I require a beautiful life

I require a beautiful life.
Not one without grief or dirt or cold tea or black beatles. But certainly beautiful.
I require a life that surprises all who encounter it. A life that I have created through stout labor and the good help of God.
I require a simple life, true, but rich too. Richly imagined and richly designed that is. And full of rich moments--the ones that will take my breath away.
And taking the joy with the pain and the love with the heartache, I shall live my beautiful life working, and trusting, till I die.

Ushering in another October

october falling
10/07

when October falls like
orange and yellow from gutter
traps then, then hearts are
full and much possessed by
the water-log of wet from
the sky and from pumpkin spice
lattes and Shakespeare by
moonlight.

who taught your heart to love
October falling when April
has flown with geese
away, south and left, after
summer’s glow has faded, a
wetter, warmer way behind
at your own hearth and
firelight?

where will it go, this feeling
when October is finished falling
and lies dead on the cold
streets? Will the heart find new
charms of lattes and light and
will the ways of the world
change for the sake of small girls
in love?

My other life: a love letter

If today should run away like Brigadoon and recede into a mist as
profound as the herald angel’s cry, I
will still remember that we laughed.
If this moment should fade like six month old jeans into a pale
remnant of what we bought, I
will still remember that we told the truth.
I will remember that we ran, measuring each breath with each
stride, comparing sweat and speed. I
will remember how our voices forgot to be unique and
bent themselves to an indiscernible melody together.
I will remember (how could I forget?) how June in Georgia rained
torrents of wet on our soaked, laughing heads, as we screamed,
free at last to do what we never would have dared to do otherwise.

A Few Digressions

I might as well say it: I agonized over what to title this great piece of wit and originality. I thought maybe, "A few digressions: an autobiography." Or, "A few digressions, a few daddy long-leg spiders, and a king tossed in for flavor." Or, "An Autobiography: daddy long-legs, a poet, and a king." All of which were charming and very interesting but, much, much too long. So. "A Few Digressions" it is.

Some people write endlessly of themselves like great men who carefully recount their memoirs in meticulous detail for the reading pleasure of all the world and all history. A life in black ink on white paper apparently holds more intrinsic value as each occasion is duly noted and documented, than a simple life, unrecorded, un-remarked upon, and never read, much less written could possibly possess. There is, I must acknowledge, something in the telling of them, that renders each moment more momentous and enchanting than before. A moment lived and a moment expressed are two entirely different experiences that, like port and chocolate, are better had together. Having said as much, I hereby both criticize and utilize the practice of autobiography, assuring myself of the world’s indulgence, un-warranted as it may be and distressing as it may prove. Amen.

When at college and laboring over Latin, Milton wrote this rebellious interjection:

“Hail, Native Language, that by sinews weak,
Didst move my first-endeavoring tongue to speak,
And madest imperfect word, with childish trips,
Half unpronounced, slide through my infant lips,
Driving dumb silence from the portal door,
Where he had mutely sat two years before:
Here I salute thee in my latter task…”

Lest any random, innocent reader should think me a well-read intellectual of sorts, let me confess immediately that I never read Milton till yesterday—when I discovered another book on my shelf, borrowed and unread for nearly a year. The subsequent guilt pangs prompted me to peruse a few pages at least. But I digress.

My intellectual ambition is at best sporadic, and as far as wit is concerned, I am generally know to be somewhat charming at times of rare enlightenment. Enlightenment for me is most generally and quite certainly always accompanied by tea. Not any tea bag tossed in a mug you understand, but real, sensible, sit down and pour-it-from-a-pot tea. Accompanied nicely of course by sweet bread and jam of some kind. There is nothing—absolutely nothing that can produce equal clarity of mind and sensitivity of judgment as a good tea. Except of course the work of the Spirit Himself. But then I have often wondered whether He doesn’t work through tea in the majority of cases. But I digress.

I will spare you the entire quote, and simply get to the point—something I am famed for. Oh, I thought of something else that the Spirit undoubtedly works through: Chopin’s nocturnes. Actually, through Maria Joao Pires who plays them and whose name I will never remember how to pronounce. Although I suppose the argument could be made that the Spirit works through the Bose Wave Radio from which the scintillating music forthwith comes—but that may be, like Mary Poppins in the country, going a bit too far. “Doshus ali expi, listic, fragi cali rupus.” Or something like that. But again, I digress.

