Virtual Hike

I ran across a CD my husband and I purchased a number of years ago. Fifty Virtual Hikes of the Mount Hood National Forest. It offers detailed hike descriptions, panoramic views that can be seen along the way, length and elevation changes, and a difficulty level calculator. At first I thought it a good idea, this tool that would enable us to see firsthand, even before we tie our hiking shoe-laces, over 2300 photographs and details pertaining to our future adventures. At the time, it did not occur to me that studying, examining, and perusing the 360' panoramic views would kill the thrill before it even began. I wanted so badly to see ahead of time, to chart the course of the unexpected, to map out our quest before the key went into the ignition, that my passion for hiking wilted into a yearning for long walks. I don't think I like the CD anymore. In the unexpected and unknown territory life happens. It's in the surprises and twists, the craggy hills and sprawling meadows dotted with wildflowers, that offer us the greatest view. I think if Jesus were sitting next to me right now, he would nod his head toward the CD, and in that quiet way of his, he would affirm what I've come to believe. Life's most awesome experiences are found in the unfamiliar, in the uncharted domain, and in the present moment.

Settle Down

My father-in-law is settling into his Foster Home. We are slowly making progress at decorating his modest room even though I believe the interior design of his space is more for our serenity than for his. Just as when my own father was in a care facility, I find myself surfing over the photographs we strategically placed, moving them an inch or so during each visit. I need the constant reminder of family, of the person who they used to be, of the past where we didn't have to make the hard choices. My husband and I are entering discussions about our golden years. It makes me queasy to think of myself at the mercy of strange people, and worse, unable to remember their names. That's why we hang pictures, decorate the room for Christmas, and buy clothes we like to see them wear. It's a humanizing response. I need some sense of the recognizable as I am sitting on a twin-size hospital bed, searching for conversation, glancing at the clock. It doesn't come easy, this new demand to be the one in charge, the parent child roles reversed. You have to give up the right to receive a straight answer, the right to decline an otherwise inconvenient visit, the right to expect things to change. But to see him settling, accepting his new surrounding in his own fashion is comforting. For that I am thankful.

Christmas Fever

This year we had a Christmas decorating contest at my work. It began once I unwrapped our diminutive tree we keep wrapped in a Target shopping bag during the off-season. After I carefully placed it in the same spot we set it every year, I stepped back and gave it a once-over. It looked stark and lonely. Thinking to keep this poor tree company, I added a few tiny fake poinsettias to accompany each side. Now the fever started to rise. I decided we should have a contest. Other foreheads felt the heat. Co-workers hunted their decoration closets like scavengers. Red-and-white lanterns were hung from the pipes in the basement, (my department of cave-dwellers) making us feel quite festive. Wintery village scenes strategically placed on top of a cabinet replaced the untidy mess of envelopes and used toner cartridges. It started to look quite pretty. Other departments joined in, creating magic in their own fashion. A hand-made paper fireplace with a mantle, Twilight ornaments featuring Edward, pale as ever. As the judgement day (not the judgement day) crept closer, competitive spirits burst forth and sprinkled the office with team spirit and camaraderie. Not to mention a few sleepless nights wondering what other trinkets could be borrowed for the office space. A seven-foot blow-up snowman, fake snow for Santa's footprints. After the contest winner was announced, my mind flashed forward to next year. Surveying the work space, my eyes scanned the cabinet height, the floor space, and the electrical system. Hmmm...perhaps a train.

