from the mouths of third graders

I actually made it to my Sunday school class yesterday. I told the third graders that they had to be extra nice to me because I was very tired from traveling home from New Zealand and that I had been in an earthquake.

"An earthquake!" was their initial response, but then they were more interested in sharing their own stories of calamity:

"You know, a tree fell down in my neighbor's yard and there is police tape everywhere."

"The McDonalds near my cousin's house caught on fire!"

I found it quite refreshing.

They could tell that I was not well-prepared for class, and peppered me with questions like a bunch of hungry sharks circling a lifeboat:

"If Jesus rose from the dead, was he then, like, a zombie?"

"If Jesus had Joseph as his father on earth and God as his father in heaven, then who was his other mother?"

"If God made the world, then who made God?"

"Joseph was a carpenter? We have a carpenter who comes to our house and when he bends over, you can see his . . ."

(I ended that story right quick.)

Blessed and lucky

By lunchtime on Thursday, I was on a flight headed out of Christchurch. I'm not embarrassed to say that I clutched my boarding pass like a winning lottery ticket. I was tired, both physically and emotionally.

Once on board the aircraft, I tapped my foot impatiently, willing the other passengers to just hurry up already. A speedy departure, however, was not in order.

Just as the plane began to taxi to the runway, there arose a sudden commotion two rows in front of me. An elderly lady had slumped over in her seat and stopped breathing. The cabin crew sprang into action, with an oxygen bottle and encouraging words, "Keep breathing, nice big breaths, there's a good girl."

I really thought I was going to completely lose it at that point.

The plane rolled back to the gate and the paramedics took the poor woman away in a stretcher. I'll never know whether she was simply overcome by the events of the previous days or if something more serious had taken place. I pray she is recovering in a hospital in Christchurch.

The flight to Auckland was almost an hour long but it seemed like years. I was a bit wobbly when I disembarked, but ever so happy to meet up with my colleagues there. I was spoiled utterly and completely--whisked away to fill out the paperwork for a new passport--shepherded to buy new clothes and toiletries--and then after a blissful shower, installed on a sunny couch where I proceeded to take a three hour nap.

I may have been their quietest house guest ever. I woke up around 8 pm, chatted with my hosts and ate dinner, and was back upstairs and in bed before 9 pm.

The next day was easy. I took a long walk through downtown Auckland and felt some of my bottled up tension subside.

The flight back to the U.S. was brutally long, but the prospect of seeing my family made it bearable. Thirty minutes before landing in Washington, D.C., however, the pilot came in over the intercom and announced that there were 60 mph headwinds on the ground and that the flight attendants had to take their seats immediately.

The strong gusts of wind rocked the plane. We began our descent, only to suddenly head back up into the air. We circled the airport. Once. Twice. I was certain that were were going to divert to Baltimore or Philadelphia. The pilot finally made up his mind to go for the landing. The plane rocked from side to side. One wing tilted up, then the other wing. We landed in the same way a leaf falls from a tree to the ground.

I have seen far too many History Channel programs and knew that a sudden, ill-timed gust of wind has the potential to make an airplane crash. And after making it safely out of Christchurch, I really didn't want to die.

I prayed. I think a lot of people on the airplane played. We landed safely.

Since my return home I have been glorying in the mundane: braiding my daughter's hair, scrubbing the toothpaste stains off of the sink, singing in church, spending time with my family.

While I know my memories of the past week will fade, I hope I can hold on to this new-found feeling of gratitude. I am just so happy to be home.

Christchurch Earthquake

Preface: I am enormously lucky to have survived the earthquake in New Zealand. There are many people who did not. Scores of mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, and friends are mourning loved ones who they will never see again. Countless homes have been destroyed. Please keep the people of New Zealand in your prayers.

Disclaimer: The opinions expressed here are personal and not professional in nature and are not representative of the opinions or policy of the United States government.

Up until the point the earthquake struck, the day had been going to plan.

On February 22, the U.S.-NZ Partnership Forum, was taking place at AMI stadium in Christchurch, NZ. Gathered for the occasion were numerous foreign affairs and government luminaries, including Assistant Secretary of State Kurt Campbell, Former Deputy Secretary of State Richard Armitage and retired senator Evan Bayh. An eight member congressional delegation had departed earlier that morning.

At 12:51 pm I was taking notes in a meeting with representatives from the United States, New Zealand, and Australia and feeling quite pleased with myself because the agenda that I painstakingly hammered out back in Washington was proceeding according to plan.

The meeting was located in one of the stadium's luxury boxes, the room overlooking a flawless green rugby pitch, separated from the stands outside by a floor to ceiling wall of glass.

Suddenly, and without warning, the earthquake struck. The noise was like a freight train. The world seemed to fragment into tiny pieces. I stood up from my chair, took a step backward, fell to the floor, curled into a ball, unable to take shelter under a table that was mere feet away.