Milton and I both feel the need to pay our respects to our native English. Goodness knows we neither of us have had much success with any other language. At least I haven’t. I don’t know what my pal Milt would say, but if he’s an honest bloke I bet he’d tell you he failed Latin. I bet. Why else would he write such a poem write in the middle of a Latin assignment? At least I got a B in Spanish—not much to write home about, but still passing. In Milton’s case, his devotion to English served him well in the end—he is after all rather famous. I have yet to see but a smattering of the success I have asked of my language. Language is fitful I believe. Rather like temperamental Greek deities. And as you know, I am merely a rather ordinary, but hopeful mortal who sometimes tries her clumsy hand at the King’s English. Although, we don’t have a king, and that may have some bearing on the matter. A king to possess a language and press his seal of approval on a language, and give decrees in a language, and order books to be written in a language and torture school children with the learning of a language must of course lend credence and respectability to any common citizen, however lowly who employs said language’s use. There is a queen of course, but I’m not sure if that can have quite the same effect. People don’t say “the Queen’s English” any more than they say “the President’s English” (but then, that is understandable for in our case it would be “the President’s American”). It simply isn’t done. And so the collective writers of the English speaking nations of the world must suffer for it. No king, no respect, no love. Pardon me for a moment, its time for my daily “cry in a dark, dirty corner” session.

Okay, that’s better. Actually, I don’t really have such a thing as a daily “cry in a dark dirty, daddy long-leg infested corner” session. I just made that up. Just like I just added “daddy long-leg infested” to “dark, dirty corner.” It sounded better. And more dreadful. Daddy long-leg spiders in corners would make me cry. But yet again, I digress. Except this time, I’m not sure I can even remember what I was digressing from. I mean, “I’m not sure I can even remember from what I was digressing.” My apologies your majesty.

Till next time.

Opportunity

It was strangely cold, strangely mild
Strangely gray, strangely wild.
Such a day it was when the waiter came
To dish out pieces of fame
From pie dishes still warm, steaming.
But the ice cream kept me from believing
On that gray, wild day
What the waiter said in his cold, mild way.
And then he left carrying the bill
Away from we, the patrons who will
Always forget to tip.

Sorrow: a phenomenon

What is sorrow but a great need, a need for something imagined or true, accelerated to the point of absolute necessity (whether imagined or true)?

What is sorrow but a great hand squeezing otherwise ordinary people into small children who cower in alley corners, and behind office desks, and under warm quilts and in front of kitchen sinks--alone (or seemingly so). A large alone--conspicuous as an elephant in your lap. And although you may sit and wish the elephant away for long, lonely nights and days, you would answer a cold, flat no if anyone offered to take it away. You would rather sit, smothered, and just wish.

But how can the elephant be led away? Gently and with the sly, coaxings of a respectable zoo-keeper? No amount of zoo-keepers or coaxing can draw out the elephants in our hearts. What is a human soul, but solitary? The ultimate aloneness comes from within, as layers and layers of strong stone walls refuse to fall away and not even Joshua's trumpets can tumble the horrible isolation of each of us. We talk, but even what we call communication cannot possibly facilitate communion between souls. There will always be a language barrier and we will encode and decode every word as they come and go as if across live wires. What can we say of ourselves that anyone else would understand? And who would want to understand anyone else but themselves? We are so alone. We are so pitiful. So we will clutch our elephants tightly to ourselves and scribble soul-baring notes in our journals, trying desperately to trust in the worth and the romance of a voice never heard, of words never spoken, or if spoken never truly understood. We sit in dusty, drafty corners or on the deep leather of chic coffee-house armchairs and imagine the glory of posthumous fame. But this is no consolation, no amount of Greek tragedy and grand speeches can salve the ache of anonymity. No amount of prayer and sacrifice to Greek deities will console an unopened, unbroken heart.

But it was not always thus. Something has gone badly wrong with the human soul since the beginning. We were created to be together, to talk with God in the cool of the day, to know and be known. If this were not so, we would not now feel the sorrow of disconnect. It is an unnatural phenomenon, like physical pain. This sorrow, I would be bold and recognize as the quintessential sorrow of the world, its plague as it were, to be separated from God, has a cure.

"Was there any sorrow like unto His sorrow?"

