Pilot's Wife

About a year ago I read a novel called The Pilot's Wife. I read it because it came recommended by my mom, and also because I am a gigantic idiot. Any story about a pilot and his wife living long lives together before he dies of non-airplane related causes would NOT be in paperback and would NOT be an Oprah pick. And this book was both in paperback and Oprah's book club.

The story begins with the crash of a commercial plane at the fault of the pilot, whose wife later learns of his secret life including another wife and family in France. The story didn't affect me on a personal "I hope that doesn't happen to me" level, because my husband flies mainly what are called smallish planes, and he flies them to nearby locations. If he had another family stashed in, say, Lansing, I probably would have heard through the grapevine at Meijer by now. But the one little chapter in which she receives the news of the crash was reason enough for me to have passed up the title.

Last week I came home from work and walked over to the maintenance shop to ask Pete what his plans were for the evening. Dan, his boss, told me that he was flying with his student, and that they had flown to Claire. I found a couple more guys in the flight lounge and asked them what time Pete had left for his flight.

"He left at two," Chad said. Then, "Have you, uh, heard from him at all?"

"No..." I said. "Why?"

"Well, I might need his help swapping planes in a hanger. Let me know when you hear from him, okay?"

An hour later I was chopping vegetables and trying not to look at my watch when Nate knocked on the door. I greeted him and asked him why he had stopped by. "Pete and I are hanging out at 5:30," he said, peering into the living room, expecting to see Pete. So it was then, around 5:30, that a dull sick feeling started to grow in my middle parts.

I called Chad and asked him what I should do next, but he did the next things for me. He called the airports to track down his flight plan, then called me back to tell me that Pete wasn't following a flight plan. Nate hung around as gracious company and I chopped all of the vegetables that I could find in my house. Another hour passed, and suddenly I could no longer distract myself from the fact that my husband's plane had been missing in a snow storm for three hours.

It was then, mercifully, that I got news: Pete's student had called a friend to tell him that they were grounded and waiting for someone to pick them up. The only remaining question was, Why had Pete's student called a friend while Pete had still not contacted me? Strangely calm, I knew their had to be an explanation. There was, and it was this (in a ten step sequence):

1. Pete flew to Claire with his student, Scott.
2. Pete and Scott set out from Claire to return to Lowell, whilst forgetting Pete's cell phone.
3. Pete and Scott became surrounded by storm cells, and eventually decided to land the plane in a potato field.
4. Pete and Scott screamed, high fived, and hugged each other after successfully landing the plane in a potato field.
5. Later, at the potato farmer's house, Pete tried in vain to remember my phone number.
6. He tried in vain to remember his parents' numbers.
7. Pete remembered his childhood best friend's phone number. Mr. Searles answered.
8. Mr. Searles didn't have Pete's dad's number, but he did have Mr. McGowan's phone number.
9. A very confused Mr. McGowan gave Doug Neal's phone number to Pete.
10. Papa-in-law Neal gave his son my phone number.

"Joy,I'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorry..."

Sometimes you find yourself in a situation when you know there are multiple potential outcomes and only one good one. I fell asleep that night thinking that of all the possible outcomes of the day's events, I was given the very best one. I was given the outcome that will never be in paperback and which Oprah will never read, unless Oprah is a blog surfer, which I doubt.

Rejoice!

Messy Snow

Pete pulls up to the Meijer entrance and opens my passenger door from the inside; I kick the slosh off my red boots and throw my bag in the backseat, after retrieving the greeting card from my purchases. It is not a very good card, but I am an hour late to work on account of the snow plow getting stuck at the end of my driveway, so I didn't have time to browse. The front of the card shows two rather adorable cartoon elephants, one giving flowers to the other with her extended trunk. It says, "Some friends make your day better..." (the inside:) "... and some friends make your life better. Thank you for doing both." It's for my boss, Renae, on her last day of work. My handwriting is hopeless on these slippery roads.

