Stirs the Soul

In honor of the Olympics starting today in China, I want to share this video. Gives you goosebumps, doesn't it?



“MAKE NO SMALL PLANS”

This is a city that reversed the flow of a river. A city that rose from the Great Fire of 1871. A city that works, but also a city that plays…with world-class festivals, museums, sports teams and more.

Chicago has always been associated with fire.

This time, it would be at the end of an Olympic torch…

Into the (Michigan) Wild

I'm heading north back to Michigan tonight to go camping for the weekend. We'll be up in Manton, Michigan (where?) about 5 hours from Chicago. And, I'll be canoeing, for the first time ever, down the Manistee River on Saturday. Can you believe it? I've never done that.

Yes, I'm going back to Michigan yet again. At this point my car can find itself over the skyway and onto 94, so the drive should be a breeze.

The last time I went camping I am pretty sure I had braces. Or hair sprayed bangs. Either way, it has been awhile. As an adult, things are different now. I'm a little higher maintenance, a little more prepared and a little more thoughtful about what I bring.

So...the camping packing checklist went as follows:

• college dorm comforter because I don't own a sleeping bag and can't justify $300 for one, clearly


• sheets and a pillow/pillowcase from a matching third tier sheet set, because they can't clash


• handtowel, washcloth and a beachtowel, which unfortunately, doesn't go with the others


• plastic serving things, plates, silverware, etc. for all of that fancy on-the-grill foods we're cookin'


• bug spray, citronella bucket candles and itch relief (have you ever been to Michigan in the summer?)


• fabric headbands, my Cubs hat and a hankerchief because I look really bad the second day, and even worse the third


• a giant, 6-person, borrowed tent with no instructions, only a color photo on the carrying case; this should be the highlight of the trip


• a flashlight, which has been getting some use lately with the lightning and storms in Chicago; forgot the extra batteries which renders it hardly useful


• sunscreen in varying superpowers, if only to protect the fierce strapless-dress-worthy tan I've built this summer


• paper towels, toilet paper, kleenex, handi-wipes and Charmin wipes, because apparently all I'm going to be doing is wiping something


• deodorant, because I've finally admitted that I do more than glisten, I sweat


• snacks, snacks and more snacks because there's no reason to starve


• water bottles, which will likely get neglected due to my affinity for its better-looking cousin, beer


• enormous hard plastic cooler on wheels and soft-sided cooler for canoe trip because beer is more important than anything else I'm packing

That's the highlights. As I mentioned, the tent-up-putting could be the single-most hilarious event I've endured this summer. I will be sure to video capture it for you. Which, incidentally, could get me out of the actual process of constructing the vinyl monster. We'll see.

For now, please pray that there are no snakes in the river, no raccoons in my tent, no rogue wild livin-off-the-land crazies in our campground and no serious gas pump hikes in Michigan.

And, God please grant me buckets of patience and marginally less greasy hair for the weekend.

Amen.

Our Cup Runneth

I have told this story (both live and here) many times, but I FINALLY found the photos to accompany the tale. Monica, this one's for you.

Enjoy.

The year was 2001. I had lived in Chicago just over 12 months and had a pretty active and fun social calendar. Each November, we were invited to a Flippy-Cup Tournament hosted by a friend of my roommate's, and there were big cash prizes. The teams were five people deep, and each person had to be dressed in costume and participating.

If you never went to college, are over the age of 45 or have been stationed on a submarine or living under a rock, I'll explain the rules. Flippy-Cup is a drinking game where each team lines one side of a banquet table. Each person has a plastic cup in front of them, and for each turn, the cub is filled with nasty, sometimes hot, beer. Upon "go," the first person on each side chugs their portion of beer, and then sets the cup on the edge of the table, upright and empty, and then uses one hand to "flip" the cup upside down landing on the table. When that task is complete, it is now the next person's turn, and so on. The team who has successfully chugged the beer and flipped the cups over first wins.

At this particular party, the game was set up into a tournament, with brackets built like those used in NCAA basketball, leading down to one champion team of cup flippers (and beer chuggers, quite frankly).

Even more fun, this party had clever hostesses. Held long after Halloween, they instituted the costume rule. And, the costumes, and therefore the party, was always themed around a funny angle.

One year it was "come as your favorite holiday" and we went as Ash Wednesday (two priests and three Catholic school girls all with ashes on our forehead), and one year it was "come as your favorite acronym." As a wordsmith and a lover of all things costumed, I was excited.

My team decided (upon a stroke of commuting-inspired brilliance by none other than moi) to dress up as the CTA. Perfect!

Then it was time to address the costumes. Never one to shy away from going all out, we began the brainstorming, and the tasks began.

