September 2023 This and That

Want a good chuckle? Stayed tuned to the end of this post for my "September Silly."

Sean loves football. Me, not so much. Ever since Trevor's leg injury at the outset of his 8th grade season, my heart shudders with fear for safety in this violent sport. Still, it is fun to watch them win! Here are photos of Sean (#55) exuberantly rejoicing in touchdowns by his team:

Protecting the quarterback and ball from the opponent:

They were thrilled to win against long-time rival, Danville, the first shut-out (21-0) against this team in twenty years. Here they are with the coveted winning helmet trophy:

Sean is to the left of the bear (hard to make out his 55).

Here's a better shot of the twenty-year rivalry helmet trophy:

And a shot of Sean with some football buddies:

As more and more people move onto property near us, our once isolated and private area is changed. We've lived here, on my husband's family land, for 17 years. For the first whole decade, I hated living here. In the past, I've considered myself a city girl. I loved walking the streets of Chicago, popping into all the antiquarian bookshops. I loved having access to culture, variety, and people. This rural town did not welcome or embrace me. I was stuck at home with two infants and no connections to support or assist.

Indeed, I ached to move back to Illinois, where I was fully plugged in, had an identity tied to education, and access to the city of Chicago without being right in the city. Yet, in the past 17 years, I've morphed into a different person. I would no longer consider myself a city girl. If and when we move from this location (possible as soon as our youngest graduates from high school), I'm more likely to desire another isolated location. The pandemic didn't help things. Moreover, the future looks threatening.

Of course, Facebook is onto my idle dreams of new housing. My feed is flooded with videos of tiny homes (while I fantasize about living tiny, I'm all too aware that my hoarding tendencies make such dreams futile). I also receive alerts about adorable, old houses. Now that we've faced multiple problems in this old house (air-conditioning/heating system had to be completely replaced in June at great personal cost and well pump replaced in mid-September), I'm trying to swipe past those old house advertisement.

This one, however, caught my eye and I'm smitten. It says it has been well-maintained. The external and internal photos are appealing. But, the real draw? This house is only an hour and a half away from my favorite cousin, Karin. I'm pretty sure my husband won't go for it. It is in Pennsylvania and he has his heart set on moving to an isolated, artsy community in Southern Indiana. But, I can dream, can't I?

I love this little alcove area between the garage and house. Can't you just imagine hours of outdoor reading?

I love this roomy kitchen. Even the wood paneling on the wall appeals to me, although with the flooring seems a bit too busy.

Some setbacks to this idea: 1) We don't have that kind of money at this point. 2) We are not in the market yet. 3) Talk about isolated - this is like our current rural town on steroids - not even a Walmart nearby - wow! 4) WINTER - snow, ugh! 5) SUMMER - Did it really say window a/c? Okay, dream bubble effectively burst! Sorry, Karin.

If I could sell 5 million copies of my book (HA), we could move into this over-the-top house in nearby Carmel, Indiana:

The twenty-some photos at that link are awe-inspiring, but no, no, no - the Meadowview estate is not my dream house! Future grandkids might love the indoor wooden slide, the elaborate movie theater room, the Titanic-esque staircase in the billiards room, and the inground pool. 

I would loathe the responsibility of decorating, outfitting, and especially CLEANING 14 bathrooms (yikes) and over 20 thousand square feet of house! Nice to visit; not so nice to maintain.

