Squeezing through just as the subway doors close behind

I will bless the Lord at all times: His praise shall continually be in my mouth. Psalm 34

I remember when I first memorized Psalm 34: Barrio Nuestro Esfuerzo, San José de Ocoa.  And carried around with me, framing my thoughts and vision through each of the very long and hard days. 

Bless the LORD at all times. 

This moment is sort of like the end of a hard 100 IM.  Really I can’t quite pull it off and the gasps for air are deep and long. Our holiday season was a veritable onslaught of over-the-top moments, with nary a blink of reflection or time to transfer them into long-term memory. 

Alan and I sat in front of the double log fire last night, nicely set by Cameron the most amazing housesitter ever, sipping the Bailey’s that I had dragged along through journeys there and back again, only spilling a bit, and tried to sort through the adventures. And it is a fact that Mr. Alan and Mr. Samwise are quite alike, especially as they walk through the front door: “Well, I’m back,” he said.

·      Ah, once again, the introductory more candies and heaping white frosting than the human mind can imagine constructions of cleverness at the very defining standard of warm hospitality at the annual gingerbread competition,

·      The welcoming arch of happiness over my parents’ front door, and the buen natale star on the top of our tree,

·      The intersections of a life together well lived, dancing and celebrating as Juan and Lisa’s vows of commitment are renewed for the next fifty years to the mixed beat of I Will Always Love You, Peruvian panpipes and cumbias,

·      Scooping up Jenny and Tim waiting at the airport pickup,

·      Heather-as-Elizabeth talking about what it was really like to be the mother of John in that particular time and space,

·      Sorting through metaphors to capture the year: a dangling necklace from Baghdad and measureable outcomes of a God-at-work,

·      In the dizziness of gift mounds of brilliant wit abounding, one stands out, delivered by two gentle giant elves of kindness, a mounted and framed Venceremos, Marchamos con la Historia poster ripped off of a Santo Domingo wall almost thirty years ago,

·       And another story told in flickering candlelight by an unchained and thus empowered voice: Rise, shine! For your light has come; the glory of the LORD has risen upon you,

·      More stories, this time recounted overlooking the twinkling Tucson skyline with Italian wine and what does it mean to be green in blue and yellow cultures,

·      Christmas stockings stuffed with tokens of love and bullet points of victory and growth and hopes for the new year, looking each other in the eye around the table with lots of bacon, the meat candy,

·      A midnight drive through frozen New England, sweeping through the soaring pines with the lulling background conversation of Dustin and Alan keeping each other awake, to step into the snuggling welcoming hug of beautiful Pamela,

·      One last Christmas feast, this time with poppers, golden crispy-skinned roasted turkey and flaming figgy pudding, and dozens of candles and one last heap of packages of selective cleverness,

·      Pushing a cart through the Hanover Coop with Mz. Andrea at last, chatting about not much, but sweetness in the moment,

·      Perfect pretzels emerging from soda water; somehow even the hard moments can be immersed in His Spirit and recover perspective and forgiveness,

·      The boys chopping and pinching and sautéing for exactly-right pizzas, three in a row,

·      Walking through Central Park, alone, with huge floaty snowflakes,

·      Lunch at Trattoria Machiavelli the most amazing Italian restaurant ever with a gracious Uncle Jim and a loving group of people willing to welcome him, cattycorner to his lonely apartment,

·      A long slightly-too-blustery walk to classic NYC urban tucked right under the Manhattan Bridge, the reBar for soup, mac and cheese and craft beers on tap,

·      And the answer to what was most marvelous for an Iraqi and an Italian scouring New York City in twenty hours of hop on and hop off, “Everything,” and the cheerful skyping coming through the closed door complete with ukulele songs,

·      Um, what could be more gentle than a two-hour lingering over the Sunday New York Times with coffee and bearclaws at Panera Breads?

·      Soaring frescos and overarching domes vibrate with the pulsing power of Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir, and a message for year: It’s a new day, new being the operative word. 

·      Only five subway stops away, and some rather rushed walking through the East End to a narrow hallway of a room packed with crazy colored lights and bulbs and signs and postcards for Indian food that only Dustin can sift through for Charly and me.

·      …and the wedding itself… circles of tables floating on stainless steel ponds,  with a wailing saxophone and upright bass wrapping around familiar-but-seldom-seen faces and a very articulate commitment to step into the challenge of love and a future… and how very much fun to savor this world of Max and Andrea and who they are and are becoming.

·      And… after a two-thirty-in-the-morning-Tucson-time start with folks clinging to their weary humor with two fists, to be greeted at the bottom of the down escalator by Hood Limousine Service, each holding a sign, one for the Voelkel party, the other for the Schaber party, with momma barbecue ribs and fluffy biscuits waiting at home. 

“Well, I’m back,” we said.

It’s a new year.  13 100 freestyle, 13 75 kick, 13 50 pull, 13 25 IM sprints, up and out and breathing deeply under the bright blue sky.