Amy Boucher Pye

Category: Family life

Strengthening our Vision: How my son’s eye challenges made us stronger

The sticker is actually a bit creepy considering that the clown’s eyes are crossed out.

A simple sticker, but when I saw it, the memories came rushing back. I had unearthed from the loft (US: attic) a bunch of mailing envelopes to send out my book in, which CutiePyeGirl found intriguing. In the midst of them she found this little sticker and presented it to me with a flourish. When I saw it, there in my mind’s eye was PyelotBoy, three and four years old, walking out of the Royal Free Hospital, having survived another eye appointment. Our consultant was amazing, but the drops hurt him, and my heart always tugged at those meetings about his eyes.

PyelotBoy has faced some physical challenges, including his eyesight. One of my dear friends – who herself had a squint (US: lazy eye) and two surgeries in her childhood to correct it – reluctantly approached me when PyelotBoy was about two years old, asking when we were going to get his squint looked at. She didn’t want to interfere, but she knew more than we did that it needed attending to. I had noticed it, of course, but just thought it was an eye that sometimes turned in, an affliction that appears in both my maternal and paternal families. I’m so grateful for her gentle question, however, as we got an appointment right away and found out that his squint very much needed attending to. The weak eye, if not strengthened, would lose its ability to see. (Spiritual application alert!) He would also eventually need surgery to move the muscles around in both eyes to straighten them out and have them working right.

So much for us as new parents to take in during those appointments. Our fantastic consultant we got originally through what was then called St Luke’s Hospital for the Clergy, an organization that provides healthcare for clergy and their families to which medical people (often Christians) donate their services. We didn’t need to be pushy advocates for PyelotBoy because Miss Davey went out of her way to give him the best treatment available. (And I learned throughout the years why she’s called “Miss” Davey – for me as an American I thought it odd, and would rather call her Dr Davey. But the Miss signifies that she’s a surgeon, so is actually a higher designation than Dr. Interesting!)

The things one finds squirreled away in the loft!

We had years of appointments and years of those stickers. Years of PyelotBoy reading first the charts of pictures of familiar objects (and yes, a teapot featured) and then letters when he had learned them. Years of PyelotBoy wearing a patch over his strong eye for hours in order to strengthen the weak eye. The enduring for him and us of his eye surgery, which Miss Davey performed so well – she even gave me a hug in the operating theatre after the anaethitist put him to sleep, for I promptly burst into tears at the sight.

So when I saw that sticker, so many memories came flooding back and I felt tender and grateful. Sad that PyelotBoy had to endure those trials, but proud of him for the way he met them, one by one, with courage. Like his eye, which was strengthened over the years, he’s stronger and more resilient in character.

How have you been strengthened through trials?

Note: Posted with PyelotBoy’s permission.

October 3, 2015
Finding Ourselves Through Change – Children and Schools

Trigger warning – a post about children and transitions.

Photo: David Schott, flickr

Today is PyelotBoy’s last day of primary school. When I think back to me changing from elementary school to junior high, my memories are fuzzy. I know I was nervous about moving from class to class throughout the day instead of staying in one familiar classroom, but I had the comfort of nearly all of my classmates moving to the same school (the now defunct Capitol View in St. Paul, Minnesota).

Whereas for PyelotBoy, the move to secondary school seems massive. Although half of his classmates are going to the same school, they morph from 60 in their year group to 180. And unlike in the States where we have middle school or junior high, and then high school, for many here, their secondary school will be their home until university.

I only started to realize the import of finding the right secondary school as my kids got older and I’d hear the buzz on that day when secondary schools announce who gets their places each year. (The school where PyelotBoy is going had 1100 applications for 180 places.) Then it was our turn to traipse between open evenings and tutoring sessions and entrance exams. We’re pleased with the school he’ll be going to – another attached to the Church of England – but as we experience the leaving events for him at his primary school, I ponder the meaning of leaving.

I know the job of a parent is to release our children to the big and often scary world, teaching them to cope and hopefully thrive as we keep on letting them go. But it’s difficult. And the emotion can come through the individual moments, such as letting them travel to school on their own or allowing them more electronic devices. We know this is our mission, but sometimes we just want to freeze time.

