Week 7 on the bookfield is just drawing to a close. I apologize to my lovely readers for not updating this sooner—didn’t quite reckon on the summer being as hectic as it has been. But when I say hectic, I mean that in a completely positive way. Of course.

This summer has been a whirlwind of interesting scenarios, hilarious moments, memorable conversations, and new life lessons. I thought I’d learned a lot after my first summer on the bookfield, but I’ve since discovered that you learn infinitely more your second year on the field.

We rolled into Hickory, North Carolina seven weeks ago—four girls from four different states, with 24 hours to find a place to stay before we started our 12 week summer going to door-to-door. I love sales! And honestly, this summer, I have truly loved being a bookwoman.

Initially, I was planning to post an update on here every week so my poor fambly back home would have some idea of what life on the field looks like. However, between leading a team this year, and working more hours than I did last summer, there hasn’t been a lot of spare time for extras like blogging.

But today, I just wanted to put up a quick little blurb to let you all know that I’m still inhabiting the planet. Woohoo!

There have been so many laughable moments in the past few weeks…my goodness. I wish I had time to share them all.

One of my favorites happened this past week…I had knocked on a door not knowing anything about the family who lived there. When the lady of the house answered my summons, she had a huge smile on her face…and a parrot perched on her shoulder.

Maybe it was the retarded blinking of the parrot, or the fact that it seemed a little out of place—but I started laughing really hard. Which was apparently odd. So the lady of the house started laughing too. And the bird got very excited, and began in her squawky voice to say, “Hello, Sunshine!” Which really made the whole situation more laughable.

I discovered that the bird’s name is Sunshine. Throughout the entire demo, as I showed Bird Woman my books, the bird sat above us on the porch swing, and every time we got to an exciting part of the demo, she would lean over and squawk and tell us her name, or bid us hello (I confess, I was sometimes a little worried lest in her excitement, she might poop on us…but she didn’t. Happy day!)

Ah, I love my job. Never a boring day…

Only five more weeks until the end of the summer—I can’t believe how quickly the time is going. But 75-80 hour work weeks leave little time for reflection. Maybe at the end of the summer. :-)

One day this past week, after coming home from a long day at school, I was greeted at the door by a sunny little face with sparkling brown eyes and tiny pink lips that were turned up at the corners to form a beautiful little smile.

It was my landlord’s wee granddaughter, Isabelle, and apparently her family had dropped her off to spend the day with her grandparents. Well, and me, by default.

I had forgotten what it’s like to be a four years old girl, and to have the attention of a college student all to yourself. I’d never quite imagined what it would feel like to BE that college student, either.

We sat beside the kitchen table talking like grownups for a good while. Well, not entirely like grownups. Isabelle expresses her affection through touch, and her cute little sticky hands were always attached to some part of my person as we talked…until finally I began to catch on that what this constant touching was really communicating was, in fact, her need to be touched. So we started an on-going tickle fight that went on sporadically for most of the afternoon.

She was beside herself with delight when I told her that I was going to make tea, and asked her if she wanted to try some.

“Oh!” she gushed, “Ith it like the tea they have at McDonaldth? I jutht LOVE that!” (I love her lisp!)

“It’s a little different,” I said, “because this is hot, and it’s made with a tea bag…so it’s not sweet like that.”

She looked a little dubious at that point, so I told her I’d let her smell it before she tried it.

When I set the cup in front of her a few minutes later, she looked more doubtful still.

“It smellth thpicy,” she said, “and I really don’t like thpicy.”

“Well, I’ll just put a tiny bit into a cup, then, in case you don’t really like it,” I told her.

She stood there watching me with her head cocked to one side quizzically. I was trying not to laugh as I watched her take that first sip.

I really half expected her to spit it back into the cup or something—she’d been so sure that spicy was not her thing. But I think the fact that I was drinking it and apparently enjoying it might have influenced her reaction a little.

Slowly but surely, an awe-filled, rapturous expression spread across her face.

“My goodneth!” she lisped in her little four-year-old voice, “thith ith AMATHING!”

So we sat, and drank tea, and talked about her life. She asked me if I backwash when I drink tea. I told her I didn’t think so…but she thought she should probably look in my teacup to make sure, so I let her.

And then we put her hair in frenchbraids, and she asked if I wanted to play dress-up with her.