Finally, I leave you with a hilarious story. John and I went out for lunch. Where he parked in the lot, we were surrounded by various work trucks. After exiting the restaurant, we approached our car. John noticed something odd dangling from below the car, near the back tire. We both squatted down to inspect this damage we had never noticed before on my car. Suddenly, the passenger window rolled down and the driver in the front seat looked at us dubiously. Doh! It wasn't our car! Our black car was parked just beyond her black car (almost identical, but for the unrecognized damage - ha!). Thankfully, she was good-natured about it. I couldn't stop laughing about it for the rest of the day. When I texted my friend, Beth, about it, she said, "Double win! A good hearted laugh and the good news that the repair belongs to someone else. 😂" She also sent this hilarious gif that captured my response:

Kitty Forman Debra Jo Rupp GIFfrom Kitty Forman GIFs

Book Review: It Happened at the Fair

I'm glad I discovered another author who writes fantastic Christian fiction where the story and historical elements supersede the emphasized message. It Happened at the Fair sets the scene of the 1893 Chicago World's Fair so well. From descriptions of the buildings to historical details about the philosophy of lip-reading, this book is packed with substance. Plus, it delivers a satisfying love story. You could tell the author immersed herself in research to present this tale with historical accuracy (and an outstanding author's note at the end distinguishes the fictionalized from the factual).

Cullen McNamara never expected to travel to the World's Fair. His father risks all to present him with an opportunity to display and sell his automatic sprinkler invention. But Cullen fights hearing loss and struggles with the noise in the exhibition hall. His accidental introduction to Della Wentworth leads him to hire her as a lip-reading tutor. As his affection for Della blossoms, he faces several quandaries: what to do about the girl back home, how to earn enough money to save his farm when he can barely communicate with customers, and how to convince others that his system works.

Deeanne Gist brings her research to life for the reader. Her characters face internal and external obstacles with realistic responses. They interact with the fascinating historical time and setting. I look forward to exploring further Gist novels. Thankfully, my library holds another World's Fair novel written by this capable writer.

Book Review: Secrets of Sloane House

For whatever reason, this book, Secrets of Sloane House, took forever to read. Several factors played a role. I fought a terrible cold for two solid weeks and could neither focus nor rouse interest for reading. I've been in a general physical book reading slump. Most books I've consumed have been in audio form. Moreover, this was Christian fiction, and I lack a taste for strong "message" books. I think I carried this in my bag to the ranch for almost a month. Might be a record.

So what led me to even venture into the first page? I bought the third book in this series, with my credit at the library's book shop earned in their winter reading program. Wanting to read the books in order, I borrowed this one. It promised some interest, as it is about the Chicago World's Fair. But the backdrop of the fair was fairly inconsequential to the tale (did you catch that play on words?). Perhaps I would have been more engrossed with more details about the fair.

Rosalind leaves her home in Wisconsin and arrives in Chicago hoping to find out what happened to her missing sister, Miranda. She takes a position in the same wealthy household where Miranda had worked, but finds more secrets than answers. There is definitely an upstairs-downstairs feel to the book. The family treats their servants with disdain. Will Rosalind get out alive or will she meet the same fate as her missing sister?

I wanted to feel invested in the characters. I wanted to yearn to know what happened. Neither took hold. Now, I must decide whether I will seek book number two or donate the third book to Goodwill. A point in its favor - the promise of a clean read. While it would make a good discussion book for a Christian women's book club, it took me far too long to digest (although, as I said, my fault and not the author's). 

Book Review: Where We Belong

 Although I enjoyed this wholesome audio experience, it demonstrated the position on agenda that Andrew Peterson shared in his Adorning the Dark book. As a Christian, I agree with the message this novel presents. Sadly, the author hammers instead of suggests. For example, two phrases occurred ad nauseam (and, yes, I grew nauseated with each additional mention): "God knows the end of our days; no need to fear" and "No trees grow to the sky." I heard the first truism almost twenty times. She even explained the second, in case the reader couldn't grasp the meaning. I don't enjoy criticizing (indeed genuinely like this author's books), but wish the message to creep in unawares through the strength of the story. I'm sure Lynn Austin meant to shore up Christians facing uncertainty. No doubt many of us need such shoring up these days. Her intentions are honorable, but her methods too forceful (a non-believer would toss the story given such overt proselytizing).

