My daughters, Marinne and Collyn, have given me so many of these. And I expect that in the ordinary days to follow, I will once again hear the words and see the acts that announce Surprise! The Sanctuary of the Unexpected is like this, and I invite you to enter. Daily.

    For Megan, Quinn, Laura and Ben                  

“Adopted.
Big Deal; so was Superman”
–Chris Crutcher, Whale Talk

The Sanctuary of Adoption boasts some famous figures: Superman, Moses, and hundreds of thousands of Cabbage Patch boys and girls. And then there are the adoptees of the REALLY special sort. Being the mother of two of these, I can testify to all that makes them special.

If the Sanctuary of Adoption is grace-filled, however, the infertility that frequently precedes it is not. Basal thermometers, ovulation charts, painstakingly plotted months that look more like a child’s drawing of the Sawtooth Mountains than ovulation’s slow curve-small dip-then spike pattern.  Agonizing hours in doctors’ waiting rooms surrounded by pregnant women–some who, regrettably, whine to anyone who will listen: I just don’t know what I’m going to do with another one . . . Just when I thought I would have some time to myself . . .  And even more agonizing moments during which you bite your tongue, lest you offer to mother these babies.

In his poem, “Elegy for a Still-Born Child”, Seamus Heaney writes:

Birth of death, exhumation for burial,

A wreath of small clothes, a memorial pram,                                                                 And parents reaching for a phantom limb.  

Infertility is surely a still-born place. Dreams live only to die, and day after day, you reach for the phantom limb of the son or daughter whose ethereal shape shimmers briefly, then vanishes into the shadows.

After suffering through years of infertility, adoption threw my husband and me a life-line: the prospect of parenthood. It was this prospect that buoyed us through months of home studies, paperwork, and waiting. Although cautiously optimistic, our caseworkers ended most conversations with gentle warnings: I don’t need to remind you that this can all fall through. Still, our hope was stronger than our fear.  In hope, we measured our days with preparations: assembling the crib, buying blankets, sleepers, bottles, and diapers. In hope, we prepared as if, one day, we would bring home a son or daughter to fill our empty cradle and arms.

Miles away in other homes, two mothers gave birth–one to a daughter and one to a son. In sacrificial love, these birth mothers and fathers offered up their babies so that we might parent. And humbly, gratefully, joyously, we accepted the gifts of their love and labor.

Tragically, we live in a world in which adoption has often been silenced or criticized. How could she give her baby away? Poor kid, how can he survive not knowing who his real mother and father are? With all the government aid available, why didn’t she keep her baby? In forty years of teaching–and countless pregnant students–I have only had one young woman who chose adoption. Ridiculed and misunderstood by her peers, she stayed the course, choosing a life she believed best for her child. Her selfless choice was a gift to her son and to his adoptive parents who, like us, were wholly at the mercy of a loving birth mother and father.

In a poem my father wrote for my niece, Aanya, he writes:

In the fury of this world                                                                                                       there is no stronger verb

than love. It is the root                                                                                                               which lives through drought.

Aanya, my small noun,                                                                                                                 may you find it out. 

Adoption is a strong verb of love. It is, indeed, the root through which drought lives. This root penetrated the dry ground of our childlessness and brought forth life. And love, much love.

And our children, small nouns in the fury of this world have been beneficiaries of a love stronger than circumstance or genes. They are loved by birth and adoptive parents whose roots entwine in a family braid that spans miles and years. Our wish for them? That they find it out, that they return again and again to this root, and that they find strength in the strongest verb of all: love.

In truth, the Sanctuary of Adoption is a universal and inclusive one. It matters not whether we having living or loving mothers and fathers, for we have been chosen, predestined as children of God. In Ephesians 1:4-6, we read:

For He chose us in Him before the foundation of the world to be holy and blameless in His presence. In love He predestined us for adoption as His sons through Jesus Christ, according to the good pleasure of His will, to the praise of His glorious grace, which He has freely given us in the Beloved One.

As a writing teacher, I have read too many painful student narratives of neglect, abandonment or rejection. As words of loss spill out upon the page, I have shared the orphan’s plight. Without a living or loving parent, the orphan cowers or rails against the fury of this world. With no one to model the strong verb of love, the orphan seeks a weaker version, often in all the wrong places and from all the wrong sources.

In the Sanctuary of Adoption, though, all are loved and claimed by the Father: the orphan, the childless, the broken and hopeless, the seeking and yearning, the faithful and faithless.

My wish for all who have yet to enter the Sanctuary of Adoption? May you find it out. It is only a prayer away.