With loads of commuting experience, the CTA was an easy one to define. You consistently have a good mix of stereotypes present at any given point in time.

And, of course, you need someone in charge. So, we assigned our friend Saneel the task of driving the bus. Yes, we were going to be the CTA as exemplified by a transit bus. The cast of characters included:

The Harried Bus Driver
Saneel happily donned the full outfit we constructed for him out of Salvation Army finds and Home Depot projects. He sported fingerless navy wool driving gloves; an official City of Chicago CTA hat; navy wool dress pants, a light blue dress shirt and a navy wool sweater with the official CTA patches and the City of Chicago flag. (That was interesting as I sat up front on the bus and tried to reproduce on a sketchpad the exact look of the CTA logo patches!) And of course, he toted with him at all times a portable, yet oversized steering wheel made of a plastic tube wrapped in black duct tape. Brilliant!

The Curious Tourist
Erin volunteered to serve as our resident non-resident. She epitomized the Chicago tourist in a backpack-toting, map-reading, Chicago shirt-wearing, American-flag-bearing getup. She wore her transit cards in a plastic case on a lanyard around her neck, and generally looked lost wherever she was. She asked a lot of questions, and never knew which stop was hers.

The Snappy Executive
As you may have guessed, I was the corporate executive commuter. I wore my finest black skirt suit, panty hose, silk shirt and black high heels. I carried a newspaper and a Starbucks coffee cup (filled with beer, of course) and had an iPod attached to my ear most of the time that my phone wasn't there. Not the most exciting character, but a stereotype that deserved representation all the same.

The Elderly Shopper
Jill served as our grey-haired, well-heeled, old-monied shopper, and wore a wool blazer, dress pants, high heels and a gold broach. She spray-dyed her silky brown hair to a grey misty shade, and wore tortoise shell glasses to complete the transformation. Of course, she toted shopping bags from all of Michigan Avenue's finest.

The Confused Homeless
True to form, our comedienne Molly agreed to play the part of the angry, confused and probably intoxicated homeless person. I know, I know. Totally offensive. But, board one bus in Chicago and tell me that you don't see at least one of these Mollys seated up front. She fit the part with multiple, unwashed and un-matching layers of clothing, messy hair, a mangled Streetwise and a wet crotch. She brown-bagged it with a 40-oz bottle of beer inside. Colt 45, probably. In character, she hollered, acted strangely, sang to herself and simply acted out-of-sorts.

The Brilliant Props
The kicker is this: we even had the bus bar. All five of us cruised around the party while grasping desperately to the shower curtain turned bus rod with silver duct tape, hanging on and swaying as if the bus were truly in motion. We only came to a complete stop when Saneel, the driver, shouted off the "next stop, Chestnut!"

Proof, in all of its pre-party and post-party glory, is posted below.

Team CTA, L to R: Colleen, Erin, Molly, Jill and Captain Saneel
The CTA, apparently breaking down toward the end of the night.
It made going to the bathroom or the bar a bit challenging, but we definitely attracted some attention as the CTA is known to do. And, clearly, the longer we were in motion, the more outrageous the stories became. Which, as evidenced by many of my posts herein, is also true about the CTA.

How we didn't win that contest is totally beyond me.

75,000 is a Crowd

Attending all three days of Lollapalooza just wasn't in my plans this year. I decided a one-day pass was enough, and I think I made a good decision. I am just not that into Rage Against the Machine or Nine Inch Nails, and those were the headliner bands for Saturday and Sunday. I know, I know. Don't judge my taste. I'm just a little "softer" than that.

Friday, however, boasted a great lineup, so my friend Katie and I walked down there after leaving work early at about 3. Standing in line at the box office (since they'd never emailed me my ticket), we just melted, sweltered and waited. And waited.

We finally got in, and I bought the cold beer that I'd promised Katie for her patience, and we planted ourselves on the ground near the Playstation stage to see Cat Power perform. The Black Keys were just finishing up behind us, and the crowd was beginning to surge our way. We secured our ground space, and sent the requisite text messages to our friends onsite to see if they could/would find us, rather than us finding them.

They did, and we kicked off a great afternoon of really cool music. I must admit, however, that I made several observations while there, and am happy to share them with you. Maybe we can discuss?

Observations from a People Watcher

1. Tattoos.
What is up with the tattoos? Our entire generation is covered in them, and I just don't get it. I'm all for freedom of expression, and personal creativity, and generally showing off your personality, but with INK? On your skin? It just doesn't do it for me.

I feel like I am the exception these days because I don't have a Chinese character inked on my lower back, or a four-leaf clover hidden on my hip, or a butterfly by my ankle, or a sunshine on the nape of my neck. Even girls that don't look like they'd be covered, are. And don't get me started on the tats the guys are sporting! I felt like I was standing in a NBA locker room.