Where We Belong emphasizes God's constant care and provision through the unconventional lives of two wealthy sisters who adore travel and wish to fulfill their God-given purpose in life. Flora and Rebecca Hawes travel to the Middle East in search of documents to verify the validity of Scripture. Faced with Darwin's alternative theory of evolution, the sisters fight to reinforce the Bible's authority. Meanwhile, they also shepherd their two young servants. The story jumps back and forth in time to portray how each character encountered and came to revere God. One sister falls in love with an adamant non-believer and his conversion feels too quick and without substance. Again, the story held plenty of action, believable characters, and engaging plot development. Just preachy. I'm not giving up on this author, but bristled at the hammered agenda.

Missing Avenues for My Alto

The holidays bring so many memories associated with my alto horn. When I was in high school, my dad and I (on our cornet and alto) would venture out bright and early into the tube station tunnels in Chicago. We would set up the kettle and play duets for the crushing crowd of commuters until I had to leave for school. Several years back, a friend of mine passed along this photo of my dad playing at a kettle (I'm fairly certain that is the edge of my horn next to him) - she found it on eBay while searching for old Salvation Army images, so it has a watermark from some historical images company. Still, it brings back those morning jam sessions like it was yesterday.

I also remember playing through the Salvation Army carol book with my brothers so frequently that we had all the numbers memorized. In my senior year, when my parents were moved to Sioux Falls, South Dakota, I had to wrap my alto in a coat of foam to keep it from freezing as I stood out at the Army kettles. One night, a film crew from the local news station came by and I heard about it the next day from other students who watched (from the warm comfort of their homes - ha).

Since my husband has a masters in trumpet performance from Indiana University, he got in on the game after we married. My friends, Kris and MaryAnn Wood, were the officers at the DeKalb Salvation Army corps for a while. They invited John and I to join forces for their kettle effort. I remember one year, Kris promised to play his trombone from the roof of the corps if they made their goal for that year. I don't believe we joined him on the roof, but he kept his promise.

When we moved to the Indianapolis area, I anticipated the thrill of playing with an Army band again. I assumed there would be a corps band as vibrant as when my teen and college friends were in Indianapolis. Alas, no band. Still, I would play when they invited and after I purchased an alto on Craigslist, I often played for Christmas kettles at the Divisional Headquarters near the Children's Museum. They have since moved buildings and I don't receive invitations any longer.

Last night, while cruising through Facebook, I came across this video from High Bridge Brass. Alto soloist Nathan Miller performs a melodious version of Mary Did You Know?

In my teen years, back when my brothers called me "metallic lips" for practicing so many hours a day, I might have attempted a solo like this. Now, ha - fat chance! Still, it warms my heart to hear an outstanding musician make an alto horn sing! 

Book Review: The Sixty-Eight Rooms

I'm always curious to know more about the authors I read. Thus, I was especially excited to learn that this author, Marianne Malone, is from Urbana, Illinois, my husband's hometown. I agree with The Chicago Tribune, as it declared, "Marianne Malone has tapped into a fantasy that is ... completely universal." I know I have dreamt of what it would be like to travel back to different times or to grow tiny enough to enter an elaborate doll house. I don't recall ever visiting the Thorne Rooms in the Art Institute of Chicago (for a vicarious view of the rooms, view this You Tube video), but it brought to mind Queen Mary's Dolls' House that I observed at Windsor Castle.

In The Sixty-Eight Rooms, Ruthie and her best friend, Jack, are sixth graders living in Chicago. When their class takes a field trip to the Art Institute, they stumble upon a key in a corridor behind the scenes of the elaborate miniature rooms of the Thorne Rooms. The key proves magical, shrinking them to size so that they can experience a fabulous adventure in the rooms and their environs. While there, they discover evidence of another visitor and happen upon something accidentally left behind.