Parents face these moments of their kids growing up continually. A friend on a social-media site mentioned how hard the transition to a bigger car seat was for her, for it signaled her baby growing up. For another it was when her child moved to a child-facing-front stroller. For me, I remember the strong feelings of loss when I realized that my son was hearing things at school that I had no control over. Or the poignant feelings that arise when I listen to recordings we made with the children years ago, when their voices sound so strikingly different.

So to the adage carpe diem – seize the day – I would add treasure the moments. We can’t freeze time, but we can be present, giving thanks for the gifts we receive, whether it’s our own children or grandchildren or those whom we are close to in the community.

Any pointers or stories on how you’ve handled big transitions in your life, or the life of your children?

July 23, 2015
Joys and Hurts of Hospitality

Photo captured on a sunset-hunting expedition with an artistic visitor.

Sometimes, hospitality hurts. We extend ourselves and welcome people into our homes, anticipating times of engaging conversation and laughter. But afterwards, we find ourselves drained in body, mind, and spirit. We become tempted to pull up the drawbridge and keep our castle for ourselves for a time.

The PyesAreUs have just come through a time of intense hospitality. Each weekend through the spring and summer, we hosted various groups of friends and family. As we’ve been gifted with the use of such a large and wonderful vicarage, we’ve always had the policy of saying “yes” when people want to stay. So this spring we said yes, and yes. And yes and yes and yes some more. Until we weren’t sure how we would cope. In fact, NicTheVic and I had just agreed that we’d not have anymore visitors when I opened up a social-networking site and glimpsed a request from one of my favorite people – someone I hadn’t seen in years. How could we pass up the opportunity of hosting them? “The speech bubble is still over my head,” I thought, musing over the decision NicTheVic and I had agreed. “I hope he sees the irony…”

Don’t get me wrong, we loved hosting (especially if you’re one of our guests as you read this!); what we struggled with was the timing of the many visits. Mainly: Why did they bunch themselves up together in an unrelenting cluster?

We were given an out at the end of the summer, and though hesitant, I took it. The friends who were to arrive just days after the kids and I dragged our jetlagged bodies home from two weeks in the States got in touch to say that the family they were visiting were all struck with the flu. The violent vomiting and diarrhea kind. Our friends had been exposed, so they said they’d understand if we wanted them to find an alternative place to stay.

Normally I would shrug off fears of sickness, but knowing how tired we were, and not being able to face tidying up the house again while so foggy in mind and body, and contemplating packing up PyelotBoy for his camp the day they’d arrive, and with the thought of body fluids being expelled so unpleasantly, I accepted their offer not to stay. Yes, I felt guilty. And yes, I labored over the decision. But it was right to say no, not least because they were able to extend their stay where they were, avoiding a huge hotel bill.

Sparklers and panache.

I’m learning we don’t always have to say yes.

But the joys of serving and welcoming weary visitors outweighs the challenges. Reflecting on our summer of hospitality, I’ve jotted down a few things to celebrate.

Serving shapes our character. I’m selfish. I like doing what I want to do, when I want to do it. But hosting guests gives us an opportunity to put the needs of others before ourselves. We seek to make them comfortable; we give them the big piece of dessert; we seek to make stimulating conversation. We’re reminded that it’s not all about us.

We receive, even when we give. Providing hospitality isn’t something we do to gain in return, but without fail, we will receive from our guests. The gift might be intangible: a particular insight about a problem we face; the love expressed in ways individual to them; affirming words; acts of service (is a night of babysitting tangible or intangible?). Or they might give us things: items from our home country that we can’t source locally; a family heirloom; a work of art; a beautiful scarf.

Children learn by watching. NicTheVic and I hope that our modeling of welcome will rub off on our kids. CutiePyeGirl is positively energized by the prospect of guests, asking what they are like when she hears they are coming and counting down the days if we’re welcoming someone really special, like grandparents. PyelotBoy, being an introvert, is more reticent, but when the guests arrive he realizes that it’s pretty great to chat and talk and get to know them – especially if they like sport.