I only wonder...what will we look like as octogenarians in the nursing homes, when these tattoos start to sag, wrinkle and fade?

2. Kids.
I am torn on this one. I saw several young people holding kids, or with kids riding on their shoulders above the crowds. The sweaty, feisty, fun-loving crowds of people drinking heavily, smoking even more and toking quite a bit. What I'm torn about is this: are those the really cool parents who are raising kids that will enjoy life's action? Or should those kids have been left at home with a babysitter engaging them in more age-appropriate activities?

I can't decide. Part of me thinks it is super cool to expose children to all types of people, music, learnings and life's ups and downs, many of which can be seen and experienced in a crowd like that. But all the noise? And smoke? And swearing?

That part I'm not so sure about. But they sure will be tougher when they get to kindergarten. When they turn up their nose at Sesame Street in favor of Radiohead, though, I'm pretty sure that their teacher won't appreciate their musical influences.

3. Sweating.
I always claim, as a G.R.I.T.S. (Girl Raised in the South) that I don't sweat, I glisten.

That is just a bold-faced lie. Friday's high temps reached past 90, and it was just plain sticky. Everyone was sweating instantly, and it just didn't quit. Any hope of being cute, or well made-up, or with coiffed hair, was just shot.

It was hot, and I was sweating. There, I said it.

4. Beer.
This one goes unsaid, but I have to say it anyway. When it is hot, and you are sweating (see #3), beer just tastes GOOD. And better than it ever has before.

Paying $5 for a plastic cup of it, 30% of which will be spilled by some drunk reveler on your way back to your group, however, isn't so fun.

But, when the deliciousness of the cold beverage hits your lips, you forget that your legs are covered in the sticky substance and just guzzle away. Because then at least you don't notice the crowd-sludge down there, or quite frankly, your legs much at all.

5. Live.
Doesn't everyone sound much better live than you'd expect them to? I even enjoyed some random bands that I normally wouldn't tune in to. Maybe it is the noise, or the crowd's energy, or the aforementioned beer (see #4), but I just like live music.

The louder the band, the better the experience. And isn't that most of the point?

Or maybe the crowds just drown out those bands that aren't so good, or whose singer is overly digitized in the sound studio because they can't carry a tune, but the drums and the guitar and the other instruments make it all sound ok.

6. Service.
Can I just put a call out to all people who work in Customer Service positions?

If you hate people, can't stand talking to strangers, and are totally unhappy with life, then maybe a customer-facing job isn't for you?

Just my two cents.

7. Karma
If you read Friday's post, you know that I'm angling for a little good karma to swing back my way.

Which is precisely why, when I saw a stranded cell phone on the ground as we left the show Friday night, I picked it up. I answered the next call, and realized that the owner was desperately in search of it. Dreaming of big rewards (or at least a good Thank You hug), I agreed to take it home and return it (with Brett) on Saturday to the Lost & Found tent. I promised I wouldn't sell it, throw it away, or give it to anyone else.

I didn't even get a rousing Thank You on the phone on Saturday when we spoke. Maybe the healthy deposit in the good karma bank is thanks enough?

8. Dancing.
I think I figured this one out in 7th grade at a boy-girl party, but it is still true.

It is really fun to slow dance to music with a cute (taller than you!) boy dancing behind you with his hands around your waist.

Makes even the sweatiest (see #3), drunkest (see #4), tattoo-free (see #1) girl feel special.

9. Standards.
As I discovered when I backpacked across Europe nearly 10 years ago, when you're hot, tired and need a rest, you'll just sit down anywhere.

In total disregard for my outfit, my cleanliness or my safety, I found that on Friday, in the midst of 75,000 people, would just cop a squat wherever my heart desired.

I didn't even lose a hand or get kicked in the head. Now isn't that great?

10. Energy.
There is just something so very special about the energy of Chicago in the summer.

Everyone knows it, everyone feels it, and everyone contributes to it. The crowds are literally humming with the good vibes of great weather, and smiles grace everyone's faces. This could have something to do with the $5 beers (see #4), but I'll go with a more positive spin.

I'm guessing this is why Lollapalooza isn't hosted in January? Oh, that and the threat of frostbite, but I'm going with the increased summertime energy.

11. Skyline.
Not that I needed convincing, but now I'm literally sold all-in on the fact that the Chicago skyline is the best in the country.

Lit up at night, sparkling through the light clouds, the skyline makes you feel small enough to respect the city, and big enough to feel a part of it all.

I do wonder, though, are those cleaning crews leaving all the lights on, or do people in a big city really work that much?

