Yesterday, volunteers came around the unit with a cart full of children-sized Halloween costumes. One of my little patients asked in eager anticipation, "do you have a Buzz Lightyear outfit?"

We all breathed relief as the volunteer dug through her pile and proudly held up one, very precious space cadet costume.

And so, his mom and I worked to get the costume onto this little body. Disconnected the IV for just a minute, cut the costume as needed to get it over tubes and around braces... pretty soon we had a (very modified) Buzz Lightyear in our midst.

He was so delighted! And, really, so were we.

This week has been marked by tragedy. My journal is missing.

Ok, so you all know me and know that I sometimes say things that are a bit on the dramatic side, but I am being completely honest and fairly rational when I say this is the saddest thing that has happened to me in a very long time.

I started (serious, committed) journaling in 2005. Since then I have really come to cherish the little books that are my testimonial. You know the question, "if you are stranded on an island and you can have one thing it would be..." or "if your house was on fire and you could bring one material thing with you ..." Hands down, I would choose my journals. It is on those perfectly blank pages that I find most freedom to express my ideas. There is no need for correct grammar, flow, sentence structure... anything really. I can do whatever I want - have any opinion - in my journal and no one gets to know. And, no one gets to tell me that what I'm feeling is wrong or I should approach a situation in a different way... or whatever.

I know that the loss of this journal is not the loss of journaling. But, it is the loss of a year's worth of knee-jerk reactions, deep reflection and sweet anticipation. I wrote about my first days as a nurse in this journal, my first (professional) experience with death. The overwhelming joys of meeting my first nephew. The nervous excitement that came with moving into my very own apartment. Gosh, even the thrill of watching our nation's first African American President take office. To not have my written memories of all that is so.... sad.

Normally when something like this happens, I would journal about it. But, since that isn't an option right now I will blog. And, I can say with confidence that blogging is really second best.

Last summer I was invited to join an online book club. As you can imagine, the lack of face-to-face interaction made it very difficult for me to stay committed to the text. Well, that and the fact that The Brothers Karamazov was not an ideal pick for light summer reading.

The thick beige and red book has been patiently waiting for me on my bookshelf and I have decided to give good ol' Fyodor another shot. I am 19 pages in and already in love. Not because it is incredibly easy, or because I feel as if I've been hooked by action or glamour... but, rather, because it is just beautiful.

This book is going to be no small task for me - mostly because my nursing school experience has resulted in the development of a special reflex. The one that makes me go to sleep two paragraphs into any kind of reading. I have determination, though, to retrain my attention span to not only stay focused during these long pages, but to actually .... get ready for it... enjoy reading again.

In hopes of "setting the stage" for this endeavor, I went to the Russian Museum of Art in Minneapolis last weekend. I don't know much about Russia - at all - and I thought that maybe by getting a small glimpse of how Russian artists interpret their culture, I'd be in a better place to enjoy this novel.

But, it didn't really help. Well, ok, that might not be true. It just didn't help as much as I had hoped. What I did find is that a.) I love Russian art (at least the art they have at this museum) and b.) I want to learn more about Russia.

I was talking to one of the museum volunteers and he was telling me about an exhibit they are trying to bring in this coming spring. It is composed of art that came from the Siege of Leningrad. Now many of you, I am sure, have heard of this part of history. I will blame my ignorance on my intense participation in biology and anatomy during college and less interaction with the "arts" and history classes. It is probably fine that I am learning this late. Anyway, I have spent some time exploring the details of this 900 day siege - a siege that took more lives than any other modern day conflict. And what I have found is actually quite amazing.

From what I can tell, this siege did many things to Leningrad. Mainly - and I'm not trying to make light here - it destroyed it, right? But, like Annie Dillard taught me to say, there is so much evidence of "the inrush of power and light" in the stories I've read tonight. Stories of human resiliency and motivation to cling to good and deny evil. The German and Finnish armies cut off all sources of life from Leningrad - it started in September and by winter there was no heat, no electricity, only ounces of bread for each person. But, in the face of this all, the people of Leningrad did not surrender. FOR 900 DAYS. I also read stories of people risking their lives to dig up potatoes in forbidden fields, only to then surrender their sweet harvest to authorities so they could be distributed equally among all the civilians. The city even commissioned cooks and chefs to "invent" high-calorie soups and breads to be distributed in the bread lines. Granted, their supplementation of cotton for flour didn't provide what people needed. Most during this time died of starvation or from the actual bombings. I think it is only accurate to say that with each sweet story of devotion to the whole community, there were also terrifying stories of human desperation. Factory workers eating oil off machines to satisfy hunger.... and of public authorities creating special forces focused primarily on attacking the cannibalism that eventually developed.

One might think the end of this siege was a beautiful day for Russia. I'm sure it was in many ways, but I think it was probably also a quiet victory. An unbelieving sigh of relief, or whatever could be mustered up by the souls who still stood 900 days after suck darkness struck their city. The Red Army, an army of Russian revolutionaries, eventually brought defeat to the German forces.

My visit to the museum did good things for my curiosities about Russia, although, like I said, none actually lead me any closer to understanding The Brothers specifically. But, I'm just going to say that is okay. Because there is a lot to know about the world, and learning it a little at a time is just fine.

Sometimes things happen and all I can do is shrug. I don't know the answer, I don't know where to go, I don't even know how to identify what went wrong. These are the situations that are most defeting for me. Not only because I am at a loss, but because I feel like I shouldn't be. Like, the Christian life is supposed to be an easy one, filled with right answers and only the occassional mistake that leads to a greater understanding or brings your closer to becoming that beautiful, whole person who won't ever make the same mistake twice. Seriously? Who told me that was true? They are w-r-o-n-g.

The Christian life isn't about having all the right answers, but living in a grace that redeems us from our shortcomings. While I might not ever know exactly the right answer to every one of life's challenges, I do know that having empty hands might not always be a bad thing. When my little patients cry at night, I might not ever have a perfect response to their grief. I don't know if I will ever be able to look one of them in the eye and say, "this is how we fix your problem". This is hard for me to accept because I so want to solve problems! My own, but also their's. I don't want them to live in pain, confusion, or grief. I want them to be freed from it.

People ask me sometimes how I can "do what I do". Good question. I'm not totally sure of the answer, but I do know that I would never make it if I haven't been blessed with at least a small shred of inner peace. Because, really, there are a thousand evidences of redemption in each day. It's just about being in the right place to notice them.