Putting my best foot forward ("No, Amy...the other foot") for the Anniversary Dance

Sydney Lynn loves to dance. She envisioned her wedding as the perfect backdrop for spontaneous, synchronized, and perfectly choreographed dance numbers...a foot-stomping, skirt-swirling, two-stepping, deep-dipping good time. 

She forgot to factor in her family.

Dancing was not our forte.

Sydney kept making gentle suggestions and we outright refused to cooperate.

Sydney would have to get mean. Patrick-Swayze-bullying-Jennifer-Grey (forgetting that she was learning to dance to save his friend's job and reputation) mean.

"Mom, I'm sending you the link to A Bar Song. Learn Tipsy."

I watched the video. Okay. Simple enough.

I stood up to do it. Not okay. Speed-of-light fast.

I was going to have to bring out the big guns.

Erin.

Who, it turns out, was as mean...if not meaner than Sydney (and Patrick Swayze).

It's not like I want to be clumsy and inept. I wasn't faking my abhorrent lack of rhythm. I do not intentionally ALWAYS start on the wrong leg or step toward the opposite direction on purpose.

Erin thought that I was being deliberately obtuse. A dancing delinquent. "What are you rebelling against?" What-a ya got? The Rhumba? The Watusi? The YMCA? I can't do any of them.

Erin wrestled me in place. Gave every movement an idiotic (but memorable) name. Loudly chanted out the numbers one through eight and forced me to stomp like one of the Wicked Witch's palace guards.  She provided me with a video of herself expertly doing the movements and demanded that I practice for hours every day until I perfected that segment. Then we would move on to the next steps.

Let's just say that I never saw Erin again.

If that wasn't bad enough, Sydney had consulted my husband on the song choice to accompany the Anniversary Dance.

Allow me, for a moment, to harken back to my own wedding...lo, those many years ago. 

Led Zeppelin's "If the sun refused to shine."

Randy Travis's "I'm gonna love you forever."

Genesis's "Follow you, follow me."

We could have gone old school with my parents' song:  "Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White" by Pat Boone.

But no.

Brad Mosiman chose "The San Antonio Stroll" by Tanya Tucker.

WHAT?!?

Can you guess the number of times I have heard that song in my life...let alone DANCED to it?

Yup.

ZERO.

So there we were.

In our drive-way.

Baby and Johnny.

And Baby was getting yelled at.

Ridiculed.

Blamed.

Ginger Rogers could float, effortlessly, backwards in her heels.

Amy Mosiman couldn't manage to stay upright, forwards, in her sneakers.

My quick-quick/sl-ow--sl-ow was more of a stumble-stumble/stomp-stomp (on Brad's feet).

"Maybe the two-step is not for us," Brad conceded after I'd plowed him over a dozen times. "Let's try a simple box-step."

Which is more like a triangle.

I robotically-romped around my driveway as Brad incorporated some innovative tap-dancing maneuvers to avoid getting crunched. 

"We're just going to have to do our best," Brad sighed.

So the day of Sydney's wedding arrived and I was shooting for my tried-and-true middle-school dance maneuver of the side-step/side-step/sway/sway. It was working pretty well until the DJ queued up "The San Antonio Stroll." The familiar throaty growl of Tanya Tucker had me fleeing for the hills with Brad, hot on my heels in pursuit.

Hand at my waist, providing his lifted elbow as a shelf for my arm, my husband spun me about the dance floor at a dizzying pace. We waltzed past the water station, wove around the wedding cake, bounced past the stunned bartenders before tackling the taco bar. Behind us...Lisa and Savannah matched us, step-for-step...with Douglas and Sydney brilliantly bringing up the rear of our dancing denouement.

As cinematic grande finales go, I'm not sure that we would make the highlights reel. I do think that our audience was floored by our ground-breaking (and back-aching) performance. With my newfound love of dancing, I embarked on some reflective thought and sole-searching. I still agree with Johnny that no one should put Baby in a corner. However, now I realize that the exception to that rule would be if we were square-dancing. 

Sydney's wedding: I'll be there with bells on

 I was honored to be asked to give the prayer at Sydney and Douglas's wedding. Years ago, when my girls were still little, I developed the habit of praying for the future spouses of my daughters...asking God to watch over their health, their safety, their up-bringing. I prayed that these two, still-unknown-to-me, individuals were given ample opportunity to develop the attributes of kindness, patience, sacrifice, self-worth, honesty, fidelity, compassion, humility, hard-work, and, of course, forgiveness. I prayed for partners with whom my daughters would be, one day, equally yoked.

Lisa, as you know, arrived first. God had provided me with a third daughter and she is such a welcomed blessing to our family.

And then...along came Douglas.

Who treats Sydney like the princess she is...who wants nothing more than for Sydney to be precisely who she is...

Who was the only one who bothered to warn his future mother-in-law of an up-coming speed bump on our walk and was the only one horrified when she inevitably tripped over it and flopped over. And...was the only one to help her up because everyone else was laughing so hard.