There is no need for me to continue clutching my particular Dumbo on my long-laden lap. The great ringmaster has led it away, and it shall never come wandering back. I don't have to get sick on ice cream sodas is some obscure drugstore waiting to be discovered, because from everlasting to everlasting He is God and He has known my innermost being from the beginning. Christ has been separated from the Father in my place and has suffered the quintessential sorrow more profoundly than any human ever has in order that we may know and be known.

To dance in the wilderness

The whirring of ceiling fans hums above the stirring of a large audience. Singers in black to my right and left, behind and before. The organ in the corner groans a beginning through great pipes at my back and then, suddenly a breeze blows through this church and I am whisked away on its wings to a place of sand and wind and sagebrush. Strangely the organ music continues its strains of eloquence. My feet are light and delight fills my stomach with joy. I dance, sand spraying reluctantly as I whirl, twirling in time with the wind and my own heart beat. Perhaps I dance alone, perhaps I have a partner. Perhaps two. Perhaps my beloved and His Father both dance with me. Perhaps all of heaven dances with me, shouting with each sweep of my feet: "Glory!" One thing I know: I could not have danced in the wilderness if blood had not been shed, if tears had not dropped like rain on the desert ground. I could not have danced, so carefree, like a child on the beach if I had not once sat, cold, seemingly alone in the dark of a wilderness night. I could not have danced in this wilderness if I had not been led here in the first place. To dance in the wilderness is a thing seldom done. To dance in the wilderness is a thing saints do. To dance in the wilderness is to trust the Master.

Night in the wilderness

There are times, at night, when the wilderness seems cold.
Times when the dark feels stronger than my Beloved.
There is no moon now, and this valley is quiet and cold.
Oh, so very cold that I think I can feel my iced marrow creaking when I breathe. These are the times when it is hardest of all to let joy in.
She does not want to be possessed tonight.
I remember that moment--so long ago--that rip of black tulle, that wild burst of wind that carried it far up and away.
I remember that knowing time, I remember the battle in which my dragon was slain.
I remember the screams, I remember the blood on the sand, the rocks in my hands. Above all, I remember that voice.
So irresistible, so warm, like the soft touch of a lover to the waist of his wife. "Trust me," it said.
So still, so quiet, and yet that small whisper resonated through this desert valley disrupting the play of merciless dust devils, leaping from hillside to hillside, twirling in the skirted breeze of a far-off coast.
But the green is gone again--its absence makes me think that winter has come.
The voice never promised that winter would stay away.
But I had hoped.
Now I sit in the dark and it is my lot to remember and believe.
And watch for the morning.

The work of my hands, Established c. 1987

Yesterday I spent two hours and a little more training for my new position as intern with Washington Eagle Forum. I know. The term "intern" is rather ambiguous. Let me enlighten you. I will be updating their database, which involves editing mailing lists, contact information etc. I also will be managing their website, posting new material, articles, and such. Its just a few hours a week, but frankly, I'm excited. And happy. I had been wondering if pizza was to swallow up my life in large mouth fulls till all that can be seen is pepperoni and bus tubs and grease.

Anyone who knows me would say that I'm not the type they would describe with the words "technical," "computer," or "database," anywhere in the diatribe. This being the case, I find it truly a manifestation of God's sovereignty that He would have me doing such uncharacteristic and unexpected work. In the past few weeks I have been meditating on Psalm 90. The very last two verses jumped out and kissed me on the nose.

"Let Your work appear to Your
servants,
And Your glory to their children.
And let the beauty of the Lord our
God be upon us,
And establish the work of our hands
for us;
Yes, establish the work of our hands."

I whispered those words at work over pizzas, I panted them out on my morning runs, I hummed them at home while I stirred simmering pots of soup, I sang them out as I stood at church with a hymnal in my hands. I want to say them forever: Let the beauty of the Lord be upon me, establish the work of my hands, oh establish the work of my hands. I am still wandering in the wilderness where He led me, but now suddenly the desert landscape seems to be blossoming with vitality and everywhere I look I am seeing the lines, curves, unmistakable prints of my Father's hands. His work has appeared in splendid colors of unimaginable vibrancy. Even pizza looks beautiful from where I stand, breathless at the view. And this is just the beginning.