Although I did tire of hearing (I listened in audio form) the details of their shrinking and enlarging and the logistics of maneuvering through the rooms, the adventure was, indeed, magical. Children will delight in a fantasy about exploring tiny worlds unknown to them. Adults will enjoy soaking in the history presented. This simple tale is sure to appeal to many diverse readers. It certainly left me with a desire to visit Chicago and experience the Thorne Rooms for myself. Moreover, I was thrilled to discover sequels are available: Stealing Magic, The Pirate's Coin, and The Secret of the Key.

A Godly Heritage

One of my friends posted this photo on Facebook today and tagged me. She found it on e-bay, where they are selling press photos of The Salvation Army.



This is a photo of my Dad. If the picture were larger (showed a wider frame of reference), I'm pretty sure I might have been in the picture, too. My dad and I used to get up early and, before school started, head down to the elevated train station near us in Chicago. We would play duets from the Christmas carol tune book. I can see the bell of an alto horn in the side of the picture. I'm guessing it is me.

This photo brings back such wonderful memories. I loved playing duets with my dad, even if it did mean rising extra early (something I've never been fond of). And seeing this photo reminds me of what a godly heritage I've been given. My dad is a man after God's own heart and what a gift that has been.

Longing for the Road Not Taken

There was a time when my musical instrument was my passion. And I mean PASSION! During the high school years, I practiced so many hours on my Alto Horn (a brass instrument slightly smaller than a baritone and in the key of E-flat) that my brothers began to call me "Metallic Lips." I had a clear goal and I would stop at nothing until I reached it. That goal was to make it into the very top band, Wonderland Band, at Central Music Institute (a famed Salvation Army band camp in the Central Territory).

Make it, I DID! I will never forget the first rehearsal. A friend of mine, Kevin, was also getting his first exposure to playing in a top-notch band like Wonderland Band. He and I exchanged glances that said, "Can you believe we're here? Can you believe we are living this incredible dream?" It was powerful. I wanted that moment to last forever. I wanted that music to last forever. I wanted those friendships, honed in part by the music, to last forever.

Forever DIDN'T happen. Life intervened. Shortly before my senior year in high school, I was approached by the bandmaster of the Chicago Staff Band with news of an opening in the horn section the following January. All I needed to do was graduate from high school one semester early. Sadly, my parents (S.A. officers) received moving orders and the South Dakota high school I moved to placed my three remaining courses in the second semester, ruining my one chance of joining that prestigious band.

I carried my passion overseas after college, when I worked at The Salvation Army's International College for Officers. I attended a large London corps where I was refused admittance to their senior band. Even though my abilities matched those in the horn section, they were not yet allowing women in the upper band. I was offered a spot in the junior band and time in their weekly rehearsals. I decided to make do with the rehearsal time and, again, thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity of playing with an outstanding Salvation Army band.

When I returned from London, I began graduate school at the University of Illinois and eventually met and married my non-Salvationist husband. I kept hoping, over the years, that somehow the Army would lure my husband in (since he has a masters degree in trumpet performance and is a far more gifted musician than I am). Alas, that hasn't happened. I haven't played regularly in a Salvation Army band since we married.

I have been able to get my Salvation Army fix from our annual attendance at our ten day Bible camp (CBLI) and sporadic corps attendance over the years. I am able to sing those great Salvation Army hymns and associate with Army friends. But my passion for Army banding has lain dormant, burning like an ember that refuses to be fully snuffed out.

This past week, I have found myself in full-blown homesickness ... homesick for those moments of belonging to an Army band ... moments of hearing the tones blend in such a way that an audience can be moved to a spiritual pitch of worship unlike any other. The Chicago Staff Band has been in London performing with various other Salvation Army staff bands. I have viewed the photos of old friends who are living my dormant dream. I have watched the videos of a magnificent march up the mall towards Buckingham Palace (the very Palace I was privileged to visit with my Upper Norwood friend, Ray). It makes me want to weep.