Who cemented his place in my heart when he threw his unconditional and enthusiastic support behind the girls' ceaseless dog rescue efforts...over thirty homeless dogs successfully placed...and in one heartbreaking moment, Douglas retrieved a wayward furry friend, and carried her to her heavenly home. He showed strength and sensitivity in the wake of worry and then sorrow. Douglas is a man who can handle tough times with common sense and compassion.

So...the prayer.

Yeah.

I would have preferred to have been dressed more like the lady than the tramp but beggars can't be bimbos. 

I thought back to my own wedding...almost 40 years ago. One of the happiest days of my life. Transformative. Meaningful. And, I had so much fun. 

If I could change one thing, though...

I would have included God in a more deliberate, intentional way.

At 18, Brad and I had a fleeting, far-off relationship with the Lord.  We "hired" a pastor. We "booked" a church. So we were covered, right? 

I now realize that we had forgotten to invite the most important guest to our wedding and I didn't want to make that mistake again.

A careful balance would have to be struck. I wanted to do more than just provide thanks for the food. But I also didn't want Sydney and Douglas's friends and family to think they'd mistakenly wandered into a revival. I wanted to praise God without having people fear that I was about to start handling snakes. I wanted to be able to show how much I loved the Lord without also looking looney. To sound sincere without being sappy. To share and not separate. To include...not isolate. 

My family is quick to remind me that, occasionally, my enthusiasm can cause more harm than good. Years ago, the Mosimans were rocking along happily in a wagon train out west (We would be robbed by masked bandits soon after) when our guide led us in a rousing rendition of Amazing Grace. So caught up in this timeless moment, I shouted "Second verse," to keep the good times rolling. Unfortunately, no one else in our wagon knew the second verse and my own family left me hanging out to dry as I performed the second verse of what could only have been called Atrocious Grace.

What was I going to do? 

And then in struck me.

The bell.

I had been visiting the girls in San Diego and had been finally trusted with meeting some of their friends. This was a big deal.

We went to the very same winery where Sydney and Douglas would later have their wedding.

I valiantly fought to make a good impression. I tried so hard to appear like a normal person and not embarrass my daughters.

Until sensory over-load kicked in.

Needing some air (We were seated at an outdoor patio), I got up and wandered over to a large bell. The rope was a silken tassel. I began to braid and unbraid it...letting the mindless motion calm my anxious nerves. Realizing I was wearing a hair band, I pulled it out to attach it to my final braid...transforming the tassel into a woven rope. It was almost closing time. Besides my small party, there were very few people left on the patio. I sneaked a quick peek around and...

Yeah.

I did it. 

It was magnificent. I expected colonial school children to come running. I looked for the Cartwrights to come galloping up for supper. Where on earth was Quasimodo? The resounding peale of the bell signaled our departure. 

And...months later...inspired a prayer.

Ecclesiastes 4:12

A cord of three stands is not easily broken.

Shout out to my dear friend Jan Clark who, a lifetime ago, had had a marriage column based on that verse published in our church's Chapel Echoes for years. 

And then Sydney chimed in.

As I still wrestled with my internal turmoil about the direction and depth of my prayer, I overheard Sydney, the day before her wedding, recounting the story of my braiding the bell to one of her friends. 

My intent was now as clear as a bell.

I thanked all of Sydney and Douglas's guests for coming. ALL of them...thanking Jesus for his valued attendance...although, knowing His fondness of weddings and wine...I shouldn't have been surprised by His prompt RSVP.  I shared my gratitude for one of the most precious gifts in my life: Sydney Lynn and that the Lord would provide her with a partner of strong conviction, admirable moral character, and equally bland taste buds. Those two could subsist off of hot dogs and chicken nuggets for a lifetime. I thanked Douglas's parents for raising such an incredible young man.

And then I spoke of the bell.

One of my favorite moments was my last-minute, desperate search of the crowd as I named the
members of the party in attendance that evening. A movement in the back caught my eye and I spotted my sweet friend Rhoda. I blew her a kiss which she effortlessly caught, causing chuckles to ripple across the crowd and giving me courage. Later, Savannah would feign outrage that her friends inevitably become best friends with me (In Rhoda's case...this is absolutely true).

I did not speak eloquently but I did speak from the heart. Sydney and Douglas generously gave me an opportunity to speak of my faith and my love for Jesus. I may have missed my opportunity to include the Lord in my wedding but I am so grateful that I could be the one to extend our invitation for Him to attend my daughter's. 

I made sure to encourage our guests to see the bell for themselves before they left for the night. And...if no one was looking...to go ahead and give it a go...

Because we know for Whom the bell tolls...

Touching base with those who couldn't attend the wedding

 Sydney had ALL of her bases covered...except one. "Mom, I need the something borrowed." 

I was failing pretty epically in the whole mother-of-the-bride business. I had confused periwinkle blue with navy blue. I am not well-versed on the ten thousand different variations of veils. I required multiple Youtube tutorials to learn how to tie a wired ribbon around the bridal bouquets. This was my last chance. So I stepped up to the plate.