Memories last forever. When I think back over the season of hospitality, what stand out are the memories. Like singing the Star Spangled Banner on the Fourth of July with sparklers. Drinking Pimms and watching ArtistMan create a painting within minutes while laughing with his wife. The glories of a British BBQ without rain. Walks and talks and catching up on life and love and hopes and dreams and fears.

Have you ever hosted until you hurt? How did you respond afterwards? What joys and challenges do you find with hospitality?

August 27, 2014
Welcoming angels unaware
Will you open your home and heart?

Hospitality is one of those sometimes messy Christian practices. When we welcome people into our lives, the smells from bodily functions might hang around in the air. Muddy footprints might mar our floors. We might drop our masks, revealing times of irritation or stress.

Original watercolor by Leo Boucher.

But we’re saying come, we welcome you. We want to provide you a haven of rest; a place to close the room to your door when you need to; a space to converse and share.

My husband and I are not perfect hosts by any means, but throughout our ten years in our vicarage, we’ve tried to be open and say yes when asked. It’s only in the last year or so that we have not had either a family member or an au pair living with us; that was a particular season of sharing and molding and learning. This summer seems a unique time of welcoming traveling Americans – every weekend, a new set, each with their own gifts and riches.

A few practical tips:
- Create a guide to your house. I got this idea from a throwaway line in Packing Light, a wonderful memoir about a woman who travels around the 50 states. In our guide we tell our guests about things like the wonky shower curtain (yes, it will fall on you if you’re not careful) and give them the wifi code. This also can be a repository of tourist information (especially if you live in a world-class city like London).
- Have in mind a few go-to meals. Our crock pot (slow cooker) has transformed our cooking, helping us to make easy and healthy meals. Cooking a whole chicken, for example, is now painless.
- Treasure your guest book. Our only requirement when people come to stay with us is that they sign our guest book. We love looking back over the entries, which evoke memories of the gourmet meal cooked for us by one or the Pimms we shared with another.
- Remember that they’ve come to see you (or your city), and that your house doesn’t have to be perfect. Having been raised in a very tidy home, I find this a struggle. But the visitors this summer will see by our various clutter-spots my “progress” in being able to welcome people even when there is some mess.
What tips would you add?

Washing machines at the ready, here we go!
June 20, 2014
D-Day, 70 years on

The memorial on Omaha Beach.

We sat enjoying our picnic on the beach, soaking in the French sunshine and watching our little boy play in the sand. Nicholas turned to me and said, “You know, it’s probably because of your ancestors fighting right here that those schoolchildren are free. And speaking French today.”

“Wow,” I said, the implications sinking in more deeply.

It was the earlyish 2000s and we were at Omaha Beach, enjoying the outdoors after exploring the museum with its slightly dusty artifacts and big fighting machines. I find these outing to military museums important but draining, not only for all the information to be read and digested, but for the bigger issues of loss of life, fighting, and just plain old evil. But sitting on the beach, thinking about my Uncle Donny who fought in WW2, I simply gave thanks.

Thank you, veterans, for risking or giving your lives that we might be free.

June 6, 2014
Life in the UK: Plumbing the depths

A sentence I never thought I’d write: Yesterday my son got a new radiator.

Growing up in Minnesota, I experienced a steady stream of heat in the winter. Hot air blown down the vents to my room in the basement. It was a few degrees cooler downstairs, but I didn’t mind. Bred in the North, heirs of northern Europeans, we were tough. And then I moved to Washington, DC, learned what the season Spring was with the delightful azaleas and dogwood blossoms, and lost some of my Midwestern steel. Yet the hot air kept blowing on me as I dwelled in another basement room, this time in a home with three other women.

My dreams for a Prince Charming came true but I didn’t realize that after the wedding, life in the UK would be so damp and cold. I had experienced cold, but never before the damp chill that sinks into your bones and refuses to leave. The kind that calls for endless cups of tea in the quest to get warm (not a consumer of hot drinks was I). But the honeymoon cushioned me, imparting to me a cozy flat in in Cambridge student accommodation, complete with a stunning power shower.

And then to Surrey, and Nicholas’s first curacy. An American relative came to visit and squeaked, “Could you please put the heat on?” Nicholas wasn’t home and I didn’t know how to do it – heat came on twice a day, whether or not you needed it.