But, I am holding back my tears and clinging to the promise of God's wisdom for my life. A few weeks ago, I spent a few days with a faithful Army friend, Lisa (who also left the Army when life intervened). As we talked, she was marvelling at all the amazing opportunities God brought my way in my twenties. She married young and had children early (and is already enjoying the grandparent phase of life), while I travelled the world and had my children late (what feels like my geriatric years).

I regaled her with my tale of tea with Ray at the Palace. I told her about the awesome privilege of an invitation to tea with theologian John R. Stott, while at Wheaton College. She listened as I explained how I landed a job transcribing C.S. Lewis' personal letters for four years. Then, I told of the rare chance I had to travel with Dr. Lyle Dorsett and his wife to Scotland for an oral history interview with C.S. Lewis' first cousin, Ruth Parker. During my time at ICO (International College for Officers) I was able to return for an individual visit with Ruth Parker and bring her a Madeira cake (her favorite). I travelled with a missions group to the Philippines. The Lord blessed me with so many fantastic, enviable opportunities.

So, while I sit here in my little farmhouse, babbling with preschoolers all day every day, Lisa declared it "no small wonder" that I am casting backward glances to the many opportunities of days gone by. My heart is frantically searching for direction, some passion to move my life in a direction of purpose ... to regain an identity apart from my mothering role. It is too easy to look back and say, "Lord, why did you carry my feet on a different path than I expected?"

At this point, I have to continue looking to God and asking Him to guide my steps, even if they lead away from passions like Army banding. Perhaps I must carve out a new purpose and goal for my life. I truly pray that He has more amazing opportunities lying just ahead of me, waiting to be seized. And I'm also praying that He won't turn me to a pillar of salt (like Lot's wife, who, leaving family behind cast back a wistful glance) for my longing for the road not taken. It can't hurt to put a further Army banding opportunity on my bucket list, can it? Only God knows where my feet are headed. All I can do is lay my passions and my willingness at His feet.

How Did We Survive With One Bathroom?

A friend of mine just left a message on my Facebook saying that she was thinking about the time my family lived in a little house next to The Salvation Army Irving Park Corps building. Her big question? "How did you all fit in that little house?" It is, indeed, a valid question.

A few years ago, I attended the 20th year reunion of my high school class for Schurz High School. It wasn't really my reunion. Because my family moved in my senior year, I did not actually graduate from this school, but graduated from a school in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, where I knew very few individuals (I spent most of my time reading and sitting through study halls!). Years later, when I discovered the Classmates website, I could only bring myself to sign on for Schurz. When reunion time rolled around, it just happened that my friend Nata Z. was in charge of the reunion and she encouraged me to come. As I headed home, I took a few minutes to drive by our old house. Only, our old house was no longer there. They had torn it down and increased the space in the corps' parking lot.

Way back when we had moved into that little house, my family was reeling because we couldn't believe we had been moved from the Midland Division in St. Louis to the Metropolitan Division of Chicago. This was the only move where my parents allowed us to engage in a "pity party" (we went to a local toy shop and were each allowed to pick something out). I remember laughing when my sister informed me that we had received moving orders. It wasn't funny in the slightest, but the significance of the news caused me to erupt in nervous laughter (followed by many nights of tears). We were devastated, but once we had made the move, I think every one of us held a little dream that we could continue living there forever, despite the size of the house.

We were a family of seven. What's more, two were adults and three were full-fledged teenagers. During our first year in the house, my eldest brother, David, was a senior in high school, my brother Mark, was a sophomore and I was a freshman. It WAS a small house, but not too bad. It had four small bedrooms. My parent's bedroom was on the main level across the hall from mine (oh, the drama that went on in determining room assignments, since I received the absolute best bedroom of all - to myself), my sister had a small room upstairs and my brother Mark shared his nook of an attic room with my baby brother, Tim. My parents turned a small area of the basement into a room for my brother, David (it was just below mine and I can recall numerous times stamping on the floor in an attempt to get him to stop singing along with music while listening to headphones!).