The count was 0-2. The crowd was packing up. I could tell that Syd was getting ready to call it. When suddenly, the Coach made a last-minute line-up change. And out jogged our pinch hitter.

Out-of-the-blue (navy blue), my mother-in-love called. Naturally, conversation turned to Sydney's wedding. Our family was disappointed that Linda and Chuck would be unable to attend but understood, all too well, the concerns and limitations that are associated with having a geriatric dog. Plus the plane ride would have tortured Chuck's poor back. "I stumbled onto something that I would have liked to have given Sydney, but now it's too late," Linda lamented. My ears perked up immediately. My mother-of-the-bride bell sounded."What is it?" I asked. Linda had been going through some boxes and had unearthed her own wedding garter. 

She swings. She scores!

"It's not too late," I assured her, "Jeff doesn't fly out until tomorrow."

In no time, the garter was transferred from grandmother to granddaughter.

Sydney was delighted. We all marveled that the elastic had held up remarkably. Linda might have been able to sling-shot that baby from Iowa to California! 

One problem.

Slender still, it shouldn't have surprised us that Linda would have been stick-sized when she got married. 

Sydney has the figure of a model. Just not Twiggy.

Options were laughingly discussed. Anklet? Bracelet?

We wondered if the garter could be incorporated into Sydney's bridal bouquet but it was the wrong blue. Naturally, this kicked up another blue debate. Those who believed that baby blue and powder blue were synonymous were soundly defeated. Oh my gosh! How many blues are there!?!?!? A Google search reveals that there are sixteen common shades of blue but twenty-three true shades of blue. Stay out of a paint store...there you will find 144 shades of blue. 

This game was about to be called...

I fingered the stiff lace that surrounded Linda's garter, following the pale blue slim satin ribbon that wove its way around the accessory. The path ended at a small heart paved with pearls. 

Did I dare?

I carefully untied the fragile ribbon to unleash the little jewel.

Grabbing Sydney's bouquet, I attached it to the front...nestling it among the top petals. The star on the Christmas tree. The North Star. Linda's love...carried down the aisle with her granddaughter. God found a way to include yet another valued family member. It was perfect. And precious. (Grand) Mother-of-Pearl. And, of course, another reason to ponder.

Again, I followed the pale blue satin ribbon that wove its way through-out this wedding...winding itself through the handle of a rusted out bucket and around a display of old license plates...past a small, beat-up but never broken cake topper...to a tiny pearl heart perched on the bouquet that my daughter gripped tightly as she made her way down the aisle on her father's arm to, at last, tie the knot. 

Those little pearls led me to think of another gem.

A diamond.

In this case...a baseball diamond.

And how, in our family...we tend to rotate positions. I mean, we all pitch in. And we're always there to catch one another when one of us falls. Good luck, stealing second because we will protect that base with every fiber of our being. We know to cover first because, sometimes, one of us is bound to miss once in awhile. And third base has to have a strong arm to rescue us in the nick of time. But we can't do it on our own. Sometimes, things run afoul. You receive a bad call. There are weather-related delays and cancellations. You misread a signal. Over-run a base. But, fortunately for us, God manages this team.  He is in charge of the roster. Plays to our strengths. Benches us when we need healing or humbling. And, eventually, He calls us all home. We have some team members there already..waiting to get back in the game. But, until then, God found small, special, significant ways for all of our family members to congregate at Sydney Lynn's wedding. Out of the blue, He hit it out of the park.

The top of Syd's wedding cake was a tier-jerker

 Sydney's wedding was profoundly special in so many ways that I wasn't expecting. I already mentioned how the license plates and the bucket connected us to my dad and Brad's grandfather...a sweetly spiritual presence that made the day seem even more magical. 

Little did I know, though, that my empathetically intuitive daughter was waving wands and making magic for months leading up to the wedding.

My little spell-spinner began to bewitch me when we made a visit to my mom months ago. Sydney showed Mom her beautiful engagement ring, talking like she was a jeweler from Tiffany's. She gently lifted Mom's hand to compare rings...explaining how she had got a square cut because she liked Mom's so much. My mother beamed, inviting Sydney to take a closer look at the ring that has adorned my mother's finger for almost seventy years. Sydney marveled at it before orchestrating the three-generation picture that I now treasure. My mom's attention was riveted to her ring; momentarily lost in the love that still connected her to my father. Looking up, she held Sydney's hand again and reassured her that her ring was nice too.

Sydney's spells didn't stop there. She had taken some discreet, secret photos that day at Mom's and mobilized her minions to make some more magic. 

My mom and dad's cake topper has been an ever-present decoration in the many homes that they'd shared together. It was a sort of predecessor to the Elf-on-the-Shelf phenomena. I cannot remember it ever sticking to a single location. Sometimes it was bedside. Mantle-piece. Kitchen table. China cabinet. The thing got around but it was ALWAYS there. As you can imagine...it suffered some chips and scratches along the way...always repaired. Of course it made the journey to Mom's apartment, taking up a discreet but comforting position on her little living room window mantle overlooking the pond. 

