I'm sitting in our sunroom, which is warm as an oven, listening to my mother reading Curious George to Bea and her friend, Ethan. That is a true act of love--this particular Curious George book goes on and on, a series of incidents loosely connected by careless disasters. . .hmm. Sounds familiar.

It's been an exhausting few days here. I have been forcing myself to eat regularly, even when my stomach feels as though it's been shaken. I don't even know what to write here. Details have unfolded which are bewildering, shocking, and deeply troubling. Those of you whom we know well here, please don't hide your anger or sadness when you are with us. It helps us to live vicariously through you as we continue to try to live through this with grace.

In the middle of all of it, I feel protected, as if each of you who love us have built thick walls of love around us. Like Ethan or Bea inside of their tent this morning that I built for them out of chairs and blankets, I sit inside of this shady, precious place, and I am so grateful.

I wish I could write more, I wish I could explain more. Maybe someday, hopefully soon.

In the meanwhile, we've had some good belly laughs. Some things are humorous, especially when we can step back and look at things objectively. Some things are too sad to laugh at, but we're trying to find a way. On Saturday night, we attended a magic show at the University. During the amazing finale, the magician asked for a volunteer. Martin sprung up on the stage with a jaunty step.

The magician shouted, "For my next trip, sir, I will need to borrow your career."

Martin obliged.

The magician held it up--a heavy thing with carefully sanded sides--for the audience. "Look carefully at it from every angle," the magician said. "From the top! The sides! The bottom!" We gazed at it. It was a beautiful thing.

Then the magician whisked his cape over it. "Presto!" he shouted, and there was a puff of smoke. The audience gave an audible gasp. It was gone--disappeared into thin air. Slight of hand, the magician bowed and Martin descended the stage. Nobody knew why it had disappeared. Nobody knew how or when.

Surprisingly, Martin seemed intact, even though he'd lost this wonderful thing--he sighed deeply as he came back to his seat. "Well, I guess this isn't the place for me any more," he said. The audience was done, too. They stood up and left with us, and we all went out for a drink and to wonder about how the trick had been executed.

And over the next few days, we learned about the trick that made the thing disappear into thin air, and it wasn't such a great mysterious magic after all. And Martin walked back to the stage and found it where it had dropped to the floor, and it was better, smoother, and more beautiful for its fumbled fall--and he put it under his arm and we left again, to walk on to a good place.

It was supposed to be funny but now it just seems tragic, especially after I talked to Martin this afternoon, and heard his voice--exhausted, wearied, drained. I keep thinking things will get easier, and they will. When I think of how fast our lives have changed, I feel dizzy and nauseous. I'll keep returning to the tent to sit for a while, to center myself before walking back out into the fray.