12. Mob.
No, not the mob that Chicago used to be known for, this observation is less Italian, less black-leather-jacket-wearing and doesn't drive a Cadillac.

This mob is the one that will follow each other into any line, for any reason, without question. Oh, a line? Great, I'm in. What am I waiting for? Who knows—these people were all doing it! I'm standing here and maybe when I get to the front of it, I'll figure out what it is for.

Even when the signs hanging above their heads indicated otherwise, people will stand in the wrong line only to feign ignorance (or annoyance at their own stupidity) after the service person indicates they're in the wrong place.

But, that guy was doing it!?!

13. Hydration.
It does help the headache the next day if you actually drink something other than beer (see #4) during the day while you sweat to death (see #3).

I did it, and survived. My mother, and my internist, would be so proud.

Though, when the beer kicks in and the crowd surges in unison (see #12), the water bottles (empty or full) don't feel good if they clock you in the head.

14. Outtage.
For AT&T to have been a major title sponsor of the event, their service coverage was atrocious.

Not a good brand experience to be standing UNDER the AT&T sign while receiving or sending text messages to friends only to realize that they are arriving over an hour delayed.

Yeah, that doesn't really help the "let's meet here at X time" texts get through. Note to AT&T: GET MORE COVERAGE.

15. Movement.
This one is obvious. When you see 75,000 people leaving an event all together, it looks like an ocean rippling with a stiff breeze.

See the above photo—that probably is only half of those in attendance, and if they were all walking toward you, you'd agree. Gives crowd surfing a whole new meaning for me.

16. Exit.
I'm not a urban engineer, an event host or a city official, but this one seems pretty clear to me.

Maybe if you are in charge of an event where that many people are expected, and you know that the final show will conclude at approximately 10:30 pm, and you know that every single person out of the 75,000 that attended will be leaving all at once, it would be a good idea to have more than ONE exit?

I'm fairly sure the shrubbery that I mounted and climbed over (along with 15,000 of my closest friends) will never look the same. And, the National Fence company fencing? Yeah, not so hard to get around.

17. Polite.
When passing through a crowd, it is pretty incredible how far a little politeness goes.

Slam through the crowd with no regard to people's feelings, or feet, and you're likely to get stonewalled.

Gently nudge, needle, slide and dance your way through, while distributing a fair amount of "I'm sorry" and "Excuse me" and you're likely to see the seas part like Moses was behind you.

18. Fireworks.
Even though I've had the distinct privilege of seeing fireworks no less than 10 times this summer, over Chicago's lakefront and Michigan's beaches, I still get a little tingly every time.

The outburst during the Radiohead set, over the water to the southeast side of the stage, just reinforced what was already an explosive show. Thanks, Chicago, again.

19. Mirrors.
I know I'm getting older. Pretty aware that I have had a few birthdays to confirm the fact. I know I'm not 16, or 18, or even 21 anymore. I just forget it until I'm in a crowd, faced with 16-, 18- and 21-year olds.

As much as I'd like to pretend, it just isn't the case, and I just don't look that young anymore. Mirrors try to prove to me what I suspect is true, but it isn't until I'm standing in a sea of high school or college-aged kids that it really hits me.

However, I bought my beer legally, am not going home to the suburbs to Mom's house and won't have any homework due this fall.

20. Advantage.
As you may have read, I am tall.

And, boy, doesn't it come in handy. Not only can I see the stage when most people are staring at aforementioned tattooed necks, I'm also the one that people can spot in a crowd.

Sure makes that whole concert experience more enjoyable. And I can breathe better, too.

##

That's it. My top 20 observations from inside a crowd of 75,000.

Are you sorry you missed it? Or glad you did?

Bad Luck o' the Irish

Last night, I walked in my front door at about 9 pm and heard dripping. Heavy dripping.

I wander around, ears perked, silently creeping, trying to find the source of the sound. I walk near the radiator (which is handsomely covered by a casing and hardwood at the floor) and hear what sounds like Niagra Falls.

Hm.

I grab a flashlight, stick it into the radiator cover and check out the situation. No water. That I can see at least.

Then I begin to traipse through the rest of the unit, holding out the flashlight, looking high and low.

Oh, high.

There I see this:


A huge water bubble behind the paint in my living room. And, water spots on the ceiling. And, a continuous flow of water coming down the wall.

OH, goodie. On both sides - in the living room AND the kitchen. Here's the kitchen wall beside the fridge with the peeling green paint and water pooling below my fridge:


The hardwood floor was warping already, and discoloring, and just laying there in a flood. The carpet is soaked, even though it only looks like one spot was wet. That just happens to be where I stepped on it to test it. It squirted up to my knees. It is soaked:


I called the emergency maintenance in my building, and within 10 minutes they were up there, agreeing with me and my assessment of the damage (aka "this sucks!"), and went upstairs to the condo above me that was under construction.