I don't really remember feeling like we were living on top of one another (of course, these were the years I spent practicing my instrument for six hours a day at the corps building next door, to the point where my brothers called me "metallic lips"). But, I do remember the horrible bathroom situation. How did we survive with just one bathroom?

My father instituted a bathroom schedule for the mornings. I don't remember what number slot I got. I just remember not really getting my slot all that often. You would think that teenage girls would take more time in a bathroom than teenage boys, but in our case, you would be dead wrong! I was a very low-maintenance teenager. I didn't condition, blow-dry or curl back then. Lucky thing, too, because David would often rise and slip into the bathroom before my time started. When I would knock on the door, he seemed oblivious. My brothers were good-lookin' dudes. All the girls in the division seemed to be interested in them. Could I go back and blame my own lack of suitors on the their stolen moments of my allotted bathroom time? Possibly!

I must have had at least some time, because I do remember french braiding my hair in there. I think there must have been a mirror on the sliding door to the shower and I would turn the vanity mirror in such a way that I could actually see the back of my head as I braided. Still, I can remember lots of times running next door in a panic because I had to use the toilet and someone was, inevitably, already in our ONE bathroom. So, there is her answer! We survived because our corps building was right next door and we often used it as a second home location (for bathrooms and practice rooms).

Now, I spent this morning cleaning my house and am actually feeling a tiny bit envious of that house. You see, we have four bathrooms in this house. This would be fantastic for a family with three girls, but a family of three boys makes this insane. There are three bathrooms on the ground level and one in the basement. It would be nice if the boys would limit themselves to the use of just one, but they tend to use all four! Thus, instead of cleaning up a bathroom used by boys, I find myself cleaning FOUR bathrooms used by BOYS! Insane!

I had already planned to write a post about frustration with bathrooms this week. Rhonda just beefed it up by causing me to reminisce a bit. I had even clipped this photo (the step stool by the sink has a textured surface, so I usually put a hand towel down). My boys seem to be incapable of keeping their shoes on when they are outside. I try to explain why this is a problem, but they just don't get it. At least this time I was able to point to visible evidence of MS's treachery!

And I Thought I Was Naive!

I have a fair amount of travel experience. I studied in Oxford one summer and lived in London for six months. I spent a summer as a service corps worker in Tondo, a slum in Manila, Philippines. I have travelled to Scotland, Switzerland, Germany, Belgium, and France. Our family took vacations all over the United States. I remember visiting the Grand Canyon, Disney Land and Disney World. We travelled to Salt Lake City, Utah and heard the Mormon Tabernacle Choir sing (my parents still have 16 mm films of a musical we saw performed there). We visited the Badlands, Mount Rushmore, and Wall Drug in South Dakota. We made numerous orange juice stops and had one big sand hill experience in Florida. And we loved the feel our tummies would get when my dad would cruise over the back hills roads in Kentucky (I also remember a phenomenal meal we enjoyed on a Shaker Plantation in Kentucky).

Perhaps because of this travel experience, I rarely think about danger when I am travelling. I have had some fearful moments, but usually the fear comes after I am already in a dangerous situation. But, perhaps I am just naive!

I know that I was terribly naive the summer I lived in New Jersey and worked in New York City. One Saturday morning, I decided to get in some sight-seeing. I headed off by myself to visit Grant's Tomb and a famous church across the street (Riverside Church?? - I'll have to review my journals), located in the upper west side of Manhattan. My next destination was the Edgar Allen Poe cottage, located in the Bronx on the upper east side of Manhattan. I was a poor college student and didn't want to pay the fare to take a subway from the west-side over to the east side, so I decided to walk. I walked across Harlem that Saturday morning by myself.

A few years later, I fully realized my naivete. If you have ever visited the Poe Cottage in the Bronx, you would know that my visit wasn't worth the dangerous walk (it is a tiny relic and all I remember is watching a slide-show in a cramped room in the attic!) I am grateful to God for protecting me that morning. However, I learned that I am not the only person to readily trust strangers or traverse dangerous terrain unawares while travelling. When my German pen-pal, Katja, came to visit me, I decided maybe travelling makes a person naive.