Until, one day, without warning, a picture text popped up.

Sydney had arranged for a 3-D modeled replica of Mom's cake topper to be made...incorporating her and Douglas's features and, fun! included their three dogs. 

When did I become such an emotional basket-case? That sweet gesture about took me out at the knees.

What an amazing way to include and honor my parents on Sydney's special day.

So that is how that fragile but resilient little cake topper made its biggest location shift; from Vee's window to Sydney's wedding...New York to California (and back)...standing in for my mom when she couldn't be there. 

Magic. Pure magic.

Bean there...cooked that: A novel approach to a standard dish

I walk into my mother-in-love's house and I am HOME. I sink into her couch. I rummage, like a squirrel, through her stocked cupboards. I enthusiastically kick little Ziggy's blockade pillows off the staircase as I skip down the steps after my sound slumber. The Keurig is surrounded with k-cups customized to my flavor palette. A banana bread with slivered almonds and hand-pressed chocolate chunks is pre-cut for effortless consumption. There are books EVERYWHERE. I am home.

Ensconced on the comfy couch, wrapped in soft,  snuggly blankets, I reached for a nearby novel. Unfortunately, in this weak moment, I went for the low-hanging fruit. Nicholas Sparks. Ugh. I know better. An excellent writer but you always know where you're headed. Water-Works City. Past Sniffle Town. Down Bawling Boulevard. I'm blaming Jeff. Because of his recent heart attack, I was emotionally vulnerable. Angsty teen girls should avoid John Green (who I call the "Nicholas Sparks of the Young Adult genre") and overwrought women should stay away from Nicholas Sparks. Linda didn't know how close she came to getting her ass kicked at 2 am in the morning as I lay in her living room, gasping for breath, crying my eyes out. WHY would she have even had that awful book in her house? She knows I have NO self-control!

Of course, she apologized profusely in the morning. "I haven't read it yet," she admitted, "What was it about?" I stared at her, stunned. It was Nicholas Sparks. What did she THINK it was about? Character is confronted with an unanticipated harsh blow from which they must battle to over-come...just when we think we're going to make it...WHAM...gut-wrenching death sentence that we must endure SL-OW-LY for several agonizing chapters as life lessons, advice, pep-talks, and insights are slowly delivered like a literary IV drip into our tortured veins. Just pull the plug, already, Nicholas. 

Sprinkled, among the endless towers of tombs in her house, are cookbooks which I always find amusing because Linda could write her own cookbook and it would be the only one I would read. She can subtly pizzazz up the most ordinary dish to make it spectacular. For example...I adore her baked beans. I learned, from her, years ago, that adding ketchup, mustard, brown sugar and, of course, EXTRA bacon to a can of baked beans transforms it from a side to the star of the meal. But, it turns out...there was MORE to the story. This was no Nicholas Spark sob story...no. Linda Mosiman has layers. She is unpredictable. She keeps our taste buds on their toes.

I noticed, immediately, but didn't comment, on the addition of the smoked sausage simmering in my baked beans, nestling comfortably with a bed of bacon. A current of excitement shot through me. What has she done? I peered closer, realizing that the color had more depth. I scanned the counters...shocked to see that, instead of the bright yellow French's...a jar of Dijon. And then...no...was it? No? Did she add a Great Northern Bean? A Great Northern Bean is big but what I was seeing was HUGE. It transformed the dish. What is it? I had to know.

It was a butter bean.

What?!?

My mother-in-love never ceases to surprise and delight me.

What on earth is a butter bean?

Chuck was quick with an answer.

Butterbean was a retired wrestler. 

Not helpful, Chuck.

Turns out, a butter bean is a mature, load-bearing Lima bean. Up to this point in my life, I have not been a fan of Lima beans. I had no idea that they were just teen-agers. That explains so much. But a Butter bean...? Transformative.

So great was my enthusiasm for this dish that my mother-in-love thought I was kidding. It was only when the pan was empty and I was sobbing like I'd reached the end of a Nicholas Sparks novel, did she believe me. 

Before I went home, I begged for the recipe. Linda, like any talented author, knew better than to reveal the plot and refused to spill the beans. I can't wait for the sequel!

 

Jeff has the heart of a lion (and a lifetime ban from the zoo)

 In hindsight, our recent visit home to Mason City, Iowa was scheduled in God's perfect timing. Not that there isn't ever a busy time of year, but I remember feeling completely overwhelmed as May and June weighed down on me...the play, Syd's wedding, end-of-school checklists, 4th of July activities...I couldn't look at my June/July calendar without shuddering. And, if that wasn't enough, days after the 4th, Brad and I were flying out to visit our family in Iowa. 

Turns out...not only WAS it enough...it was serendipitous.

Just days before our flight...we got a message and our world immediately screeched to a halt. Our beloved Jeff had had a heart attack and would soon be undergoing by-pass surgery. The flights I had booked in May put us within reach of Jeff and his wife Shelley a day before the surgery and several days following the procedure. 