“And then after we get all drethed up, we can danthe for Grandpa! And he will pwobably say that we’re beautiful, and that he LOVES it!”

I just smiled, and thought to myself that if I dressed up and danced around in the living room for her grandfather, he would probably just think it was frightening and wonder if I had lost my mind. But I nodded enthusiastically, and told her that she was beautiful all the time, even when she wasn’t in dress-up clothes.

Her comment was striking to me, though: “he will probably say that we’re beautiful…and that he loves it!” I marveled to myself at how early this desire begins in the little feminine heart—the desire to be beautiful, the yearning to be admired, to be cherished, to be loved and treasured…to be thought exquisite, and unique, and desirable.

Oh, how fragile a thing is the heart of a child! How easily these little dreams are crushed.

As I finished plaiting little Isabelle’s hair and sent her off to be admired by her grandparents, I found myself silently resolving to do a better job of protecting the dreams of those I know…whether it’s a four-year-old who dreams of being someone’s princess, or a college student who dreams of becoming a missionary.

Because dreams are one of the things which make an ordinary existence both magical and extraordinary.

It is a beautiful thing when we find others who have spoken beautifully and poignantly to the pain which is a part of human existence--sometimes putting into words things which we ourselves find beyond our ability to articulate. Such was my feeling when I stumbled across a number of quotes by Khalil Gibran this afternoon. And while I may not agree with his doctrine, I admire the artistic skill with which he weaves his words together.

I've been thinking much this week about transitions--about learning to love, and learning to let go...about learning to embrace the seasons of life with enthusiasm, but to let them go without resentment, although inevitably, it will not be without a sense of loss.

Gibran said a number of things that I found thought-provoking, especially in light of certain recent situations.

"Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars."

"When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight."

"It takes a minute to have a crush on someone, an hour to like someone, and a day to love someone... but it takes a lifetime to forget someone."

"I have learned silence from the talkative, tolerance from the intolerant, and kindness from the unkind. I should not be ungrateful to these teachers."

Some days, when I go to the hospital to do yet another clinical rotation, I’m overwhelmed by the tremendous privilege that this is to be able to spend time with people who are hurting, sick, broken, and sometimes dying—to have the freedom to help mend those broken bodies, to have the time to talk with patients about their fears, to have the opportunity to speak hope and pour love into souls that are wounded and searching—this is an amazing thing to me...and an incredibly beautiful opportunity.

But sometimes, when you go into a situation expecting to minister, to pour out, to give, to build up, and to be spent, you find that in an uncanny way, the one who is actually ministered to is yourself.

Last Monday was that kind of a day.

The elderly patient that I was caring for was a former Navy corpsman. In his day, he was a man who commanded respect—when he spoke, men listened, and things happened.

But now, he’s a pitiful heap of bones with skin stretched tightly over top. His frail body is home to an equally fragile mind, a mind which wanders over many places, although none of these places relate to his current reality. His withered body is wracked by disease and spent by the years. He is dying.

Somehow knowing that someone is dying does not always prepare you for the reality of the death process, however.

As I stood in his room, watching his claw-like hands grasp at imaginary intruders at the head of his bed, I was struck deeply by the fact that someday, it’ll be my father in that bed…and then someday…it’ll be me.

How often we forget how brief our stint on this planet really is, I thought, taking the hand of the confused old man in my own and stroking his arm gently.

His tired, sunken eyes met mine, and a beautiful smile lit up his face for a brief second. It was like the sun bursting through clouds after a storm, and I had to choke back the lump in my throat.

His son came later to spend the day with his dad.

Sometimes, as a nursing student, it’s a little bit intimidating to have the family of the patient in the room when you’re providing care, but this time was different.

The son was a soft-spoken, gentle, middle-aged man with kind grey eyes that twinkled out from a friendly round face.

It was a pretty quiet day on the floor, so I spent most of my time just standing in my patient’s room, sometimes holding his hand if he got restless, or fetching things if he needed them.

The ancient Navy corpsman was delirious, and unaware of his surroundings, but he recognized his son’s face. Watching the two of them interact was an incredible thing.

The elderly father was very hard of hearing, and all of the nurses yelled in order to make themselves heard when they were in his presence.