I went to the wilderness

I went to the wilderness because a hand of destiny beckoned.
I went to the wilderness unwilling, stubborn, afraid, like a captive
Squirrel to civilization. And when the cage bars rose away above me I
Looked up and couldn’t see the doorway it had left behind. Scary
Doorway, beautiful bars, precious, safe. Scary doorway, leave me
Alone. I went to the wilderness weeping, like a widow. I mourned
For my precious future, gone, gone, gone like all other little precious
Nothings that I longed for. I wore black to the wilderness and the veil
That I lay over my red face billowed like a thundercloud above me.
I wore black to my wedding, cold shrew that I was, I wore black to the
Happy day in the wilderness valley. I did not know it was happy.
I could not see. I could only cry for my precious, precious future, oh future
Of dreams, of desires, of delight, oh future, precious, why have you gone?
But no answer would come from my precious, so bright, so beautiful.
It was gone. And so I went to the wilderness, following a strange
Stirring, a whispering in the air, not as a bold adventurer, off
To new undiscovered lands of mystery, but as
A new widow goes to the gravesite, weary, betrayed, seemingly
Alone. But I was not alone. The stirring became a walking, and the
Whispering became a voice, and there in the wilderness, it walked, and
It spoke. What it said is not as important as what it meant, but I shall
Tell you anyway. It said, “Trust me.” Simply that, which is easy to tell
But not so easy to understand. But at those words the veil tore away from my head and I watched it fly, black tulle extended like
Grasping hands towards me as it flew up and away from me. And with
It went a part of me that mourned for my precious. All that stayed
Was a woman, standing, surprised, with joy in her face and trust
In her heart.

Out of the wilderness

"Who is this coming up from the wilderness, leaning upon her beloved?"
Song of Solomon 8:5a

Someday they will see me on the hazy desert horizon, and at first they won't know it is me.
The steady ripple of heat will enshroud my tired body, dust will be like a robe for me.
Nothing will stretch out like a cruel cat behind me.
But this time it won't be allowed to pounce on me or beat me with its Nothing, Nothing paws.
I will come out of Egypt much more worn and brown than I went in, but every new line on my face will be like love kisses from my Beloved.
Oh yes, yes, my Beloved who at that moment as I look up is looking down at me with all the pride and joy of a bridegroom laughing out from His oasis eyes.
And as they look they will know that something wondrous has happened, is happening, or is soon to happen.
They will see me leaning on the arm of my Beloved and they will run to meet us and prepare a feast and shout and dance for joy that we have come.
Someday they will see me coming up from the wilderness and they will praise my Beloved.

Into the wilderness

Into the wilderness far
Farther than ever before I
Will go to the wilderness
And there I may find a valley deep
And narrow where sand stretches far
Farther than ever before I
Will kneel to the rocks and gather stone I
Will gather stone to throw
To bash in the head of my dragon my
Idol I will throw stone after stone and
They will fly as our screams fly reverberating
Sharp and crushing screams till it falls, dead,
Bleeding.

Down I will hold its shiny head and mourn my
Loss, my idol’s death, its destruction and
Think how its life had been glorious and
Proud and so beautiful I
Will remember plans made in silent houses I
Will remember long mornings of sun and
Pleasure that ran through my bones when
My idol breathed hot on my heart just so I
Will weep for it a little then no more because
My idol is dead and already I can
Feel its nothingness filling my chest with eyes
That stare and that can never be
Surprised.

Then in the stillness a voice will speak
With words that can fill the eyes in my
Chest with knowledge that barely understands, with
Wisdom that can hardly comprehend it
Will say words of comfort that echo down into chasm
Walls to where I stand, surprised.
“Trust. Trust me,” it will say in tones as
Deep as Earl Grey and tingling as a
Lover's soft touch on the waist of his wife.
And I will trust.

I want.

As selfish a statement as I can formulate. As focused a purpose as I can work toward. As deep a consideration as I can imagine. As confusing a sentiment as I can feel.

I want. I want, I want, I want, I want, want, want, want!

"I want..." I say and then my mouth goes dry and my head clears of all information or ideas. I want...everything, nothing, bigness, littleness, dark, light, far, near, love, hate, joy, grief, hope, despair, courage, fear...I want it all. I want it all. I want to know. I want to know why and how and when and where, and oh Lord God of my fathers I want to know You. But I don't know anything really. I only know that I want to know.