When we arrived, we were, of course, no help what-so-ever...getting in the way, asking stupid questions, and just generally being a nuisance but we were so relieved...so comforted...by just seeing Jeff that Shelley graciously put up with our ineptitude.

We got to know Jeff's hospital pretty well over the course of a few days. My father-in-law really
recommended the water. "Best water in town," he gushed. "The hospital has its own 900-foot well." I was disappointed to have missed my opportunity to sample this elixir during our visit. 

Brad and I were quite comfortable during our wait-times in the lobby. Instead of a candle-light vigil, we had a whole fireplace! We didn't learn, until later, that we were also benefiting from chromotherapy as the lobby had recently undergone an update to include providing colored lights as an infrared sauna...bathing Brad and me in a meditative glow. Imagine if we'd had Chuck's magical well water on top of that! It was like we were at a spa while Jeff's surgeon was busy sweating through his scrubs, wrestling the jaws of life onto Jeff's record-breakingly-thick breast plate. 

While Jeff's medical team was shocked, discovering a vein that had wormed its way into the medieval armor that shielded his organs...I pictured a little yellow dandelion miraculously working its way through a concrete sidewalk...I was perusing the quaint little hospital gift shop. As Jeff's doctors debated their course of action pertaining to this little quirk of nature, I was consulting with the shop staff about how to get Brad Mosiman to buy me a $35 bracelet. "It says The Lord's Prayer in Morse Code," I explained to my husband who wondered when I had learned Morse Code. The surgeons eventually decided to leave the vein where it was. I would not give up on my bracelet so easily.

It was on our second visit to the hospital that I was motioned over to the reception desk. The friendly woman manning the station asked about my outfit. I can't TELL you how many times this happens to me (zero). Encouraged (bullied) not to check a bag, I had been limited in my packing to just a backpack. Well-versed in Iowa's sweltering summers, I packed light, flowy items. My daughter Sydney had gotten me started on jumpsuits and rompers and I had recently started getting a bit bolder with my color selections. "I noticed you yesterday," the woman told me, smiling. "And I see you are wearing another stylish outfit today." I glanced around for a hidden camera. She couldn't be serious. I have a colleague who had sunk my confidence with a verbal torpedo by calling this exact outfit a onesie. "Where do you shop?" she persisted.  Before you knew it, I was twirling, squatting, and kicking to demonstrate the versatility of my jumpsuit. "I can't wait to see what you wear tomorrow," she said, waving good-bye to me as I skipped out the door. My new bracelet slid down my arm as I waved back. Sure enough, the next day, she applauded as I cat-walked my way back in.

Jeff had some up-grades to his wardrobe too. I admired his nifty new yellow socks with built-in tread. Brad and I had just arrived, the day after Jeff's by-pass surgery. I was still catching my breath due to the  long journey from the parking lot. "You almost missed him," the nurse told us, "He just got back from his second walk" (a DAY after open-heart surgery). Jeff listened patiently while I complained bitterly about how far his room was from my car. "I'm so sorry that you had to go through that," he apologized, before asking, "Is that a new bracelet?" It was about time. I thought he would never notice. 

Brad and I had a lot of time to think and talk and reflect over the last week or so. I wish I was more in-tune to witnessing God's work in real time rather than be constantly marveling at it in rewind. I cannot help but feel that what we experienced was miraculous. The what-ifs are terrifying.  If Jeff had had his heart attack, away from home, at Syd's wedding, in San Diego. If he had come out, as he had intended, to New York for the 4th and had been struck then. On ANY of the plane rides (shudder). Instead, he was home...experiencing some discomfort...factoring in the Mosiman family heart history...and wisely went to the hospital. How grateful we were that our plane reservations were already set and scheduled as we would have been leaping into a vehicle for the 17-hour drive...worried and distracted the entire way. 

And now, here we are. Jeff is home and our family can breathe again. It's terrible that sometimes it takes something like this to realize how important someone is in your life and how much you love them. I could lie and try to tell you this experience didn't affect me at all...but that would be AFib. 

See you in the funny papers! Our issue with Ziggy

The Mosimans are dog people. We could care less if strangers, colleagues, or even other family members dislike us but if we encounter a canine that refuses to wag our way, we are crushed; questioning the very core of our existence. 

Our senior statesman, little Ziggy, has ruled my mother-in-love's house for years, delighting Linda and Chuck with his boundless energy, devotion, loyalty and love. 

In his spry years, the Zig-ster, more or less, graciously endured our visits. Sure, we pulled some attention away from him but he knew that it was only temporary. Soon enough, he would resume his rightful position as the center of Linda and Chuck's universe.

But now, in his golden years, Ziggy refuses to take a back-seat to ANYONE. 

In fact, I swear the little dog repressed a chuckle as Brad and I were stuffed, unceremoniously, into the back of the PT Cruiser to speed off to the vet for a weight check, culminating in a trip to the drive-thru for a pup-cup.  Chuck drove to a scenic park so that Ziggy could enjoy his front seat view with his treat, leaving Brad and me sweltering and hungry behind him.