"I love this song," I say to Pete, even though he already knows how much I love this song. "I know," he says, even though he knows that I know that he knows, which is why he is playing it. I am trying to invert the u and l in wonderful (which I have spelled "wonderflu") when he says, "I have a confession to make."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Okay. So, you know how I don't like a lot of the music you like, and how I'll make fun of it?"

"Yes."

"Well, sometimes when you're not with me, I listen to it. Not because I like it, but because I miss you. That's my confession."

It is one of the sweetest things he's said to me. "Pete. That's one of the sweetest things you've said to me. I wish you would have said that to me some other time, because right now I need to finish writing this card." I can't think of the next sentence to write, so I stare at the elephants. Suddenly my face is contorted and I'm crying. I'm crying thinking about my husband listening to music that I love while he pines for me. And I'm crying because I finally realize that today is Renae's last day.

It's not just that she's a great boss. It's that my boss has been making my day better for two years. It's that on my first shift, Renae casually said, "I feel like I've known you my whole life instead of a few hours," which was exactly what I had been thinking at that particular moment. It's that Renae can sing either "Delta Dawn" or "One Day at a Time, Sweet Jesus," and I immediately laugh, every time, for reasons that remain funny even though I've long forgotten them. It's that though I claim to like change, the truth is that I count on a few mainstays amidst the change, and Renae was a mainstay. Realizing that she is leaving while I think of Pete listening to Regina Spektor (whose voice grates on his nerves) is unbearable from a dry-cheek standpoint.

Crying would be sweeter if it didn't streak my face with mascara. The snow would be lovely if it weren't getting mauled by dirty tire tracks. This whole day has been one big mess of a storm, starting with the snow plow getting stuck in our driveway. It's been a mess of a storm, and I'm blessed to be weathering it.

.

Home is Where Your Airplane Is

Ever wonder what it would be like to live at an aiport? Me neither. But now I know.

This is how it happened:

When the door of opportunity in Virginia was closed, Pete and I decided to peek into some other doors. In particular, we were looking for doors that didn't belong to smallish one bedroom loft apartments with no closet space. So I called a landlord through a connection and started dreaming about a little two bedroom duplex in Grand Rapids.

Then Pete said, "Would you consider living at the airport?"

I said, "No."

Then the deal maker: "It's free rent."

I snapped my finger in that "gosh darn" fashion, because of course I should consider anything with free rent, even if it is an airport in smalltownville.

We walked through two flight offices, a little cubby room dubbed "the cave," a "parts room," an empty room with various large outlets, and a bathroom with a toilet and stall shower. These rooms were all my blank canvas, Pete explained, for (respectively): an office, a bedroom, a walk in closet, a living room, a kitchen, and a bathroom.

"But there's no oven, sink, fridge, or countertops!"

"Uh huh."

"I could maybe deal with this shower for five months, tops."

"Joy, you're going to be a missionary."

"I could fix it up however I want?"

"However you want. Except, no weird colors on the walls. Eventually intern guys will be living here."

So we went out to lunch and ran some calculations. Within a few days we had a fridge, countertops and oven for a total of $100... at which point I considered possible careers in craigslisting. A little later, Pete's family came and helped me put paint on the walls. Two weeks after that, Bethany drove up because I told her I needed help sewing. What I really needed was my best friend and a little sanity. She provided both.

"It's cute, hun. It's going to be really fun. You will totally survive."

"Beth? Did you see the shower stall?"

"It's cute, hun. It's going to be really fun. You will totally survive. Let's get to work."

And after weeks of work and a sad goodbye to apartment 302, we moved in.

Last night Pete and I finished dinner, played some cards, then settled into the living room for The Office. I turned off the overhead lights and opted for our two floor lamps, which is when Pete said, "Hey! You did it! This is a living room!" I surveyed the work of my hands, and agreed. The "oyster shell" walls glowed warmly, the bookcase was filled with colorful spines, and my favorite craig's list find--an eleven foot couch--stretched out before us. It was home. We finished our hot chocolate and our episode, and then Pete said, "Let's go to bed."

So we stepped out of our living room, passed three airplanes on our left, and walked up the stairs to our bedroom.

Home is wherever I live with Pete. And right now, home is rent-free.

(Pictures to come.)