Taking A Break

He leaned onto his knees with his elbows, a cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. I turned up my jacket collar, a vain attempt to ward off the chilly east wind and made my way toward the gentleman. Curious, I paused to offer a greeting. He beat me to it with a wispy smile and said,"Hello." I returned the salutation. "Taking a break?" I asked. Pulling the cigarette from his mouth, he answered in a raspy tone, "Oh, everyone needs a break now and then." The red- and-white cap on his head looked lopsided. His beard appeared a grayish color, not the usual pristine white I had grown accustomed to seeing. I didn't notice a belly of any sort. "Yes, breaks are important," I answered. As I turned to head toward the store I spotted a cane perched against the bench he was sitting on. Inside the mall a short line of small children hovered outside the perimeter of a fenced Christmas tree. One adult glanced at her watch as she held onto the hand of a toddler with dark hair. I finished my shopping and exited the store the same way I entered. I couldn't help myself. Like a child leaving sugar cookies on the hearth, then checking the next morning for the evidence, I stepped toward Santa Land to make sure he made it back to his post. The line of eager children eased my mind and after hearing a few hearty chuckles I felt it safe to drive home. Later that day, an epiphany flooded my mind. If Santa needs to take a break, wouldn't it be the same for all of us? This new revelation caused my stomach to do cartwheels. Maybe I will practice this "break" thing during the holidays. Especially after baking sugar cookies.

A Steep Climb

In The Prodigal Son, Henri Nouwen speaks of forgiveness as a stepping over. And sometimes a steep climb. It's not easy to forgive. It goes against our pride, our wounded hearts. It often seems impractical. I know I have a mini-Commando inside of me that wants to build a wall of defense and then embark a major assault on someone who has caused me pain. My mind can spin around like a child's toy, the colors of pain and fear colliding in whirling circles until all I end up with is this empty feeling of dejection. This past week I had an opportunity to forgive. I didn't want to. The situation caused my cheeks to burn, my heart raced, and my palms grew moist. All blaring signs that I had been hurt. My first inclination was to clam up, stew on the situation, nurse my wounds and wait for the scab to heal. Then the better side of me marched forward, or rather climbed over my pain. This voice nudged me toward a different path. I began to remember words from The Prodigal Son."Finally, it demands of me that I step over that wounded part of me that wants to stay in control and put a few conditions between me and the one whom I am asked to forgive." Thinking about his words made sense. Besides I didn't feel very good. My concentration suffered and my stomach started to hurt. I figured that God must be a genius to command us to forgive one another. Henry Nouwen also wrote, "But every time that I can step or climb over that wall, I enter the house where the Father dwells, and there touch my neighbor with genuine compassionate love." I think that forgiveness is just as much a need for our neighbor as it is for ourselves. It does not come easily, and often takes time. But the more we practice, the easier it is to step over our inner arguments and love compassionately.

Protective Custody

I had a recent date with fear. It was one of those dates you desperately want to end before it even begins. They say that a mother will do anything for her children. Stay up all night with a colicky baby. Drive across town to endless orthodontic appointments. Wait in the car with the engine idling, trying to look invisible while your sixteen-year-old-son kisses his date goodnight. Good mothers do those deeds and more. I try to be a good mother. More importantly, I am looking forward to becoming an awesome grandmother. Last week, with my daughter lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to bags of hospital stuff, fear stuck in my throat like a chunk of dirt. She's supposed to be at her baby shower, not here in this sterile scary room! And it's too early for the twins to be born! My insides twisted as fear danced in my belly. I prayed hard. Supermom hard. A few hours later at my daugther's shower, my mind was thick and fuzzy, my thoughts hinged on the two baby boys. Are they safe? Can they hear the prayers? As if we had been given protective custody over two neonatal strangers, the room stilled and my dear friend spoke an earnest prayer. Then, feeling like an impostor, I opened the shower gifts, ooohed and aaahed over tiny outfits and foreign-looking gadgets. Friends re-wrapped the presents, making them appear virgin-like, hiding the torn corners and rearranging hastily ripped-off ribbon. My daughter arrived home the next day, and she opened the gifts in her comfortable lounger. I feigned surprise as she gave her own rendition of delight. The twins remained secure, unscathed by the recent tumult. My breath escaped easier and my shoulders dropped an inch. Fear might be strong, but prayer is stronger. Fear shouts and prayer answers. And fear never makes a good date.