Linda's delicious four-and-five-course meals were marvelous but deceptively dog-friendly. I watched as my father-in-law deconstructed my left-over Hawaiian pizza. "You weren't going to eat this, were you?" he asked, preparing pizza bones with which to tempt little Ziggy, lodged comfortably on Linda's

lap who was over-seeing the operation. Brad and I watched as our lovely beef roast was ripped apart to make tiny dog-sized sliders for Ziggy. I gasped when Ziggy shot me a wink as Linda grabbed the last chicken leg to tempt his unpredictable appetite.  Ziggy nibbled a refreshing square of watermelon as a palate cleanser while I scanned the kitchen for a clump of grapes, certain the Chuck and Linda would soon be feeding him, Cleopatra-style.

Poor Ziggy. My and Brad's visit really put a crimp in his style. He had to put up with us on his daily rides in the car. Brad had the audacity to stretch out on the couch, dis-lodging one of Ziggy's many snuggle spots. Forget the "Washington Slept Here" signs peppering historic homes and taverns throughout the East, Linda should label Ziggy's territory to avoid canine confusion and resentment when boundaries are accidentally breached.

Ziggy was NOT sad to see us go. 

I have never seen a dog enjoy a ride to the airport as much as this one.

Like I said...the Mosimans love their dogs.

Linda and Chuck dote on their little friend...seeing to his every need and enjoying every moment with him. The geriatric years are challenging for everyone as health concerns creep up...vision clouds, hearing wanes, limbs lack confidence. Every precious moment is celebrated...treasured...and stored away. How grateful we are for Chuck and Linda's sweet little dog...when it comes to providing love and joy...Ziggy is definitely in the driver's seat.

Spreading myself a little too thin: Picking blackberries is a real thorn in my side

 So...channeling my inner "Little House on the Prairie" vibe and risking the tornado warning, I skipped out to our blackberry patch to pick the three and a half cups required for my freezer jam recipe. Yeah. I already know what you're thinking. No self-respecting prairie princess would even consider entering freezer jam in the county fair to be judged among their home-canned counterparts. Freezer jam is like trying to pass a store-bought cake mix off as scratch:  A Betty Crocker counterfeit. Well...Caroline Ingalls can kiss my pre-packaged, perfectly-preserved posterior. Freezer jam is my Everest. This was a big deal for me. It required a LOT of revving myself up. I felt like a fraud just trying to locate the Sure Gel in the store. 

Allow me to pause here to beg Caroline Ingalls' forgiveness. My insecurities got the better of me and I lashed out without provocation. While Caroline might be silently appalled by my utter lack of homespun knowledge and my vigorous avoidance of any and all activities attached to manual labor, you and I both know that this hard-working, gentle, kind, Christian woman would be cheering me on. 

So there I was, prancing out to the patch...of which I have a long and complicated history. I heroically battled two mosquitoes and a sweat-fly as I gleaned my garden beneath the harsh glare of the 3 o'clock sun. Fifteen minutes later, I was back in my kitchen...realizing my mistake. The recipe required three and a half cups of MASHED blackberries. Oh no.

Clearly, this was further evidence that I was NOT cut out for cooking.

I couldn't go out there again.

I could hear my blackberry patch poking fun of me from here.

Less than a week ago, my daughters were home, in their glory, eating their fill right from this over-flowing fountain of fruit. What a wonderful tribute, to be able to resurrect that moment, months from now, as I smoothed a blanket of blackberry jam on my morning toast. I did not watch my husband wrestle that thorny dragon of deliciousness into submission and then joust with it each week on the lawn mower to only eat a handful of berries each July. 

Well...if Caroline was able to travel, in a covered wagon, from Wisconsin, facing untoward dangers and hardships, to settle in South Dakota, I could certainly check my cell phone for any updates regarding the tornado warning and walk the 40 odd feet back out to the patch to finish the job I had set out to do. 

I did it. 

I picked. I mashed. I mixed. I sifted. I stirred.

I successfully made blackberry freezer jam but realized that I would have to reconcile myself with the fact that I would not have flourished during our nation's formative years:  I just wouldn't have blended in.

Brad, Virgil, & Jeff: Paving the way by laying the foundation and raising the roof

Weddings are a wonderful combination of tradition and personal flair. Timeless but fleeting...the architecture constantly evolving while the sturdy foundation remains resolutely the same. 

Sydney and Douglas put a lot of time into planning their wedding; carefully sifting through what was essential and what was just expected. Opinions were sought as our family, as obnoxious as we may appear, rarely offers suggestions unsolicited (We just ruthlessly criticize them later). Sydney honored me greatly by asking if I would accompany Brad and her down the aisle on her journey to her betrothed. What a privilege...to be included in those final steps where Syd was still just "ours." My narcissistic nature of course wanted to share that limelight but my oddly sentimental side immediately declined...wanting, so much, to watch my husband escort his little girl down the aisle. And, boy, that scene did not disappoint. Thirty-six years of marriage and I still see stars.