Glass was breaking; water was spilling; plaster and dust fell from the ceiling, coating the room in a fine spray of white dust. There was dust in my mouth.

As the world shook, I lay very still. It was as if a pure silence enveloped me completely and I went dead quiet inside. I can only describe the feeling as one of grace.

Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, the violence stopped. We staggered to our feet and surveyed, with disbelief, a room that looked as though it had been through a tumble dryer.

Someone, I believe it a was a member of the stadium staff, urged our group to evacuate out onto the rugby pitch. The once level playing field was wrinkled with bubbles of liquefaction. Water seeped out of the ground, a thick gray silt. Mini geysers spouted. Car sirens blared incessantly.

Then the aftershocks began. The stadium lights, high overhead, shuddered ominously. We evacuated the stadium and onto a grassy area immediately outside. Our group milled about in shock and disbelief, texting and calling family members that had no idea that an earthquake had even taken place. We called the State Department operations center. They opened a crisis log.

It was cold, and I didn't have a jacket. A colleague gave me his. Time slowed down to the space between aftershocks.

After a short while the Embassy's security officer, showed up with his car and a satellite phone. Conferring with his colleagues at the Embassy in Wellington, he calmly planned the evacuation of the delegation, mapping out the safest route to the airport, which fortunately also contained the offices of the U.S. Antarctic Program--an ideal shelter.

Our small group moved to the other side of the stadium to join the rest of the partnership forum delegates, which included a group of 20 American Fulbright students and Kiwi college students.

The New Zealand Visits and Ceremonials office performed heroically, locating food, water, blankets and the bus for our delegation. Miraculously, the bus driver had not abandoned his post and immediately began the slow and hazardous drive to rescue the delegation.

Many in the group were shaken and bruised, but most everyone remained calm. The full implications of what had happened had not sunk in. A colleague would tell me later that a taxi driver outside the stadium during the earthquake had watched in horror as the huge structure bulged outward and then snapped back. Another few seconds of shaking and it seems likely that the facade would have crumbled and I would most likely not be writing this story.

I didn't know how to feel--it was mostly disbelief that a city already rocked by a 7.1 magnitude earthquake in 2010 would have to suffer nature's wrath again.

I stuck close to my Embassy colleagues, hungry for information about what would happen next. Finally the delegation's bus came wobbling down the road, a big boxy promise of deliverance.

At that point, it was as if a switch flipped inside of me, and I realized that I had a choice to make. I could either remain victim to the continuing aftershocks and completely freak out, or else I could choose to work and try to help my embassy colleagues. Since the prospect of having a complete meltdown seemed like it would be quite embarrassing, I decided to work.

We made lists of the present members of the delegation and tried to figure out where the missing might be. Once everyone had boarded the bus, we began the slow journey to the airport. Once there, the New Zealand government again performed heroically, arranging to have the entire delegation evacuated to Wellington. This was exactly the right thing for the Kiwis to do, as it freed up the government to concentrate on crisis response.

Embassy and State Department employees, however, are charged with assisting American citizens abroad. Those of of us with consular and crisis management training knew that we had a responsibility to any remaining Americans in Christchurch. We knew how to help; this was our job. Despite knowing this, and wanting to stay, as the final members of the delegation evacuated late that evening, and violent aftershocks continued, I questioned the decision I had made. As a final indignity, it began to rain.

A small group of us remained: the consul, the embassy's media specialist, a human resources specialist, the embassy's economic officer, the agricultural attache, the security officer and me. We were joined by a New Zealand police liaison officer.

Half of the group drove out in the dark to visit the shelters and crisis centers in the city, the other half of us set off to find a place to sleep in the Antarctic Program offices. By a stroke of good luck, the program had just brought several boxes of sleeping bags up from the ice to be laundered. The fact that they hadn't been washed yet was a small price to pay for comfort.

As we set up the sleeping bags and made plans for the morning, my colleagues returned from their drive into the city, and brought the final remaining member of the delegation, Tim Manning, who also happens to be the deputy administrator for FEMA. Tim, as you might imagine for someone in his position, has extensive crisis management experience. When the earthquake struck, Tim sprang into action, heading into the center of the city with other first responders. To say we were glad to have him on our team would be a severe understatement; Tim truly was heaven-sent.

With all the members of our group accounted for, we bedded down for the night, curled up under desks or against load bearing walls in case the unthinkable happened. I was exhausted, but continually woken by scores of aftershocks throughout the night. It was like sleeping next to a blender, where every few minutes someone would push the power button. I finally gave up sleeping around four am, and set to answering the avalanche of emails that had come in overnight. Everyone on the team had been assigned a job and mine was to provide updates to the embassy and Washington.