A Bloggers Tale

A co-worker asked me recently,"How's it going?" He wore a serious expression, one eyebrow arched. I looked at him with complete understanding. He wasn't interested in how much work is plastered all over your desk, or are you attending the way-too-early meeting next Tuesday? No, his concern centered around my favorite hobby. Writing. A flurry of noise encircled us as we discussed the virtue of following our passion. I whined about my unpublished manuscript. The one collecting dust. His other eyebrow arched. "Start another one," he said. That got me to thinking. I have the beginnings of another story already downloaded to a flash drive. The creative part of me says, you can do it, it will be fun. The practical side of me says, just blog, you don't have to do countless re-writes and it doesn't take much of your time. Besides, you'll never get it published. Then I clicked on Donald Miller's blog. After reading his thoughts on books, writing, and on blogging, I came to a very serious conclusion. The next time my co-worker asks me the question, because he will, I will be prepared. Looking him straight in the eye, I will answer, "It's going good!" Words are inside of me and the stories will be told in their own time. For that I am thankful.

Fall On Me

This time of year, with trees undressing, blanketing the autumn ground with crimson red and bright yellow leaves, my thoughts trail the pattern of the season. A curling fog aprons an open field, the sun dances across a spider-web draped outside a window, and the east wind creates a play-day with the tossing leaves. My inmost desire is to let go, create, frolic and wait patiently for renewal. It comes, the renewal. Most often after the fiercest storms and all you really want to do is sleep. For a very long time. I feel like the trees in November, shedding their leaves, standing naked for a season, vulnerable and exposed to the elements. But, after a cold and sometimes harsh winter, the first buds of spring renew their promise, and together, with the aged bark and crooked limbs, the journey of creating continues. We moved my father-in-law yesterday to a Foster Home. He did not want to go. I am praying he will be happy. So, like the great maple tree outside my bedroom window, I hope to shed a bit of the pain and uncertainty. Today, I notice a massive red oak across the street, stripped down to a brilliant yellow tutu, and I wait for the eternal promise. For when the tree bares itself completely, I know the cycle continues, and I can rest in the hope of regeneration.

Gimme Five

How much power does the human hand hold? A firm handshake speaks volumes over a limp grip. A gentle touch, a caress or a stroke are pleasing sensations generated by the human hand. An itch can be relieved and cool fingers ease a hot forehead. Your hand can scream at a crazy driver with certain gestures, or with a quick flip of the wrist, it makes a perfect tool to ward off uneasy conversations. Recently, on an episode of "Glee," Kurt sang a tearful rendition of the Beatles' classic hit, "I Want To Hold Your Hand." Today, gazing at an ultrasound picture, five fingers waved at me through a tiny cell phone screen. I counted them to make certain. Fluorescent bones illuminated the hand, which appeared larger than the head, showing the world a perfect high-five. Instantly, I yearned to take my new grandchild's hand inside my own, gloving the minute appendage with unconditional love. The Bible tells us to lend a helping hand, to be a helping hand. I thought about that today. And the myriad of ways God caresses us in his loving hands. So, I clicked on the message in my inbox once again, peering at the elfin high-five, and wondered to myself if this unborn child hasn't already figured this all out.

Follow The Leader

Have you seen him? Has he entered your private space unexpectedly, delightfully, surprisingly?Does the first glistening star in the inky sky remind you of him? Have you met him? So often I've flipped through my Bible, skimming past the two words that rock my world. They scare me. They make me sweat. And I don't always know what they mean. Follow me. Follow you where? To the heavy-set guy at the gym you prompted me to encourage, even though I really wanted to pretend I didn't feel the nudge. To the homeless shelter on a cold rainy day, or the dirty and ragged homeless on the street corner. To the nasty customer on the other end of the telephone, on whom I would rather slam the receiver down hard. Twice. Even though, with considerate listening, I might actually hear between the lines. I ask myself these questions from time to time. Especially when life throws a glitch in my carefully crafted plans, and my day-planner looks more like an etch-a-sketch than a blueprint for the next twenty-four hours. But I ask nonetheless, because when I gaze up at the illuminated stars, their dazzling brilliance cause my breath to hitch at the base of my throat. And on a good day, the fragile breath escapes, liberated, freely, into the unknown. Then I am reminded of the times I allowed him to lead. Life gets so much sweeter when I follow the leader.