The Father/Daughter Dance was another matter.

Sydney Lynn circled the wagons and summoned the three men in her life that hailed her as a princess, held her feet to the fire, would have walked through hell for her, and would hire on as hit-men for her. 

The dance began, of course, with her father, her cornerstone...sappy, sweet, and sentimental before taking a crazy and comedic turn. With a wild whoop of recognition, Virgil caught his cue as effortlessly as any bridesmaid catching the bouquet. Naturally, his walk-on music would be Grateful Dead-themed and the dance floor and the crowd enthusiastically sang back-up as Virgil grabbed his girl for a spin. And then the beat dropped, and it was Jeff's turn to be recognized and honored for his valued place in the foundation of her formative years. We yowled like alley cats as he circled the floor..."She's a brick...how-se..."

It couldn't have been better. 

Pure, uninhibited joy.

Loud. Obnoxious. Loving.

Us.

These three men...brothers...architecturally different but foundationally...crafted from the same mason. The jokes and teasing are cut-throat. Geographically split but spiritually-centered. The polarized push and pull that defines the relationships of men...cast adrift for months...sometimes years...and then, suddenly, the homing signal inexplicably kicks in and the great continental trek begins...reuniting a fellowship forged in infancy, surviving the tumultuous teen years, and enduring well into adulthood. 

Such a blessing.

Not everyone is fortunate enough to have even one stable male role model in their lives.

In attendance at Syd's wedding, twirling her around the dance floor, my daughters have three.

An uplifting tale of how to give Amy a boost

Sydney has ALWAYS enjoyed planning parties. So, it wasn't surprising that, when it came to her wedding, she left nothing to chance.

"Have you given any thought to what you're going to wear?" she asked me, casually, on the phone. I glanced at the calendar. We were still a good three months out. Plenty of time. "I'll find something," I assured her.

She was not assured.

Amazon recommendations came flying at me like laser bullets at a shooting gallery. I was a sitting duck. 

When I failed to respond in what Sydney Lynn deemed to be a suitable manner, a package arrived in the mail.

Sparkly gold and a tulle lace over-lay. If that didn't scream "Amy Mosiman," I don't know what would.

I wrestled my way into this cupcaked-contraption, pleased with the length. Turning to the mirror, I
gasped. The plunging neckline was positively pornographic. "How does it look?" my husband yelled from the living room. I stormed out to him; the swish and swirl of my skirts softening my appalled entrance. "What's wrong with it?" he asked,"I like it."

Sydney refused to be deterred. "We can fix that," she assured me, "You just need a bustier." Her confident French pronunciation threw me. "Okay," I relented, and waited.

Several days later, the bustier arrived. Covered in sparkly gold sequins.  I squeezed myself into the bustier like it was a wire-covered sausage casing. Oh dear.

"How's it look?" Brad yelled from the living room. Unable to breathe (and horrified), I made my way out to him. He was speechless. "I can't wear this," I gasped, "I'm giving the prayer." The only thing that the bustier had succeeded in doing was to narrow down the genre. I was cast now in the genre of sci-fi porn. The bustier had lifted my ample bosoms up to my ears so that I was now sporting Princess Leia-style honey-buns on each side of my head. "I like it," my husband declared. He is a big fan, obviously, of Star Wars.

I was definitely out of my comfort-zone here. I could not go to my daughter's wedding dressed like an inter-galactic space slut. Don't get me wrong. I'm not a prude but there is a time and a place for everything. I wanted to appear timeless. Classic. Captivating. Like a painting. I didn't want to look matronly but neither did I want to appear like a dominatrix. 

Wait. Is it possible that I may have stumbled into a new frontier of fashion "looks?" 

Domatronix?

We were already half-way there. Brad Mosiman already had a kink in his neck ("My eyes are up here, buddy.") and I enjoy slapstick humor.

There's no raisin to feel awkward when Putin on the Ritz

Sydney's beautiful wedding venue provided her with a spacious, sprawling, comfortable space for her bridesmaids to gather, giggle, and get ready. So naturally, they all crowded together into the one stalled bathroom.

What a pleasure...to watch women fussing over one another...straightening straps, smoothing hair, plucking lint from satin fabric. My heart filled to bursting as I saw the sisters...my daughters...caught up in this ageless ritual of women. Where once they were constantly AT one another's throats, I now saw Sydney, squinting, as she fought with the dainty necklace clasp adorning Savannah's neck. Where once pleasure was derived from knocking one another down, Savannah was now crouching, to help Sydney with her shoes. 

And I, an apparition, floating around, through, and above this timeless tableau. 

I did not speak this language or understand this culture. My currency is sarcasm and inappropriate innuendo. Sophistication, for me, is when a restaurant provides a pre-packaged wet-nap. Fine dining is when the flight attendant gives you the dry-as-dust, nut-free, pretzel mix AND a package of teeth-breaking, nut-free, brownie bites during the SAME flight. I don't know how to have intelligent exchanges. I nodded wisely and then quickly removed myself from a conversation about the uncertain political climate in Laos. "They're in talks with Putin, you know," I was told. "That b@st@rd," I commiserated before jumping up to open the door. "Oh, look! The cheese is here!"