By six am, everyone had dragged themselves awake. We were a sight; unwashed, weary, and wearing dirty clothes. Once we had made ourselves reasonably presentable, we set down to prepare a plan of action of the day. Our team deployed to the shelters, gave information to American Citizens who were there, visited the hospitals, helped facilitate Americans onto the "visitor facilitation flights" that were moving tourists out of harms way, assisted with the arrival of a search and rescue team from California, and did our best to track down some of the Americans who had been reported as missing. When we regrouped that evening, we shared chicken curry, our stories, and relief that the aftershocks had diminished.

I want to emphasize that really, in the scope of this tragedy, our team played an infinitesimally small role.

As the extent of the damage and death toll became apparent, our hearts broke for the good people of Christchurch and indeed all of New Zealand.

Despite the horror of what happened, the Kiwis were magnificent. The strength and decency of everyone I encountered after the quake is something I will remember for the rest of my life.

Local business sent their delivery trucks to local shelters and gave all they had to those in need. The military and police stood double shifts in order to help rescue the trapped and restore order. School children wearing yellow plastic "civil defense" smocks passed out cups of water. The New Zealand police liaison officer attached to our team was no exception--he navigated us through the city, provided advice, and cared for us as if we were members of his own family.

In Christchurch's darkest hour, kindness triumphed over adversity. I feel privileged to have witnessed the very best of humanity.

floured up

I am like a mad scientist in my kitchen tonight: refreshing sourdough starters both plain and rye; mixing up the levain for sourdough pain au chocolat (because I am insanely overambitious about what I'll be able to accomplish tomorrow); soaking seeds for the German rye I hope to make.

This afternoon, while the rest of the family was napping, I went to the library, ostensibly to return a stack of Bee's books, but spent an hour holed in in section 640.8, leafing through cookbooks.

After cleaning up the kitchen and putting away my recently arrived King Arthur Flour order I come upstairs and spend the next thirty minutes looking at pictures of cupcakes on Martha Stewart Living website.

The baking bug--I got it bad. But somehow, where my day job entails striving for a series of mini accomplishments inside a much larger organization, baking bread just seems so much more rewarding. Mix it up, hope it rises without any drama, pop it in the oven, and mission accomplished.

Plus, unlike emails, you can eat it.

evening prayer

I had a laugh this afternoon when my daughter scrunched up her eyes and recoiled at the bright sunshine. She was appalled at its audacious intensity. She had forgotten the sun.

Her reaction reminded me of the young Latvian child sitting behind me on a flight from Riga once. The winters in the Baltic are cold and very, very, very, dark. It snows nearly every day in the winter, and as a result, the sky is usually clouded over. (In fact, when I lived in Latvia we were issued "happy lamps," bright fluorescent bulbs meant to simulate sunlight and chase away the winter doldrums.)

The young child gazed out the window as the plane ascended. After several minutes, the plane broke through the cloud cover and flew into the always sunny upper atmosphere. With a voice of pure joy the child turned to her mother and cried, "Saulite!" "The little sun!" She too had forgotten the sun.

There are so many dark places in the world: Dark winters in the Baltics. Dark nights of the soul. The dark hours after a thwarted revolution. Dark hospital rooms.

There are places that remain dark until they are finally pierced by the light of the sun. By the warmth of spring and renewal. By the light of hope. By the eternal glory of everlasting life.

The sunshine today brought a smile to my face and the hope that the weather tomorrow will be fine; that the sick will be well; that the light of grace will shine on, shine on us all.

Amen.

Food. Family.

It's my Dad's birthday today, and not only did I really enjoy having dinner over at my parents' house, but my husband had to eat pot roast.

Poor Dear Husband. For the first ten years of our relationship, he claimed that he hated the very thought of the meal--all those mushy vegetables and stringy beef.

I'm pot roast agnostic, and pretty much happy to eat anything that I don't have to cook in my kitchen.

On the other hand, Dad looooves pot roast, and almost always requests it for his birthday dinner. Plus, he just loves to give my husband a hard time.

My mother makes pot roast in the slow cooker, and covers the meat with a jar of horseradish sauce. Horseradish sounds like a less than ideal condiment, but when you cook it for a period of several hours, the flavor mellows out and the beef becomes fork tender. It's delicious.

And you know, I think I saw my husband sneaking seconds onto his plate.

The best part of the evening, however, was watching Nora eat her own piece of chocolate cake. By the time she was finished, she had crumbs in her nose, hair, and in every crease of her neck. She brandished her spoon overhead and laughed. She clearly has her mamma's sweet tooth.

It's nights like tonight that I really miss when we are overseas--time to just be an extended family, to tease each other, sneak extra pieces of cake, and just revel in sharing our daily lives together.

Smells even better than it looks . . .

I love bread, especially when I make it myself and the smell of it baking fills my entire house.