Moose Fever

"I want to see a moose," he said, his voice sounding like a ten-year-old itching to hit a home run. With bases loaded. Glancing his way, I noticed the furtive look he snuck while driving the car. His eyes skimmed the side of the road as we continued down the highway. What's so special about a moose? I kept my gaze pinned to the New England autumn colors, the brilliant orange and crimson-colored leaves dappling the scenery. Flashing emergency signs were occasionally posted on the right-hand side of the road, a warning for stray moose. Hmmm...maybe this year he'll be lucky. The pouring rain did not deter my husband's desire for the anticipated sighting. His small camera held court in the pocket of the car door. Mine was snuggled in its case, resting up for the next round of dazzling shots. He said we needed to stop at Walmart. I do not like Walmart. Ever. But, this being vacation, I didn't sit in the car and pout. After our hurried trip down the aisles, searching for fishing gear, we headed out of the parking lot. "Why are they stopped?" He nodded his head toward a gaggle of cars parked haphazardly on the street just outside of Walmart. "It's a moose!" Joy leaped from his clear eyes. I grabbed my camera, rushing after my husband, suddenly caught up in moose fever. The locals skirted around the tourists, most likely immune to the popular attraction. Afterward, we each took a quick peek at our digital pictures. Through my telephoto lens it appeared we were out in the wilderness, not yards from America's shopping heaven. His viewer displayed the moose as a tiny speck. A few minutes later, we headed back down the road, my husbands wish granted. That day, I did get some great pictures. I think I will make him a mouse pad for Christmas.

Miner Detail

How many eyes were riveted to the television this past week? How many conversations revolved around the miracle taking place in front of the world? What thoughts swirled through the minds of the men as they inched their way toward daylight? I don't know the answer to any of these questions. But this is what I do know. As the 13th miner emerged from the missile-like escape capsule, I stopped pedaling and sat still, unable to avert my eyes from the screen mounted on the wall in the gym. I contemplated the major feat taking place, the courage of the trapped miners and the magnitude of the rescue efforts. After a few moments, I lowered my head, swiped the tear snaking down my cheek, and whispered, "Thank you."

My Friend Iris

I flipped the switch and waited patiently for her comforting presence. Letters appeared on the screen as she prepared her grand entrance. Oh, the sweetness of her voice. I cradled the device in the palm of my hands like a small Bible. "Drive 2.4 miles, then turn right." I glanced at my husband's jaw, the tightness, the distrust causing his eyes to squint. A short distance prior to the exit, I said, using my best imitation, "o.3 miles, then turn right." His face remained stony. "Turn right!" she said. As our car sped past the off ramp, my heart palpitated furiously. "She didn't give us enough notice!" I whined. "Recalculating,"she intoned. My eyes rolled. "Drive 3.4 miles, then turn left." I got so mad at her that I shut my eyes against the crimson red and sulfur leaves dappling the scenery as we whizzed by. Unlike my husband, I had placed a small amount of faith in Iris. Even though she messed up sometimes, causing us to drive miles out of the way, or asking us politely to turn down a gravel driveway, I held her tight. Plus, I'm a lousy co-pilot. Once, with a pert voice, she advised us to make a right hand turn on a freeway, which, had we obeyed, would have smashed our car into the guard-rail. I still gave her every chance in the world. Maybe that's how God sees us humans. I wonder how many times I've traveled in the wrong direction and he looks down at me, smiles, and with supernatural patience in his tone says, "Recalculating." Then, if I am listening, I turn directions, and travel the opposite way, the way that offers the beautiful scenery. I named her Iris because I thought it sounded sophisticated and smart. We did get to our destination, and my husbands jaw eventually loosened. The view was glorious.