They came back down to tell me that the unit was being renovated, they'd just put down hardwoods, and the painters had left the hot water valve on, so it was flooded. UGH.

My damage is bad, but they've already contacted me and are claiming it on their insurance. Incidentally, they are from Ireland, are contractors, and are renovating the unit for their friends who still live in Ireland.

How's that for luck o' the Irish?? The poor thing answered the phone in her Celtic brogue and I empathized with her, and she offered to do whatever it took to make me happy this weekend even before the insurance company assessor could come check out the damage.

Uhm, how 'bout a bottle of vino, a pan of brownies and a massage?

No?

Ok. Then I'll settle for fixing the floors/ceiling/walls and maybe, just maybe, new carpet?

Ironically, one of the bloggers I read each day posted a story today about an almost exact incident happening to her last night. I commented, sending her good karma.

I sure hope that karma is riding a boomerang.

Keeping the Faith

For whatever reason, I don't feel like writing about commuting, or Chicagoans, or even about the weather today. I am heading to Lollapalooza later, and I'm sure that at least one story will arise from the sea of sweaty music fans congregating down in Grant Park to hear Radiohead tonight. Stay tuned for those on Monday. Pun entirely intended, Jenny.

For now, though, I have a more serious (or personal?) topic to write about. It's been on my mind, and I'm now dumping it out on the table, for all of you to read. Or not. If not, see you Monday when the times are lighter and the posts are funnier. I hope!

Faith is a much discussed, oft debated issue. Especially in election times, the subject of faith is on the evening news, embedded into people's thoughts and often drifts into everyday chatter.

I do not plan to discuss, debate or criticize religion here, or even express my current religious views, relative to politics or otherwise. This isn't that kind of post, and frankly, I'm not that kind of writer.

The subject of faith, for me, is less religious, and more a recognition of the intangibles in life. Those things that we trust, even though we can't see, hear, touch or taste. Those things we just know.

My question is this though: why do we call it a 'leap of faith?' Isn't it really more gradual than that? You grow into it, just as you may grow into a manner of self-confidence, and it grows bigger and deeper and wider the more you languish in it?

I know that the phrase means that you leap, with faith, but really, it has always seem so jolting, and scary, for me. A leap off a cliff comes to mind. Not a pleasant image.

No, for me, faith—and the gradual acceptance of all that we cannot see—grows with time. Warms like a cozy fire, comforts like a bubble bath, seeps in like happiness. Often, the changes and comfort with the notion of faith are subtle and they appear only as we mature.

Faith can be a trust in what is supposed to be—knowing that things will work out the way they should, if you let them. Faith can be a deep-seeded knowledge that you're making the right decision and the confidence to move forward not looking back. Faith can be a gentle nodding, acknowledging the changes in life that make us who we are. Faith can be allowing those who know and love you to be a guide. Faith can be a recognition that we can't change everything, or anyone, and that is okay. Faith can be a gentle nudge that pushes you to try something new, giving up on old insecurities or fears that have kept you from growing.

Defined as such, faith is a big part of who I am. From a spiritual perspective, faith has meant that even when I can't define something, or explain it, I trust and have faith that it is real. When a friend struggled to understand faith as a teenager, I asked the priest to help me help her. His explanation was simple.

"Faith is something that you believe in, and know is true, even though you can't prove it. Ask you friend if she loves her mother," he said, "and when she says yes, ask her to prove it. When she can't, tell her that is faith. Believing with your whole heart that something is real, despite the lack of scientific proof, evidence, or even simple appearances. That, my dear, is faith."

I have faith that he knew what he was talking about, and still rely on that definition today.

When a friendship feels changed, and you're not sure that things will be the same, and that time or circumstances or distance has created a crevice in the friendship that feels to large to surmount, to deep to cross, to painful to admit, I have faith that the friendship will heal if it is meant to be.

When a career feels uncertain, and you're not sure if the good that has been will continue to be, I have faith that the decisions I've made have led me to here and that much I can trust and count on, and that I can't always understand why things happen, but I have to admit that on the other side of these obstacles will be something greater than where I am now.

When a relationship feels unsteady, and fear is getting the best of you as you plunge headfirst into a state of general vulnerability, I have faith that what will be will be, and that we'll survive. I have faith that instincts are there for a reason, and that a good feeling in your gut sometimes is enough reason to go on. I have faith in the fact that I am worth loving and that what I can offer to another person is something they should treasure and value, even if it is scary at the time.

I have faith that things happen for a reason, and often those reasons aren't revealed to us until much later. Only then does the light of recognition shine, and we nod silently and think, "Oh, yes. That explains it all."