Disclaimer to family and friends who may be alarmed enough to call me: Don’t call. I have learned my lesson. Enough said.

The other day I set my alarm for 5:30, so I could walk early. As I left the house and the crescent of light that spread from the light pole in our yard, I realized that it was dark. Really, really dark. Can’t-see-your-feet-or-where-your- feet-are-going kind of dark.

But the sun will be coming up soon. If I can just make it for a half mile or so, I’ll be good. But a half mile in, there was no sign of the sun, and I had drifted off the road several times, shuffling through the dew-drenched grass until I found my way back to pavement.

And then I heard a crashing sound in the field to my right. A deer? Something more predatory?  It was then that I started clapping maniacally as I walked, hoping that whatever was out there would take notice: Hey, I am walking here. And I’m handicapped because, unlike you, I have no night vision. Can you give a sister a break?

In the distance, a glow of headlights cheered me. But as the truck approached, I realized that, ironically, I was more handicapped than when I was in the dark. Blinded by the light, momentarily I had absolutely no idea where I was or in what direction I was moving. As the truck passed me, I also felt the sting of humiliation. That guy probably thinks I’m an idiot (which I am) to be out here in the dark without reflective gear or a head lamp. I really hope that I don’t know him or her. 

Then a jewel of light appeared in front of me: a light pole at the entrance of a gravel driveway. Confidently, I steered my course towards the light. And then, once there, I spotted another light in the distance and found my old walking rhythm as it drew me on.

In the sanctuary of light, you may be blessed with the smallest points of light, which like a luminary compass, show you the way. In her poem,   “Insomniac,” Sylvia Plath writes:

The night sky is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole—

Letting in the light, peephole after peephole. At times, we may find ourselves slogging our way through the dark night, our eyes desperately searching the blueblack before us for one small peephole, some pin prick in the all-consuming absence of light. Often a single peephole is enough to sustain us. How far that little candle throws its beams! [William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice].

For much of my life, when two roads diverged in the woods, I took the path of the tangible light poles, forsaking the spiritual ones. I marched–and sometimes crawled–onward towards people, places, and positions that, I believed, were the truest lights. In these people, places, and positions, I believed I would find all that I was looking for: comfort, affirmation, and wisdom. When my marching song should have been Onward, Christian Soldier, it was actually more a weak version of Carry On, My Wayward Son. 

Until I moved towards a light that was, in the end, no light at all. Plunged into darkness, there was little comfort to be found in people, places, or positions. Broken and in the absence of tangible light, I finally turned to God.

Finally–such a woeful, pathetic word. Even as I write, I am acutely aware of how cliched and time-worn my story is. False lights glitter all too brightly, their promises all too familiar. Like the children of Israel, I had accumulated years of idols. I had filled the shelves of my life with false gold and artificial light.

Broken–such a necessary, life-saving word in the sanctuary of light. In Matthew 16: 24-26, we read:

Then Jesus told His disciples, If anyone would come after Me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow Me. For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake will find it. What will it profit a man if he gains the whole world, yet forfeits his soul? Or what can a man give in exchange for his soul?

Paradoxically, the sanctuary of light requires losing yourself, your life, and your former lights. Aristotle claimed that nature abhors a vacuum. Clearly, Jesus would agree. In the absence of false light, in the vacuum created by loss, true and living light abounds. The dark night of the soul need not last forever. If one will but seek the source of the real light.

In his letters, J. R. R. Tolkien writes:

I perceived or thought of the Light of God and in it suspended one small mote (or millions of motes to only one of which was my small mind directed), glittering white because of the individual ray from the Light which both held and lit it…And the ray was the Guardian Angel of the mote: not a thing interposed between God and the creature, but God’s very attention itself, personalized…This is a finite parallel to the Infinite. As the love of the Father and Son (who are infinite and equal) is a Person, so the love and attention of the Light to the Mote is a person (that is both with us and in Heaven): finite but divine, i.e. angelic.

The splendor of the sanctuary of light is revealed in Tolkien’s description of Jesus as the Light and of each of us as one small mote to which all love and attention is directed. If losing my life ensures that I may be this one small mote, then today, I will once again lose my life. For this losing is a daily, willful act. And this is good news for those like me, who, in spite of best intentions, in spite of past experience, and in spite of wisdom, find themselves veering weakly towards false lights.

I don’t plan to walk again in utter darkness–down the old highway or through the remainder of my life–without a headlamp and Jesus. Both are necessary; both are life-saving.