Practicing Hospitality

(Pictures from Thanksgiving 06)

My mother is the best hostess I know. She's relaxed, she can delegate, and she can cook. But most of all, she has an authentic desire to show hospitality without at all needing to impress her guests. I wish that her attitude had been passed down through genetics; instead, I watch my mother in her role as a hostess, and I take note.

These are the notes I have taken thus far:

1. When it comes to the guest list, view your home as a duffel bag, not a suitcase. My parents home is relatively small, and there were times when our three bedrooms and one bathroom made our family of seven seem like a party with an inflated guest list. But the square footage of her home never seems to sway my mom from inviting that one extra person. In the summers, she would throw backyard barbecues with upwards of 75 people. For my 16th birthday, we fit some 40 people in our house.

Every November Pete's family joins my extended family in giving thanks, and we set up rented tables right on through the living room. Last year, after admitting that the house was going to be packed, mom invited a WalMart employee named Jose who didn't have anywhere to go for the holiday after his divorce. This year my brother is bringing three international students home with him, who otherwise would spend the holiday at the school. It only took five minutes of brainstorming before we figured out the new seating arrangements. A suitcase may only have so much room, but you can always reconfigure the items in your duffel bag to make room for one more.

2. Don't apologize for the state of your home. Before any party, all of us were given chores so that the house would be in proper condition for company. But as soon as I would start freaking out my brother's bedrooms, mom would say, "Joy, they are coming to our home and this is our home. Just do the chores I gave you." This isn't to say that she keeps the door to the disastrous closet open for viewing. But if someone were to accidentally open the closet in search for the bathroom, she wouldn't begin blushing and mumbling about the difficulties of raising five kids and working full time. She would say, "The bathroom is the door at the end of the hall."

This point is intricately tied into the reason my mother is such a great hostess. "If you apologize for your home," she once told me, "it's because you're trying to make yourself feel more comfortable. And you do so at the expense of your guest's comfort." An apology for the state of your home doesn't put your guest at ease; instead, it places a burden on your guest to make you feel at ease. Every now and then I slip and start making excuses for my apartment, but almost immediately I picture my mother rolling her eyes. So I shut up and ask if I can get anyone something to drink. I'm trying to get better, but it's hard.

3. Always use proper signage. My mother is a big believer in signs and labels. A week before any event, the signs begin appearing throughout the house. Most are attached to various food items and say things like

For party or

Don't eat, this means YOU or

BEN, IF YOU EAT THIS
SO HELP ME GOD.

Other signs include chore sign-up sheets, which I always tried to happen upon first so that I could reserve the most desirable chores (think: dusting the living room v. cleaning the fridge). And on the day of the party, she puts up signs to help facilitate.

Don't take off your shoes, socks may get wet from tracked snow! and

When not in use, keep bathroom door open.

When deciding if something would make an appropriate sign, ask yourself, "Is this addressing a question that more than two people will be asking?" (such as whether or not to take off shoes), or "If people leave the bathroom door closed, could it get stinky?" (Yes.)

And finally,

4. Never underestimate the transforming power of candles. As soon as the first guest pulls up to the house, mom hands someone a lighter and directs him or her towards every exposed wick in the house. Once the task is complete, the bathroom smells of something warm and vanilla, the living room is aglow with festivity, and the carpet never looks quite as dated. Sometimes she accidentally buys a bad batch of candles, and the evening ends with sooty stains all over the walls and ceilings. But that always seems beside the point after a fun evening with friends.

Invite that last person, clean but don't mask your home, use signs when they help, and light candles even if they're cheap. It's not exactly a winning episode of the Martha Stewart show, but it's how I want to practice hospitality.

Joy Ride

You know how Jesus was tempted in the wilderness? Well, I am currently being tested on page 73 of the new J. Crew catalog. It helps to know that Jesus understands what I am going through.

Just for some background on this story, let me say this: I am not a shoe person. I do not buy shoes. The following is a list of my entire shoe inventory.