Next to northwest London and single-glazed windows, with my vocabulary increasing even more (who knew to talk about glazings on windows!). One morning I asked the-Vicar-with-whom-I-sleep why the curtains in our bedroom were swaying back and forth. “Oh, that must be the draft.” But a shower had I, for Nicholas insisted that they install a power shower in the curate’s house. When the skilled church member showed me the fruits of his labors with pride, I swallowed my disappointment, burying the question bursting to come out: “That’s a power shower?”

And onto north London, where we are now, with our lovely Victorian vicarage that slowly is becoming warmer each winter, thanks to Nicholas’s perseverance and the help of the diocese. Over the years, secondary glazing added to the windows. An extra layer of insulation in the loft (attic). Some new radiators downstairs. And yesterday, a new radiator for my son as we seek to get his room allergy-friendly. (I’m sorry to our eight former au pairs, who shivered in that room, that we didn’t get this done earlier.)

Plumbing and heating. My gripes are first-world issues, I know. But how about you? Do you find joy in a shower that doesn’t qualify as an Irish mist, in which you need to jump around to get warm and wet? How cool is your house? How much tea do you consume?

February 28, 2014
Living intentionally – or trying to

Recently I read a suicide note.

Having seen plenty of movies, I was expecting drama or at least a nice piece of paper. But this was just a torn scrap with a few words jotted down. He was matter-of-fact in his note to my friend, saying that his girls needed money, as did his ex-wife; that he couldn’t take it anymore; that his neighbor had a key. Desperation and depression, fueled by a chemical imbalance after years of drug abuse, resulted in his final act of an overdose.

Except that my friend received his letter in the afternoon, not the evening, as she was off from work for medical reasons. They went to his flat, broke down the door, and found him drugged but living. She wondered if he’d be angry to be found alive. He wasn’t; in fact, he later thanked her for caring – a first for him. He said he had written to her because he didn’t want his body to be found after a week, covered in flies.

This was the same friend who a couple of months earlier had been told by an acquaintance, a doctor, to “get that mark on your face checked out.” He was the second medical friend who noticed it, which propelled her into actually making an appointment with her GP instead of delaying or brushing off the advice. She found out that she had pre-cancerous cells and underwent treatment. A few weeks later, she heard that this young doctor had died on a hiking adventure after falling into a ravine. His potentially life-saving advice to her turned out to be one of his final acts of service on this earth.

Life in all its fullness. A painting by Leo Boucher. Reproduced by permission.

Two men I’ve never met, and yet they made a profound impact on me. Why? Because I can easily get caught up in projects or tasks, and thus startling stories such as these remind me to value what really is important. For instance, some mornings I wake up early. Sometimes I can fall back to sleep, but usually I admit to myself that I won’t be able to, so I give in and get up. Recently on one such morning, I went into my study to do some writing. But PyelotBoy also woke early and joined me, eager just to sit and spend some time together. I battled internally but stayed with him on the couch, reminding myself to enjoy these sweet moments together.

I wish I could say that morning was a grand success of communion with one whom I love, but throughout our half-hour together I kept thinking of the tasks I could and should be accomplishing. But although I didn’t succeed in shutting down the distracting thoughts that time, at least I stayed rooted to the couch, sitting with my son and chatting together. I didn’t shoo him away or give him some early iPad time to compensate for me wanting to get on with my next thing. Small victories, yes, but worth celebrating.

Life. It’s worth living. Who is sitting on your couch today whom you can be present to and enjoy?

January 29, 2014
A time to give thanks

As an American in the UK, I’ve now spent a significant number of Thanksgivings out of my home country. It’s a day where I feel the cost of living here, being separated from family and friends. But we celebrate the day, and work hard to make memories for our children. They feel special for they get to miss school when all their friends have to go, and this time not for a scary medical appointment, but to go to St. Paul’s Cathedral for the annual Thanksgiving service, a quick lunch at Starbucks, and then home to prepare the food. And at the end of the day (we have to eat around 6pm because it’s just a normal day for many of our guests), we carve the turkey and sup together, enjoying our feast of food and good conversation.

