July 22: No Disasters, Losing a Child, Siv Cedering, "Figure Eights"

Prepared for the worst and having heard even more stories--everyone he knew seemed to have a story about a baby falling out of a window--Ives was truly amazed that no disasters had struck.

Ives is a worrier.  All his life, Ives worries about the birth parents he never met.  When he becomes a father, he shifts his concerns to his kids.  As a baby, his son has a heart murmur.  Ives spends countless nights next to Robert's crib, watching him breathe, waiting for disaster to strike.  Of course, disaster eventually does pay a visit to the Ives family.  Robert is killed just before graduating from high school, and Ives' worries shift again.  It takes him decades to recover from the grief of losing his son.

As a father myself, I understand Ives' worries.  Right now, my daughter is at Bible camp.  She's surrounded by responsible adults, pretty much supervising her every waking moment.  Yet, I worry about her.  Last night, my son decided to go searching for his 14-year-old cousin in the woods.  For several panicked minutes, my wife had no idea where he was.  Worrying is part of the parental job description.  And the ultimate fear is losing a child.

My parents have already faced this fear with my brother's death last year.  Tonight, we celebrated my father's birthday with apple pie, his favorite.  When my sister said "make a wish and blow out the candle," I know what my father wished:  he wished for my sister's recovery from lymphoma.

I worry all the time about my kids.  I worry for their safety.  Their health.  Their happiness.  Their success.  I try to make my kids' lives better than mine.  Of course, I can't buy them a five-bedroom house with three bathrooms and a swimming pool.  I can't get my daughter the newest iPhone.  I can't get my son the motorized four-wheeler he wants so he can ride around the neighborhood.  But I think my daughter and son are, for the most part, happy.

Childhood is so short.  One day, a kid is learning to ice skate at the local rink.  The next day, she's packing her stuff in a car and moving into an apartment with friends, finally free from the worries of her father and mother.  That's a normal part of life.  It's also terrifying, for parents at least.

I know I can't protect my kids from all things bad.  They will have car accidents.  They will have their hearts broken.  They will get fired from jobs.  They may quit college.  I just hope that they can avoid major problems, like teenage pregnancy and drug/alcohol addiction and Republicans. 

Saint Marty has one big worry right now:  should he have Pringles or ravioli for a snack?

Figure Eights

by:  Siv Cedering

My back toward the circle, I skate,
shift my weight, turn toward the center.

The skill is in the balance, the ability
to choose an edge, and let it cut

its smooth line.  The moon is trapped
in the ice.  My body flows

across it.  The evening's cold.  The space
limited.  There is not much room

for hesitation.  But I have learned a lot
about grace, in my thirty-third year.

I lean the cutting edge:  two circles
interlock, number eight drawn

by a child, a mathematician's
infinity.

I've made a decision--one last worry