- Black Mary Jane heals
- Brown flats that I wear to work
- Black boots that my mother gave me for my birthday
- Gym shoes that I bought at Wal Mart for under $15 in high school
- Tennis shoes that my parents-in-law gave me for Hilton Head Island clay courts
- Champagne heals that I wore to my wedding
- 3 pairs of Old Navy Flip Flops

I have spent approximately $30 on shoes this year, and about $60 on shoes in the five years prior, combined. Shoes simply are not a priority for me. However.

About a year ago I read about driving shoes. Some character in some book put on a pair of driving shoes, which I thought sounded pretty cool. So I looked up driving shoes online, and I fell in shoe love. It was the kind of shoe love that I thought was only possible in fairy tales or for my friend Bethany. Driving shoes are kind of like moccasins, kind of like loafers, and they look so comfortable. I started daydreaming about throwing on my pair of driving shoes, tying a scarf in my hair, and leisurely walking through a bookstore or the supermarket. All of my mundane life seemed much cooler in a pair of driving shoes.

Over this last year, my vision of these shoes has morphed into something very specific, the way years of looking at wedding magazines formed a mental design of a dress that nobody happened to make the year I got married. Tumbled leather or suede (I'm talking about the shoes again, not the wedding dress), gold buckle, minimal detail. Yellow. At first I thought white, which would be more practical. But a deep, mustard, perfect yellow... yes. Yellow.

And so yesterday, as you can imagine, I almost dropped the J. Crew catalog when I flipped open its center page, and there on page 73 was a pair of suede, gold buckled, simply detailed, deep mustard-yellow driving mocs. My name was on it. Literally. The top of the page reads like this:

--JOY
----RIDE
---OUR NEW ITALIAN
------------DRIVING MOCS

The glossy page seemed to turn suede as I fingered over the image. Behind the yellow shoe was a perfect white driving shoe, which I paused to admire before returning my gaze back to the golden object of my desire. After a few moments of unfettered lust, I reluctantly skimmed the 5 pt. font in the bottom left corner until I found the price.

In the wilderness, Jesus said, "Get behind me, Satan."

On page 73, Joy said, "Well, if I divide that price by the number of times that I'll wear them..."

After about three minutes of mental justifications and false entitlement arguments, I gave up. Now I'm just staring at the page that I've torn out and hung over my desk in a method of self-torture. It's not about whether it's okay to buy nice things for yourself, or whether my friends are right or wrong to buy expensive shoes or lots of shoes. There are plenty of things that I could stop spending my money on. The only thing that this comes down to is the fact that the shoes are too expensive, and that I should not buy them. And that's really the end of that.

After a lifetime of Loreal commercials telling me that "I'm worth it," it's hard to remember that I don't deserve good things. I don't deserve any of the good things in my life, and I don't deserve these shoes; everything that I have and that I buy is a gift. Someday I will probably buy a pair - not because I deserve them, but because I'm at a different season in my budget or find them on sale. For now, page 73 is serving well as a free piece of wall art.

Satan is nipping at my heals, but he's not biting off any yellow suede.

Settling

I like to live on the edge as much as the next girl. In fact, I think I like life on the edge even more than the next girl. When Pete asked me if I would marry him, the underlying question was, "Do you mind living in Grand Rapids while I fly airplanes for an undetermined amount of time before I take you and our children to a yet-to-be determined continent for another undetermined amount of time?"

And I said, "Show me da RING!" (Actually, that was the underlying meaning to the sweet "yes" that I gave him.) Living in the moment is something that I signed up for, and something that I take pleasure in.

But after five months of limbo, here is why knowing where I am going to live for the next three years is so much better than not knowing where I'm going to live for the next three years:

Because in every way, it is.

Hands down, no contest, it is so much better.

Today Pete got the We're Going in a Different Direction letter that he's been dreading from a flight company in Virginia. By all accounts he should have gotten the job. They said they were hiring, he has the experience needed, he went to apply face-to-face, the interviews went well, and they've been encouraging him all along to finish his requirements. The only thing that would make sense of it is if God actually answered our prayers for a clean "no" if the job wasn't best for our marriage and our future.