Dream On

Dreams come in different colors. Passionate ones remind me of fiery-red. Bold carries with it a hint of chocolate brown. Scary is just plain black. They can wake you in the middle of the night unexpectedly, fear and excitement wrestling together like unsupervised ten-year-olds. I don't mean the terrifying dreams where your feet pedal like the Roadrunner's. Or the wistful ones you chew on while waiting for the stop light to turn green. No, this kind inches up from the soul, glimpses of possibility within reach, yet seemingly unattainable. Recently, I noticed a picture on a billboard. A large photograph of Randy Pausch, the author of The Last Lecture. A similar sign caught my eye, this one showed Susan Boyle, the singer who gave the world goosebumps when she belted her tune on the British Reality TV show. Both of these billboards delivered a thought provoking message. Live your dream. When my sight pinned on the picture of Randy Pausch, I thought to myself, his dream is getting bigger, his life touching others even after his death. About a month ago, with disappointment dripping off my tongue, I mumbled to my sister something about my unpublished manuscript collecting dust in a cabinet. She said offhandedly, "Find another dream." I shot her a sideways glance, saying to myself, but that was my dream! Then I got to thinking. What if dreams snowballed, layering on top of one another, until collectively, with each risk and failure taken, your dreams multiply like a constellation of stars. Randy Pausch said in his book, "Experience is what you get when you didn't get what you wanted." Would I recognize a new dream? Is it hiding under the covers, shivering from neglect, begging to be discovered? Or is it already working itself out, a tapestry of mini-dreams pieced together, which just might reveal themselves as a billboard some day. Randy Pausch also wrote, "It's important to have specific dreams. Dream Big. Dream without fear." I would like to have met him. Some dreams are contagious.

The Color Red

"Do you want to look down the hole?" I stared at the young girl, who appeared to be around six years of age. She wore leggings and and a short dress with a sort of tutu, reminding me of a ballerina. Her small hand gestured toward the object of her fascination."What is down the hole?" I asked her. "Oh, you can see red." She tucked her long brown hair behind her ears, a shy smile playing across her face. I had no intention of kneeling down on the floor of the cafe and peer through the three inch hole. "I like your dress," I told her. "Thank you," she said. "I like your hat," she said to my husband. This polite exchange continued for a few minutes. She took one more peek through the hole and went back to her table. Inhaling a deep breath, the smell of fresh brewed coffee filling my nose, I glanced at the area that had captured her attention. We finished our beverages and left the cafe, my mind trapped by the mystery down below the restaurant. I am not an adventurous person, some have called me prudent. I don't like that word. It reminds me of a boring person who never buys expensive shoes and eats Spam to save money. The next week we returned to the same cafe and took a table next to the cryptic hole. Sipping my coffee I watched as a few young children took turns exploring the unknown down below. After their parents tore them away, I slid my chair back and knelt down on the old wood floor and took a glimpse. Disappointed at seeing nothing more than concrete and pipes, I stepped back to my table feeling let down. Where was the color red the little girl spoke about? Did she imagine a crimson kite or a maroon bouncing ball? Or a package wrapped with curly bright red ribbon? Maybe she saw a kaleidoscope of colors and only carried red to the surface. Later that day, I recalled a recent article in the newspaper that had described the decor of the restaurant and the hole was mentioned as an unseemly sight. I don't think children read the newspapers.