The artisan charcuterie board that arrived could have been featured in a museum. "Is this brie?" I asked, carefully, trying not to give away my utter lack of class. "It's goat cheese. You will detect a subtle note of citrus," the server told me. Is he serious? I couldn't detect a hammer to the head. Even the crackers were above my pay-grade and comfort-level. Preparing to leave after adjusting a minute mis-alignment of a plump, juicy craisin (In my world, craisins are dry and shriveled...just raisin's cousins...putting on airs), the server mis-over-heard my muttered comment lamenting my cracker crisis and smiled. "Yes, many people have compared our facilities to the Ritz." I shook my head. We are so not the same.

So, I was mostly an observer of the festivities...winging in a wry comment, here and there. Lurking awkwardly in the background. Feeling like a fraud as I sampled sophisticated cheeses while longing for Poly-O. But I am also a chronicler...making mental notes and sifting feverishly through each special moment to file away forever as a part of our family history. Which is why, as everyone was crammed in the dressing room, vying for mirror space and admiring Sydney, I thought it would be a good idea to hoist my gargantuan-sized body up onto the closed toilet lid and straddle the stall to capture this moment for posterity. 

It was as classy a moment as you are imagining.

Especially the part where I cracked the lid.

Later that evening, in a quiet nook, watching as guests sipped their wine, chatted, and danced, I gently nudged the event planner who had helped us throughout the day. "It was just beautiful," I told her. "Did it bring back memories of your own wedding day?" she asked me. I smiled at her. "Oh my gosh, yes. Did I tell you that our reception was in a fire hall?" She laughed before quickly covering her mouth with her hands. "That does not surprise me," she answered before hustling over to straighten a crooked craisin. 

We are so not the same.

A drop in the bucket: My cup runneth over (God's gift registry)

 I tend to be somewhat zealous in my interpretation of God's presence in my life. Better to see Him EVERYWHERE than no-where is my very strong defense. Crammed into Douglas's car, the many Mosimans who had made the trek to Sydney's wedding were barreling down a crowded freeway in San Diego when we passed a faded road-side sign, standing sentinel among the palm trees, almost lost among a backdrop of buildings. Hearing my sigh, my husband quickly scanned his surroundings to find the catalyst. Spotting the "Denny's" sign, he fought his eye-roll to drop me a quick wink, immediately realizing that I was thinking of my dad. 

There's no sense in arguing with me when the Lord so clearly sends me a (literal) sign but Brad Mosiman is always game. "Spotting a Denny's can hardly be counted as a miraculous occurrence," he teased me later. "There must be close to 2,000 Denny's in America. It would be like going to Canada and being shocked to find a Tim Horton's there." Thank goodness Sydney is more sentimental. "I thought of Grandma and Grandpa, too," she whispered. It was my dad's go-to place...a consistent menu with consistent prices. We would be graciously treated to a Denny's dinner for birthdays and anniversaries.

Dad would show up again later as Sydney and I approached the entryway for her receiving room at the venue. I paused beside the rusted old bucket hanging decoratively among the vine and flowers, thanking God for including Dad in this special day.

Really, Amy? An old bucket? Now you're really reaching.

Haven't I told you this story?

Where a young and foolish (as opposed to old and foolish) Amy DeLong snitched her father's metal bucket to pick wild grapes with a friend. The two idiots climbed the prickly pine tree ladders high up into the air, hanging the bucket on a branch so they could fill it with fruit. Suddenly, Amy's friend fell, plunging 40 (4) feet before catching hold. Scared straight, both children scrambled to the ground, forgetting about the bucket until it was too late. Neither kid was brave enough to retrieve it. Naturally, Amy never confessed her crime to her father who, we must imagine, never learned the fate of his missing bucket. (I'm sure he suspected...I was very naughty).

Years went by. My parents moved. But every time Brad and I drove by the property, we would glance up into the roadside woods to see the bucket, still hidden...like a needle in a pine tree. 

One day, driving by, I was startled and saddened to see that the highway department had trimmed back the trees. "The bucket is gone," I told Brad, my eyes wildly searching the vacant branches. My husband pulled over. Walking across the road, he jumped down into the ditch and immediately emerged with his prize. That bucket has been with us every since.

The Lord, of course, was not done with me. I wandered away, giving Sydney and Douglas a private moment before the craziness began. I toured the barn space that would house the bar, buffet, and dancing area. The walls and beams felt nostalgically comforting, filled with farm tools and implements. Stopping short, I saw one beam decorated with "random" license plates. Smiling, I noticed New York and California, separated geographically by 3,000 miles, parked right next to one another. And then my eyes widened as I read the letters on the New York plate...immediately spinning around to retrieve Sydney and Douglas. Pleased and thankful, I snapped the picture: Art Mosiman's great-granddaughter, on her wedding day, beneath her home plate. 

In mind, body, and soul...we were all there.