I believe it was a Sunday and Katja wanted to head into Chicago, but I had developed a case of bronchitis. Instead of going in with her, I drove her to the nearest train station in Geneva. She intended to visit the Shedd Aquarium and the Field Museum. We went over the times of the returning trains and she intended to call me just prior to boarding the train so that I could head back to Geneva to pick her up.

Hour after hour slipped by without a phone call. I began to panic. I didn't know how to reach her (I don't remember if she had a cell phone or not). I didn't know why she wasn't calling. I didn't know where she was. I was beside myself with worry. Finally, very late in the evening, she called and asked me to pick her up in front of the Sears Tower. It had just closed. The weather was extremely chilly and I asked if any restaurants nearby were open so she could wait inside. I reminded her that it would take me an hour or so to get all the way into the city from DeKalb.

When I finally pulled up in front of the Sears Tower she was nowhere to be seen. I didn't own a cell phone at the time and I remember wondering what in the world I should do. I couldn't leave her downtown, but I had no idea where she was. I sat there in my car thinking through every possible scenario that could have kept her.

After 10 long agonizing minutes, a taxi cab pulled up behind me and Katja got out, said a few words to the driver and then hopped into the front seat of the car. She said that she was eager to share with me her many adventures, but first she had a severe need for a toilet. By then it was 9 or 10 in the evening and I didn't see a single place where I could let her out to find a bathroom. I headed to the expressway and got on.

You can't just get off the expressway and find a bathroom in Chicago. I tried the first exit where I could visibly see a gas station from the highway. We pulled into the gas station and Katja raced to the doors to find them barred and locked. The security guard would not let her in. We tried two other stations only to receive the same news. By now, Katja was in so much physical discomfort that she was speaking rapidly in German (I have no idea what she was saying, even though I know some German). She was gesticulating wildly to individuals and I was worried what might happen. We were in a very bad part of town.

I was almost to the point of suggesting that I just pull behind a building, when I saw a McDonalds. The sign on the door expressly forbid the use of the restroom facility without making a purchase. Katja ran in and came out moments later. I got back on the highway as quickly as I could.

Then, she began to tell me the story of her day. She had visited the Aquarium and Field museum but still had some time, so she boarded a bus to do some more sightseeing. She assumed the bus would wander around the downtown area and she would just get off at a place that looked interesting. Before she knew it they were in neighborhoods and were headed who knows where? Evanston, maybe? She didn't know how to communicate that she was lost. The driver told her to get off and take another bus back.

When she finally got back into the city, she hired a taxi to take her to the Sears tower. She tried several times to call me but the number wasn't going through. Finally, the Sears tower closed and she didn't know what to do. Upon exiting the building, she was approached by the same taxi driver who had driven her to the Sears Tower. He asked her if he could help her. She said that she was having trouble contacting her American friend on the phone. He walked with her to a phone and helped her dial my number again.

If she had told me on the phone that he was assisting her, that he was the same driver she had used before, I would have been even more panicked. She didn't tell me and after she hung up, this man told her that everything would be closed down and she would get very cold if she waited there for an hour. He offered to take her in his cab. He drove her all over the city of Chicago for an hour and pointed out various famous buildings and sights. When he dropped her off at the Sears Tower an hour later, he wouldn't accept a dime from her.

I tried to explain to her all the peril she had been in. I tried to tell her that his intentions could have been dishonorable. I tried to tell her how worried I had grown as the hours had passed. Instead, this man was her guardian angel that night. This man not only helped her reach me by phone, he kept her warm in his cab and gave her a first-rate tour of the city. I was so grateful for his act of kindness towards Katja. I will never doubt again that God can send guardian angels to protect those who are too naive for their own good! I didn't let her go into the city alone again, either!