The Princess Bride

There is a line in the 1987 movie, The Princess Bride, which I have never forgotten. When Buttercup pushes Westley down a mountainside, he tumbles down the steep incline saying as he rolls and rolls, "As you wish..." which really meant, "I love you." He did indeed love her, and when she heard those words she knew he was her beloved farm hand, not the Dread Pirate Roberts he pretended to be. As you wish...I love you...Today, letting the three words play across my tongue, I imagined ways I could repeat that line. Like when someone asks you to go shopping and all and you want to do is recline on the sofa and read a good book. My higher self would get up off the couch and go to the mall. As you wish. A radiant sunset begins its descent, the beauty holding your breath hostage. You clasp the hand next to yours, giving it a gentle squeeze. As you wish. A neighbor takes ill and is recuperating in a nursing home. You water two lawns instead of one. As you wish. The storms of life cause you to stumble, and your world is turned inside out like a reversible poncho. When you cry out in despair, a vision of two arms raised and a crown of thorns blankets your eyes. I love you. In the movie, when the grandson asks the grandfather to return the next day and re-read the story, The Princess Bride, the grandfather replies, As you wish. In my imagination, the grandfather revisits as often as he is asked, and in a gentle yet excited tone, he repeats the same lines as if the boy had never heard the tale before.

Oh Sweet Lavender

The gentleman at the Farmer's Market offered me a slender sprig of lavender. Accepting the gift, I smiled and gave my thanks. Then I brought the bud toward my nose and inhaled deeply. The fragrance transported me backward in time, to a place where every daughter goes and needs to return to occasionally. The sweet smell filled my senses and with each breath I saw her more clearly. Her gloved hands holding the trowel, her eyes dancing with laughter, and her distant demeanor when I craved a gentle hug. I think I have a guardian angel who leads me to the aromatic flower when I need it the most. Like when life is unsettled and your feet can't find the right path. Or when your firstborn grandchildren will enter this world without a great-grandmother's touch. I read that lavender is resilient, hardy, and that most gardeners succumb to the urge to grow the plant. I have one in my backyard. My mother gave it to me. I wonder if she knew I would need to sniff the buds from time to time. To recall, to appreciate, to forgive. I like to think that the bond between a mother and daughter is as strong as a lavender plant. No matter the disappointments, the bruises, or unfulfilled expectations, the love between the two stands tall. And when secret memories are shared, whether through thought or word, they will always be framed by beauty, peace and undying love.

May I Have This Dance?

I stretched my leg across the black bar, leaned forward slightly to give my hamstring an extra tug. My gaze panned the gym, landing on a tall Asian gentleman moving ever so gracefully around the perimeter of the weight machines. He appeared oblivious to the people surrounding him, the grunts, chatter and piped music. He moved smoothly in fluid motion, his feet making deft half-circles, his arms extended like he was dancing with a partner in a ballroom. Continuing my stretching, covertly watching this stranger, I thought to myself, who does he pretend he is dancing with? Did he have a wife? Was he a widower? A girlfriend? Can he see me gawking his way? It got me thinking. Could I tune out the rest of the world for twenty minutes and pretend my moves were the most beautiful thing on earth? That it didn't matter if sweaty people stared at me? Then I took it one step further. If I closed my eyes, held out my arms, and pretended I was dancing with Jesus, who I believe would not make fun of me, how would I feel? Serene? Protected? Peaceful? I've never really considered the idea of physically dancing with Jesus. I wonder if perhaps He isn't already patiently waiting in the middle of the dance floor. His face illuminated by the glistening chandelier, his foot tapping to the beat, his heart praying for me to hear the music He planted in my soul. I don't know who the Asian man danced with, but I know his expression carried a look of pure contentment. Maybe I will pop in a CD, kick my shoes off and fox-trot around my living room. You just never know who might cut in.

Baby, Baby, Can't You hear My Heartbeat

How many ways can a heart break? A bad break-up with a boyfriend, or worse, your boyfriend dates your best friend. A divorce. A loved one dies all too sudden. You lost your job and cannot understand the reason. Or you don't listen to your heart, and live a life that leaves you bored, listless and frustrated. The Bible states specifically, guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of life. I wrote a line in my book...without the heart you can't find your way home. Greeting cards show pictures of red hearts with loving sentiments written inside. The heart is love. It is life-affirming. The other day I watched on a big flat screen two tiny hearts beat. Stunned, I moved closer to catch a better look. Yes, the technician said, that is the heart. I looked at my daughter, who had a wide grin pasted on her face. She is three months pregnant, and had the awesome experience of witnessing her twins' hearts beat. This made me ponder the magnificence of the human heart. These hearts were the centerpiece of the stage, they thumped, pounded, and were illuminated like shining stars. Yes, the hands and feet moved and yes, the spine shone like a fluorescent toy wand, but there was no mistaking the power of those two tiny organs. Before the doctor finished, she said, just think, those hearts could beat for ninety more years. I was thinking today of how I could guard my heart. To protect it and appreciate its goodness. For surely, it is the wellspring of life.