I have faith that people come into your life, for a short period or for a lifetime, with a purpose. We learn new things, experience highs and lows, and often, we have to decide to let that person go and live with the memories and the joys of growing stronger for having known them.

Having grown up in the Catholic Church, faith meant believing in God, living a good life with good works, and being a person that trusted God's will, and lived a life that He would be proud of. Faith also meant believing in things that seemed too unlikely to be true, miracles or stories or historically based events that meant something and had application today.

But, faith's very definition can be shaken up and revealed to us in a more practical manner.

After college, I went on a trip with two girls to Europe, and we had a ball visiting all of the churches, museums, monuments, parks, pubs, hotels and hostels we could find. One incident stands out in my mind, and to me, is the definition of faith.

We were in Rome, and it was a hot July day. Steamy and damp, the air was nearly strangling us as we waited to enter St. Peter's Basilica. Having been on the road for a month or so, I was missing my family and feeling the faint stirrings of homesickness. I needed a few moments to myself—as much as I loved traveling with these two special friends, I knew I could use some quiet "me" time there in that sacred church.

I stepped off to the side, into one of the smaller chapels, and glanced around, only to notice that there were hardly any tourists in this area. Needing some privacy for my quiet time, I chose a pew that was empty, and clear of anyone in front, to the side, or behind me. I crossed myself and knelt onto the fabric kneeler. At first, I just allowed myself to enjoy the cool air, the darkness and the damp, quiet space.

As was my habit, I quietly bowed my head with closed eyes and placed my hands folded in front of me, with elbows resting on the cold wooden pew in front of me. I asked God to clear my mind, to allow me to be "with myself' there in that place. I must've said a few quiet prayers for safe travels, my family and other personal requests for blessings. I remember distinctly then asking God to be with me. To come to me, and to be with me.

It was at that moment that I felt someone kneel right next to me. The bench cushion dipped to my right, and I felt the warmth and the weight of another person as they entered into their prayer moment. Frankly, I was surprised they'd chosen to sit so close to me, and a little annoyed that now my thoughts were on their proximity, rather than on my prayers. Ever the easily distracted, I managed to keep my eyes closed, but was still supremely aware of this person next to me, just to my right.

I finished up, crossed myself, and slowly opened my eyes.

There was no one sitting next to me.

I couldn't believe it. I blinked a few times, looked around me, and just stared at the empty pew, the blank cushion, and the bare kneeler.

Not a soul.

At that moment, I was covered in goosebumps and realized that God had answered my faithful prayers. He was with me, and would stay with me and protect me and my friends as we traveled on through Europe, and likely, throughout my life.

Tears filled my eyes, and poured down my face. I couldn't explain it, and I didn't try.

It took me a few hours to get back to my normal self, and my friends allowed me the privacy of that moment. They didn't ask, and at first, I didn't share. Later, as we dined in Rome against a backdrop of such beautiful buildings steeped in history, I told them my story. Embarrassed that they'd think I was being dramatic, I downplayed it as much as I could.

But, that was almost 10 years ago and I can still feel the presence of someone next to me on the pew as readily as I could that hot summer day in Rome.

That, my friends, is how I define faith. A gradual acceptance of those things we can't always understand, explain or prove, but an acknowledgement that sometimes that is okay.

Not a leap at all.

Good is in the Details

As you likely read, I was at a wedding of two close friends this past weekend.

Brett and I made the drive all the way north to Mackinac Island, and settled in (way back in time) to the slower pace of things to enjoy the celebrations. We walked, held hands, ate fudge, rode beach cruiser bikes, laughed at the horses (and avoided their poop!), dipped our toes in the chilly lake, admired the scenery, took photos of the Mackinac Bridge, ate wonderful food and met new people.

The wedding weekend was one of great joy, happiness and a real cause for celebration. As the bride put it in her thank you toast, it was a "fairy tale wedding" and that goes for the guests, too. The view from The Grand Hotel's veranda proved that there is a God, and he may have a partiality for northern Michigan.

But what may have struck me the most about our weekend, and the wedding in specific, was the details. Everyone knows that it is the little things that often make the most lasting impressions, and I must admit that this held true for us in our experience.

The families of the bride and groom had thought of everything. At the groom's dinner the night before the wedding, each guest took home a custom-made, personalized CD of the couple's favorite songs, tied with a purple raffia bow with a little silver charm that says "to love and cherish."

The hotel distributed one of the nicest gift bags, courtesy of the bride and her family, I've ever received at a destination wedding. It held the basic snacks and sweets and a set of travel sized toiletries and slippers for each of us. Slippers! How luxurious.