It occurs to me that food isn't as delectible as it should be, that sleep isn't as restful as it should be, that time ticks torturously by, that the sun is unbearably intense, that the mountains opress me, entrapping, holding me in, that color isn't as vibrant as it should be, that the most elaborate fractal isn't as infinite as it should be. It occurs to me that sixteen wasn't sweet enough, that twenty won't satisfy me either, or thirty or fourty, or eighty. It occurs to me that the creaking of the rusty, dusty gears in my head are louder than my constructive thoughts. It occurs to me that when I open my eyes after napping in the sun, everything looks gray-blue instead of gold and green. It occurs to me that everything is wrong. It occcurs to me.

Do you ever wonder if Jesus will ever come back? I do. When I'm feeling especially selfish, or tired, or disgusted, or hopeless. Or when the grainy sand of this endless desert they call history seems to stretch further and dryer than I can bear. So I look up and I know that my creator watches and holds and breathes with me: in, out. I know that He sighs with me and creation. And it occurs to me that the time I spend here, that the tears I cry here, that the desire I hold in my being here, unfulfilled will be worth it if His glory is served. If His purpose is served.

"Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."

Not to worry--He'll come. And then I'll know. And then every "I want" will be His to fulfill.

Looking for Overworld

Its like we used to be high, so high up in Overworld. Its like we used to see the sun and the sky and the sea. Its like we used to talk to big, bright lions and have adventures.

Its like we've sunk down to the dark lands legions farther down than can be comprehended. Its like we don't even know what the sun looks like anymore or the sky or the sea. Its like we've settled for a second-rate substitute to satisfy our need for happiness, or love, or everything. Its like we're tied in a shiny chair listening to a soothing, sweet voice whisper succulent lies in our ears. Its like we look at a cat and think its a lion, like we look at a lamp and think its the sun, its like we hear a little sappy strumming on an acoustic and think its a symphony.

Its like we don't even listen when someone wakes up from a dream one day and says he's seen real lions, suns, and heard real symphonies, and insists that he wander in our Underworld for as long as it takes to find his dream one. Its like I had the same dream and I try so hard to remember and record it all before it slips away, carefully tucked into the archives of my dusty mind. Its like I try my best to believe that there really are lions and suns and I tear at the ropes every night in my shiny chair, but the lies come a-whispering, and the fire flares green as a snake, and I can't bear to stay awake anymore. Oh no, no, not anymore. But someone has to stomp on the fire for me, I can't, I can't. Oh please stomp on the fire for me. I have a dream, a dream as big as a lion, and it comes bounding in as gold as the dream sun and as bright. I have to believe it, and every night I will wander Underworld in my dreams and look for Overworld till I can see the sun and the sky and the sea and the lion.

My security blanket

School is my security blanket. Its a place where my purpose is obvious and sure. Here I stand, I can do no other, etc.

In September of 2005, Rebekah Reimers, 17, enrolled in a two-year degree program at Whatcom Community College. She was scared, and short, and in love with Tennyson. In June of 2007, she will graduate from WCC with an associates degree in arts and sciences at the age of 19, having retained a grade point average of 3.8, taken five English classes, and been a member of Phi Theta Kappa. She is scared, and short, and in love with Tennyson. So what.

Or shall we say, now what? Yes, school is my security blanket. Or so it seems. No my dears, as much as I would like to say that school is my security blanket, it really isn't. That's a lie, or it should be anyway. God is my security blanket. Has been, is now, and forevermore shall be. Amen.

So there is no reason why I should be worried about the future, right? Of course right. You have convinced me, I believe there isn't.

The dining room dissertation and me

In desperate need of tea, I set to work. Soon steam was rippling like transparent silk towards the dining room chandelier, free from the bonds of gravity. Hope was addressing me from the rotating tape deck on the table, insistent in its honest sincerity. Why joy? I wonder. Why joy in the worst of times? Because these are the best of times.

"It takes real faith in a real Christ to weather the storms," the tape deck declares. Do I dare believe? Do I dare "put my confidence in Christ alone"? In dissapointment also, He is trustworthy, it said. "Faith brings the glory of Christ in the present experience." He's the one I need, He's the one I want. Only. "When did I let myself forget again?" my pen wonders as it hushes across my journal page.

Why should I look to any other source for comfort? Or for hope, or joy, or fulfillment, or delight? My tea is cold, but I still see steam rising like rippling gray silk toward heaven. He has love that can intoxicate the soul. Because He is in Himself the essence of empathy. He knows.