But for many people, holidays such as Thanksgiving don’t hold the glossy-magazine image of loving family and friends surrounding a table heaving with tasty food. There might be material abundance but emotional scarcity. Feelings of loneliness and sadness. Seeing the chair that a loved one should be occupying, but which now sits empty. The family feud that hasn’t healed. The loss of job that weighs on the mind and heart.

When we feel pain and loss, it can be awfully hard to be thankful. And yet I’ve found that if I ask God to help me give thanks, he answers that plea. I feel a glimmer of hope; I experience a rush of love; I am overcome with peace.

Whatever your situation, may you know joy and love this Thanksgiving.

November 28, 2013
Guest blog: PyelotBoy and CutiePyeGirl

PyelotBoy, CutiePyeGirl, and I have had fun reading through some of my blogs this week. They’ve been enraptured by my writing (ha!), listening intently as I recounted my embarrassing encounter at the tea room in Lindisfarne. So they wanted to introduce themselves. PyelotBoy typed his first draft without me (but as I harp on again and again with my authors, good writing is rewriting, so I helped him with that) and CutiePyeGirl dictated hers to me. Enjoy!

My amazing blog!!!!!!!!!!!!!

As barely any people know who I am in Amy’s stories, I am often referred to as PyelotBoy, a name which our friend Mike Jowett made up.

If you would like to learn more about me then read on!!!!!

I am ten years old. I love sport, especially football/soccer [editor’s note: he loves American football too, but the Premier League unfortunately takes precedent], but like my dad I like cricket. If you have anything to ask me about football/soccer I could probably answer the question correctly.

My birthday was just recently and I got an iPod touch as well as a the new Chelsea kit which you can find a picture of on Facebook (if you are my mom’s friend).

Like my dad, I also know a lot about history and I already have plans for later on in life about history. When I am older I want to be a history lecturer at uni. An amazing fact I know about the Victorians: that the 7th earl of Shaftesbury, Anthony Ashley Cooper, was the president of the ragged school union. He also has a statue of him made from copper coins, which is called the Eros because he loved the poor.

I am dyspraxic, so it makes it very hard to do certain things such as cutting and drawing so I am not very creative. I was diagnosed in July of this year so now I am finding it a bit easier because at school they help me more.

All About a Princess

Hi! I love art and I am good at it. My name here is CutiePyeGirl. I like school and I love my teacher because she is nice. Maths is my second favorite thing to do. I like a show called Strictly Come Dancing because it shows my favorite sport. My favorite couples on Strictly Come Dancing are a girl called Abbey and a boy called Aljaz, and also Susanna and Kevin. There was a girl called Deborah and a boy called Robin who were in a dance-off and they went out of the competition. I was sad when they left.

I have been on loads of adventures and they were fun. I went to America this summer and we had a roadtrip. We had a swap-over of our house with people in Minnesota. I went to a place called Arrowwood and they had two swimming pools. We went to the playground next door to the golf area. I got to see my grandparents and cousins and aunt and uncles.

I love singing, especially Jesse J’s “Pricetag” and I also like “Plastic Bag.” My favorite channel is CBBC.

October 31, 2013
A tale of gossip, shame, and forgiveness

I woke with a shame hangover. As thoughts of the previous day came rushing back to me, my face flushed with heat.

We were traveling on a budget – not uncommon for clergy and those doing so-called Christian work.* We were sharing lunch in a small coffee shop on Holy Island (Lindisfarne), having purchased some hot soup and drinks to supplement our sandwiches, which we (well, I) consumed with a tinge of shame. The quarters were crowded and we were verily on top of a couple who were enjoying their cream tea next to us.

They were decked out with the requisite waterproofs to protect against the fierce North Sea winds, which they now had mostly shed as they nursed their hot drinks. The woman delivered a string of comments and observations to her unsuspecting or long-suffering companion: “So do you think the gentleman at the hotel was in his seventies? Oh, look, they’re sitting out there in the cold. Oh, they have a dog. That must be why. It’s so windy out there. How’s your scone? I meant to tell you a story about Roger and Elspeth…”