The canvas tote bag and a pair of monogrammed plastic glasses featured the wedding "logo." As a specialist in branding, it was a pleasure to note that the "brand" for the wedding was carried out consistently, and integrated across all medium. Including the multi-page "magazine" that the bride put together that highlighted fun things to do on the Island, dinner/lunch recommendations and a story of the couple—how they'd met, the proposal, and why they chose Mackinac Island for the setting of their big day. It was a lot of work, clearly, but it is these types of details that make a guest feel welcomed.

I was given a stunning bouquet of fuschia roses with green decorations as a thank-you for participating in the ceremony as a reader. The reading, which I published last week, brought many in the church to tears, and the bride's proud smile up at me from the altar while I pronounced each word with care, was worth all the nerves I had that day.

The guests rang little white cowbells, after basking in the mid-day sun with a flute of sparkling pink lemonade, to usher the newlyweds into their carriage.

Gifts, little things and thoughtful touches didn't stop there.

The reception tables were identified with art from a local artist each with a specific Island scene—the fort, the bridge, the Grand Hotel, etc.—and each guest was given a mini-version to match with their table. Each place setting boasted a Lenox silver butler's tray and a silk fan for the heat. When we departed the reception, each guest was handed a bag with the wedding logo in order to cart out the goodies, which now included a ribbon-tied box of J&J candies and cigars for the men. So local, so thoughtful and so fun.

Saturday night's cocktail party was a "make your own" ice cream sundae bar, and the favor that evening (as if we needed any more gifts!) was a sterling silver ice cream scooper. How delicious!

The long and short of it is this—the details truly impressed upon the guests that the families had considered our every need, want and desire—and were thrilled to honor us with the thoughtful little things. These touches may not be the things I remember in 20 years and I think back to the wedding, but they made an impact.

The little things I will likely remember are many...

I will remember the rays of sun alighting on the bride's sparkling pearls as she grinned her signature ear-to-ear smile and shifted her veil from her face.

I will remember the delightful breeze on the veranda as it graced the tables of friends and family, tousling the ladies' summer dresses and lifting the men's silk ties.

I will remember their first dance—slow, easy and deliberate—accompanied by a friend playing "Your Song" on the piano.

I will remember the choked up, heartfelt toast of love and gratitude that the bride's sister gave to a teary crowd.

I will remember the way Brett looked in his suit—shiny, proud and handsome—and the way it felt to walk through the weekend with him on my arm.

I will remember the way the groom looked down at his bride, and grinned, as if he knew a secret that we weren't in on, and wasn't going to share.

Good is in those types of details.

Break Down

It must be the heat.

CTA buses are breaking down everywhere. I was on not one, but TWO that broke down in ONE 25-minute commute home last week. It is quite an ordeal to chase down the next one, convince the driver you already paid the fare once, and find a new seat on the recovered bus. And, then the second bus repeats the first's breakdown, and the process starts all over.

But, seriously, they're everywhere. Go three blocks down Michigan Avenue, Lake Shore Drive or any other main thoroughfare, and you'll inevitably see one, pulled over, hazard lights flashing, and all passengers off the bus.

The telltale sign of a breakdown is the back flap open in the rear showing the mechanical innards to all passersby.

Maybe I'm too empathetic to these public transit monsters, but whenever I see one of the buses with its engine flap open, it makes me sad.

It feels like I am spying on a surgery and the doctor has stepped away from the table momentarily, and the patient, knocked out and with a gown stretched open, is on display without shame or modesty.

Or maybe I watch too much Grey's Anatomy?

Tuesday Morning Cartoons

Sometimes it doesn't take much to get me to giggle. Take this morning, for instance.

As the bus pulled up, I anticipated the usual monotone, computerized voice to tell me what route I was boarding. Instead, I was treated to a case of the cartoon voice in a garbled, Chipmunks high-speed, high-pitched delivery. You couldn't even make out one word.

I laughed out loud. The bus driver just smiled, shook his head and said, "I'm driving the Looney Toons bus today."

Then, I tried to pass my ChicagoCard in front of the card reader to pay my fare, and the bus driver chimed in again, "It's broken. Free ride on the Looney Toons express, honey." Score!

So, I giggled again and sat down.

The best part was when the automated, computerized messages came on every block or so. The entire bus broke into laughter as the Chipmunks on crack delivered some standard message about being polite while using your cell phone, or exiting through the rear of the bus. It is nice to hear a large group of usually quiet, grumpy and introverted commuters giggling in a symphony of pleasant noises. Rare, and nice.

It was a great way to start the day.

I only wish I had audio recorded the message so you could all bear witness, and get a free laugh outta me.

Next time, I promise. That's all folks!