"So I'm on my way back home into the hands that made the wine from the water, into the hands, the hands of the potter."

The tape said that peaceful coexistence is not love. It is not knowing and being known. My eyes trace the lines of glass panes in the china cabinet like a cathedral window. He loves beyond the love of honor or duty or "function." Oh God, help me to remember this tomorrow, and the next day and the next day.

Let go.

Let go.
Let go before you make yourself miserable again.
Its not fair. Who said anything about it being fair?
What about justice, though? What did I ever do to deserve this?
I'll just think of swear words in my head and then maybe I'll feel better.
No. Let go. Let go before you hurt yourself!
You hate me, don't you.
You must hate me or you would have done everything in
Your power to give me my own way. The world hates me, doesn't it.
I thought so.
No. Let go. Let go before you ride this trolley all the way to hell!
I'm not listening to you--you hate me.
I like this trolley, so just leave me alone.
No. Let go. Let go before its too late!
You know what? I can't even see you--you're not real so shove off.
I am real. I am here.
I don't care, don't you see? I don't care.
You know what? Why don't you find yourself a
Nice bridge, and jump of it, okay?
No. Let go. Let go my daughter of darkness, my
Hopeless child of fear and failure.
Let go. Let go and look up. I'm here.
Why? Why are you here? Everyone else left.
You hate me like everyone else--you're just
Trying to trick me.
No. Let go. I am here. I have always been here.
I will stay here forever.
I can't look up--my head is so heavy. Please
Don't ask me to try.
You won't have to try. I will lift it up. You will see me.
I made you. I love you. Love me.

English 121 (fiction and poetry writing)

Waiting for Kenton
(Who was born on July 14, 2006)

Bright. Too bright. But the light stayed stubborn.
I wiped sweat again.
Hot. Too hot. But the kids played on, unaffected.
Somewhere in a neighboring town
A mother was probably pushing, breathing, calling for ice.
I couldn't see the blue of the sky
Just yellow. Too yellow.
I wiped sweat again.
Time was creeping, air stagnant
The kids ran and jumped,
Their hair drenched.
Red-painted metal mondey bars,
Not a swing to be found.
Who forgot to build swings?
The sun was bearing down
I wondered if the mother was too.
Oh child, stop, rest, think!
Your face is the color of tomatoes:
Red. Too red. But you run anyway.
You must.
The baby must cry.
The baby must live.
So you run anyway.

This Dancing Virgin

"The Lord has appeared of old to me,
saying:
'Yes, I have loved you with an everlasting
love;
Therefore with lovingkindness I have
drawn you.
Again I will build you, and you shall be
rebuilt,
O virgin of Israel!
You shall again be adorned with your
tambourines,
And shall go forth in the dances of those
who rejoice."
--Jeremiah 31: 3,4

Wow. That is justification. Guilt is merely a theory until you know it by experience. Grace too is merely a vague concept never truly understood until seized upon. Here I go again, shouting out the same old story: fairy tale forgiveness, irrepressible joy, remarkable restoration. I can't help it! God keeps doing incredible things, and as long as He continues, I shall have to sing His praises.

Shakespeare may have said that "silence is the perfectest herald of joy," but for once I can't agree with him quite wholeheartedly. God's grace is too glorious for silence. It just makes me want to scream with delight!

Presidents Day with Kylee

Today Kylee and I took a walk in the rain under the protection of two enormous black umbrellas. We sang "I know an old lady" the whole way and somehow we got from, "I know an old lady who swallowed a horse--she's dead of course," to, "I know an old lady who swallowed an umbrella..."

--Later--

"My stomach is grabbling," quoth Kylee and clutched her belly dramatically.

"Surely not," I replied and ran in the general direction of the kitchen, whereupon we made a sandwich shaped like an elephant.

--Later--

"What game shall we play?" said she, looking inquiringly into my face.

"I don't know," I said earnestly.

"Let's go in Grammie's room and fink," she said decidedly, and would have marched ceremoniously thence if she hadn't been waylaid by my capturing arms and hauled over my shoulder potatoe fashion. "Let's go in Grammie's room and fink," she repeated, confused. And I laughed. And she laughed too.

Note: Kylee and I have been saying, "I could eat a whole elephant," whenever we're hungry. Thus the pachyderm-shaped sandwich.