Snatches of conversation drifted over, and I caught them unwillingly, wanting instead to focus on my family and my own lunch while feeling conspicuous, guessing that later over tea, we would be the subject of her conversation: “Oh, did you see that family at lunch? They brought their own sandwiches and ate them at the restaurant. I wonder if they don’t have much money. The little girl spilled her hot chocolate all over, didn’t she. Shame. They were British, but not the mother. She was American, I think. The boy refused to eat the roll they had brought. How old do you think the children were? I suppose primary school…”

Something about her continual chatting drained me, and I was eager to leave and experience the space of the island. Finally lunch consumed, spilled hot chocolate cleaned, we left to explore the Priory and the Scriptorium. We enjoyed the majestic ruins of the centuries-old Priory, trying to imagine the early Christians and their life in these fierce conditions. A few hours later, my husband’s drinks routine made a 4pm stop for tea essential. “I don’t want to go back to that same place,” I said. “We were all on top of each other.” And I felt some guilt for having brought our own food into their establishment earlier.

We found a coffee shop bulging with paraphernalia. Old newspaper articles covered the walls, along with fishing traps and cricket bats. The place was empty save for one woman in the corner, turned away from us.

Cakes and tea bought, we settled in the other corner. I had tucked away the exasperation at lunchtime, and now presented my family with my self-important observations: “Oh, I’m so glad we have space here. I felt so hemmed in at lunch. And that woman next to us. Goodness, she just kept going on and on, talking about so many people. Two hands, PyelotBoy; you’ll spill your tea. Her husband didn’t seem to get a word in edgewise. She just kept talking and talking…”

Rant off my chest, I turned to my tea. But I had missed a crucial piece of information that PyelotBoy had keenly observed as we entered the café: that our lone shared café dweller, now silent, was actually… that woman. Of all of the people on the island, we were together again.

He tried to tell me over our tea, and slowly the realization dawned. I had loudly disparaged of “that woman,” and with only us in the café, she couldn’t have helped but hear my cutting comments. The minutes ticked away slowly, shame creeping into my pores. PyelotBoy, in contrast, could hardly contain his glee at my gaffe – very funny from a ten-year-old’s point of view.

I suffered in silence, and eventually the woman got up, thanked the proprietor for a lovely cup of tea, and excused herself to the loo. I thought she’d never leave. I grabbed as a cover the English Heritage children’s activity sheet from the Priory, searching for anything to distract the attention off of me and my shameful act. Reading aloud from it, I used it to shield me from any accusing glance of the woman as she left the café.

I kept checking the reflection in the glass to see if she was leaving. Finally relief washed over me when she walked out, accompanied by PyelotBoy’s peal of laughter, “Mom, you said all of that in front of her! She heard you talk about her!”

“I know. I’m mortified. That was so terrible. I feel so bad! Guys, let me tell you what that was. That’s called gossiping. I gossiped about someone and she actually heard me. Please learn from my mistakes, for that was sooo wrong.”

“I love to gossip!” PyelotBoy said, in that preteen state of silliness, wanting to oppose his parents and wind them up but not fully ensconced yet in teen rebellion.

“But look at what gossip can do,” I said. “That woman must have heard me, and think of how I must’ve hurt her, with me saying how she talked and talked about everyone. Well, she’ll certainly have something to tell her husband now. Not good. I never should have said that.”

“We know what your sorry prayer is going to be tonight!” said my husband with a laugh.

“Yep, no question. I feel horrible.”

And that shame stayed wrapped around me, like a coat I couldn’t cast off, for the rest of the day and evening. I had modeled bad behavior to the kids. Here on Holy Island I was distinctly not holy. I could only hope that my kids would see the effect of shame. And sin. And the forgiveness God gives.

That constricting and leaden cloak remained until I took it off with God’s help. I poured out my heart before him, asking for forgiveness and expressing my sorrow over my caustic words. By Jesus dying on the cross, I could be free of the weight of the shame; it would now not seep into the very fabric of who I was. I no longer would be called Gossip, but Beloved.

Have your words caused you to stumble? How have you found relief?

*I don’t like to describe it as such for all work, whether in the general marketplace or that of ministry, can be done for the glory of God and therefore be termed Christian. And yes, although on a budget, I acknowledge that we spend a significant portion of our finances on travel as we love experiencing the world and opening up our children’s eyes.

October 30, 2013