Three Simple Words

Little Stone Church, Mackinac Island, Michigan. Photo by Robert Jerstrom.
As you may already know, today is Jill and Josh's wedding day. We are on Mackinac Island, and don't worry, I pre-wrote and pre-published this post. I'm not holed up in a hotel somewhere in the Upper Peninsula writing this...I plan ahead.

When they asked me to be a part of their wedding, I immediately knew that a toast would be involved. I’m a tad of a sap and therefore knew I needed to put it down on paper for fear of getting too emotional and forgetting all the nice things I wanted to say.

But, when it came time to actually write the words to express my congratulations for the happy couple, I realized it was simple.

It all comes down to just three words.

Three words that change as our lives do, three words with varying meanings, three words that grow and bloom as we mature, three words that will last forever, from this day forward.

In the beginning, it was “Hi, I’m Jill.” as we formed a friendship that would last for a lifetime.


After our introductory two years in Chicago, it was “Let’s move again.” as we continued on as roommates and ‘better halves’ for five years.



Not long after, it was “I met someone!” as Jill celebrated the joys of a new romance.


Proudly, Jill announced, “This is Josh.” as he moved to Chicago and became a part of the life we’d formed in the city.


Then it was, “I love him.” as things with Josh got more serious, and their relationship grew into something special.


Last July, it was “We’re getting married!” as the promise, and the ring, sparkled in the sunshine and they took the first steps towards becoming husband and wife.


Put simply, three words to describe Jill are kind, spirited and thoughtful. The same can be said about Josh, and I gladly hand over my better half to him.

(To be fair, though, I’d probably have to admit she’s really only my ‘better one third’ because of our significant differences in height).

Jill and Josh, I toast the beginning of your life together with three more words:

Congratulations, my friends.

The Art of a Good Marriage

At this very moment, as you are reading this, I am in driving up to Mackinac Island, Michigan to attend the wedding festivities of my two dear friends Jill and Josh.

I have been asked to be a reader at their ceremony, which is being held tomorrow morning at 11 am in The Little Stone Church on the island. They have made many great non-traditional choices for their wedding, all of which make it totally and uniquely theirs. Very special, I think.

One of those great choices that "breaks the rules" a bit is the addition of a reading from somewhere other than the Bible. The text of this reading is below, and it is really good advice.

I can almost hear my grandparents telling me this stuff from their point of view, about marriage in general, from the experience of those who lasted a long, long time. The exact story is blurry in my memory, but I do know that my grandparents met at an military dance in Iowa in their early 20s, and ran off to elope in Cheyenne, Wyoming a VERY short time later. Like a month or something wild. Clearly they took a risk on love, but it worked.

My grandparents, on my parents' wedding day, 1973
My Gramps is in heaven now, and enjoyed many long and happy years of marriage. I'm pretty sure that he's up there hoping that I make these choices for myself when I get married someday.

---
The Art Of A Good Marriage
Wilferd Arlan Peterson

Happiness in marriage is not something that just happens.

A good marriage must be created.

In marriage the little things are the big things.

It is never being too old to hold hands.

It is remembering to say "I love you" at least once a day.

It is never going to sleep angry.

It is at no time taking the other for granted; the courtship should not end with the honeymoon, it should continue through the years.

It is having a mutual sense of values and common objectives.

It is standing together facing the world.

It is forming a circle of love that gathers the whole family.

It is doing things for each other, not in the attitude of duty or sacrifice, but in the spirit of joy.

It is speaking words of appreciation and demonstrating gratitude in thoughtful ways.

It is not looking for perfection in each other.

It is cultivating flexibility, patience, understanding and a sense of humor.

It is having the capacity to forgive and forget.

It is giving each other an atmosphere in which each can grow old.

It is a common search for the good and the beautiful.

It is establishing a relationship in which the independence is equal, dependence is mutual and the obligation is reciprocal.

It is not only marrying the right partner, it is being the right partner.
---

Isn't that beautiful?

On this day, and from this day forward, I wish these things for my friends.

Not just those getting married this weekend, but those who have already made this commitment and celebrated this day. I will pray that they embody these sentiments each day of their marriage. And, as their friend and witness, I will do everything I can, when called upon to do so, to be a positive influence and assistant to making these very things come true.

Because, to borrow a phrase, that is the art of a good friendship.

I'm Afraid it is True

Hold onto your hats people, because this is big news.

Are you ready?

You sure?

I'm not feeling it...you positive?

Here goes.

I have nothing to say.

Literally. The day is crawling, as was yesterday (the poem was the best I could do to express how slowly) and I have no stories, no anecdotes, no commentaries, no shares.

NADA.

So, you'll have to wait until tomorrow. Until then, could someone please wake me up when it is 5 pm?

That'd be great, thanks.