There are a lot of reasons why this job was potentially bad for our marriage and our future. For one thing, Pete would have had to travel up to three weeks at a time, and I'm sorry, but we sucked at long distance relationship. 14 hours is a long car ride from your family, friends and support system, especially when you're thinking of having your first baby in the next couple of years. And the surveillance work that Pete was going to be doing... well... he told me once, casually, that it wasn't "the safest thing" that he could be doing. So if any of those things would have caused unnecessary damage (or, you know, death) I am deeply thankful for the We're Going In a Different Direction letter that Pete got in the mail today. And he seems okay, too.

The first thing that we decided to do is update our car registration. Next, we're going to move to an apartment with more space and a washer and drier, because two years is a long time to live in essentially one room with hardly any clean underwear, let me tell you. After we update our car registration and move to a new apartment, we're going to go ahead and get really attached to a lot of friends, instead of preparing to say goodbye. And in January, we're both going back to school.

Knowing where you're going to live is so much better than not knowing where you're going to live, especially when you get to live next to a church you love, a community you've invested in, friends you enjoy, and an afternoon's drive from family.

And to top it all off, I woke up this morning knowing exactly who I am going to vote for.

I haven't felt this settled in a long time.

.

Autumn

Every fall I think about getting older. My birthday is in December, but December is when I occupy my mind with hateful criticisms of American consumerism. By mid-December I am considering donating all of my earthly possessions save a bowl, a spoon and two outfits; by December 21st I am rushing to the mall, realizing that I've waited too long to knit 17 scarves or learn how to write decent poems. So my birthday month is much too busy to contemplate the fact that my finite life is progressing with alarming consistency.

Autumn is a better season to think about aging, anyways. As kids, fall was like a group birthday when you and all of your friends instantly turned a grade older. But more importantly, it is during fall that you can turn onto a street and see that a tree has turned flame orange overnight, even though you know it must have shown signs of changing on all the previous days that you passed by. If that doesn't capture the same shock of aging then I'm not sure what does. Time moves visually through fall; nature glitters robustly, then dies at warped speed.

As a teenager, I decided that I would rather fear 'dying young' than 'aging'. To fear dying young means that I drive carefully; to fear aging is a very helpless feeling. So I try not to text while I drive, I put on sunblock, and I look forward to each new age. Now that I've passed all the young milestone birthdays, 30 is the next big birthday to consider.

I asked my mom if she was depressed on her 30th birthday, and she told me that she wasn't been depressed at all; in fact, she had been quite pleased with herself for turning 30. I think I already know what she means. If 21 was when I started to feel like an adult, 30 is when I expect to feel like an honest-to-goodness woman whom people should really take seriously. 30 is the age that I'm going to start subscribing to magazines. I'm holding out hope that my voice may deepen a little, as though I have a slight cold. I also hope to wear glasses when I'm 30, but only for reading.

It's still about 8 years too early to think about which magazines to subscribe to, so this autumn I'm taking a step back and sizing myself up and my current age: 21. 22, come December.

What am I in my early 20s that I will never be again? Is this the thinnest that I'll ever be without having to diet? Is this the most carefree my marriage will be before retirement? Is my last chance to travel Europe with Pete, and stay in Greece by myself after he returns home? Are these my last couple years before I am a mother, and thus my last couple years to draw untroubled breaths? I don't want to breeze past my early 20s before truly understanding what they offer me.

This past Friday, Pete and I went to a high school football game at East Grand Rapids. On our way back to the car, Pete held my hand even though it was pulled up into the arm of my fleece. He always gets nostalgic about high school because he loved those years. I loved many things about my teen years, but high school was not one of them. "I would do High School all over again," Pete said, and I agreed. I would do High School all over again - but this time I would join tennis, write for the school newspaper, and relax a little about my grades. Pete would do high school all over again, I suspect, exactly like he did it in the first place.

I want to look back on my early 20s and know that I would do it all over exactly as I did it in the first place, starting with the little vacation we're taking this weekend to enjoy the fall colors. Soon the trees will give into winter, crisp and golden, leaf by leaf. And I will be happy that I spent time and gas money to drive by them in their glamor.