But the son never yelled. Instead, he would lean over the bed, cradling his dad’s head in his arm as he spoke directly into the old man’s ear in a low, calm voice. For hours, he would stand beside the bed, one hand gently placed on his father’s wrinkled head, listening to his dad talk incoherently about myriads of different things from the son’s childhood.

Every once in a while, the son would turn to me, grinning slightly, and share a story from when he was little—things he remembered about his dad.

“He was an incredible man,” he murmured once, gazing fondly at the gaunt face on the pillow, “and there was nothing he couldn’t do.”

The old man opened his eyes slowly, looking around with a confused expression.

The son sat down on the bed beside his father, placing one arm gently around the old man’s shoulders.

“Dad, it’s me,” he said, leaning in close so his father could hear him, “I’m here. It’s ok. Just rest…I’m not leaving.”

He stayed there, seated on the bed, his hand placed tenderly but firmly on his father’s forehead.

The tears welled up in my eyes as I watched. I thought of the many years during which this father was there for his son…the hundreds of times when he came alongside and put his arm around his son and assured him that everything was ok…because he was there…because he wasn’t leaving.

And now the father and son had traded places…and it was the younger with his arm around the elder, assuring him that everything was going to be alright…because he was there…and because he wasn’t leaving…because he understood the importance of being there to help his father die…because he understood that goodbye is something that you say with your actions, with your time, with your touch…not a few words that you mutter as you pause in front of the casket at a funeral.

It was a heart-wrenchingly beautiful thing to watch.

I wish that more children understood this version of love. I wish that more of us understood the importance of giving of ourselves—of giving back, of being available…even if it means just being there to hold someone’s hand as they die.

Because sometimes...it's the little moments that nobody will ever really know about that truly matter the most. And some of the sweetest lessons in life come through giving to those who can't say thank you.

Today, as I was preparing lunch for the elderly couple with whom I live, a couple of the grandchildren stopped in. Being delightfully inquisitive little people with quick minds, they all congregated in the kitchen to supervise as I worked and share tidbits about their aspirations for the future. There are three children: Marissa is 11, Caleb is 8, and Isabelle is 4.

Isabelle, who is a charming little girl with big brown eyes and soft brown ringlets (which she finds keenly annoying due to the fact that they insist on falling into her eyes) was animatedly telling me about where she and her siblings are going to live "when they all grow up."

“Yes,” she said, nodding enthusiastically, “we’re going to have a big mansion, because Caleb and Marissa are going to make lots of money. Because they’re not going to get married. They’re just going to make money.”

Marissa nodded. My curiosity was piqued.

“So you’re the only one that’s going to get married, Isabelle?” I asked absently, dropping diced potatoes into a pot on the stove.

“Yes,” she said emphatically, “and you know why? It’s because Caleb and Marissa don’t like kissing on the lips.”

I had to try really hard not to laugh.

“Oh,” I said, “they don’t like kissing on the lips?”

“Yeah!” Isabelle’s face was oh-so-serious.

“What if they just didn’t kiss on the lips? They could get married then, right?”

Isabelle’s lips pursed as she pondered this. Finally, her face brightened, and I could see that her keen little mind had hit on something brilliant.

“Oh!” she said energetically, “I know! They could just kiss on the cheek! Or maybe the forehead. Or just the head.”

“Or they could blow kisses,” I said, shrugging, still trying really hard not to laugh.

“Yeah!” Isabelle was getting more and more excited.

“Plus,” I said thoughtfully, “Marissa might change her mind about kissing once she gets to be about 18 or 19.”

“No,” Isabelle shook her head decidedly. She was quite sure this would never happen. Marissa didn’t say anything.

“So you’re all going to live in the same house?” I asked.

“Yeah…and you…you can live with us too! We’re going to have a big house, with a huge, huge deck—bigger than Annie and Mark’s deck.” I nodded knowingly, although I have no idea who Annie and Mark are, nor how big their deck is.

“And we’ll have a pool!” Isabelle continued, “And a room for the boys, and a room for the girls. And I’m going to have lots of kids.”

“So you and Marissa and all of the girls are going to stay in one room, and your husband and Caleb and all of your boys will stay in the other room?”

She nodded.

“And we can build a separate room for you!” she squealed excitedly.

My goodness! What a tempting offer. I may have to seriously consider this option...in about 20 years.