Super Hero Dogs

I saw a movie recently, where one of the characters owned a dog. Not just any dog, but a canine with the unique ability to detect ahead of time, the onset of an epileptic seizure. And I heard on the radio yesterday of dogs who aid people with diabetes. I thought about this for awhile. I chewed on the possibility of training my dog, Frazier, to help me out. I don't mean to belittle the importance of the helpful companions to all of those people who suffer from disabilities and illnesses. I simply wondered if I could get some assistance on a regular basis. Like when my husband hugs the car ahead of ours on the freeway, and I inhale audibly, causing him to jerk his head my way, the veins on his neck bulging. Or when someone enters my bubble at the grocery store, their breath brushes my neck, and I shoot them an icy stare. If my dog had proper training, could he protect me from myself? Would he then warn me when I am about to act in anger, fear, or just plain foolishness? Perhaps he would nudge me, lick my hand, or bark, distracting me from voicing a new complaint or a sarcastic remark. I believe my dog would be loyal to the end, even if I suffered momentarily from a sudden bout of road rage. His adorable head poking out of the car window would surely stop another driver from fits of revenge. This of course, is after Frazier gave me fair warning. My dog would be fully trained in back-up plans. After all, that is why they are called a man's (or woman's) best friend.

Can You Smell The Roses?

My brother is a gardener. He creates multi-colored beds, plants smiling marigolds, hangs plants galore, whose names I never remember. When I step onto his patio, the sound of water cascades from various water features. It reminds me of a mini Multnomah Falls. Beautiful yard decorations are ingeniously placed throughout. Sweet smells arise from the plants, the names escape me. Purple, sunflower-yellow, orange, violet and a rainbow of other colors dot the landscape. I sigh with envy, return home and spray my petunias for teensy black bugs. Because my brother told me to. I really care about my flowers, I really do. But recently I have wondered if I care a little too much. A number of years ago, God spoke to me and said...I am in the flowers you love. That shook me up. Maybe He meant if I fertilized more, my spiritual growth would pick up in a furious pace. Or, perhaps He meant I needed to plant extra flowers and worry about aphids, mildew and slimy slugs. Then the other day, I snipped off a pale pink rose, inhaled the rich scent and it hit home. I realized He already knew my deep appreciation for splendorous flowers. He understood that something so wonderful, so easily captured within our eye sight and in our senses, was a gift to be treasured. Not something to fret over or feed insecurities. I am not a master gardener, or even a plant enthusiast, but I have a greater respect and awe for the gifts in the midst of my every day life. Especially in my garden.

Wishing

When I was a little girl, I used to catch the tops of dandelions, those puffy off-white-spiky- round-floaty-things. I would chase after them, my flip-flops making clapping noise, my feet racing and my laughter spilling from my throat. Once captured, I held it cupped in my palms, drew in my breath, made a wish and then released it back into the atmosphere, unharmed. I never wondered if anyone else found the same wish. But when my daughter was little, she too reached in the summer air for the tops of weeds, clutched them carefully and stowed the treasures in one of our cabinets. Now, the images of wishes are on greeting cards, wall art at Ikea, and on my lime-green sofa pillows. When I lay my middle-aged head on the soft fabric, I can smell the freshly cut grass under my toes. I see a smile playing on my daughter's face. I listen to the sound of noiseless prayers, lips moving in secret silence, expectant hearts waiting for answers. Hope, the ultimate wish.

Thoughts on Grace

Several years ago I wrote a book, and since have queried more than fifty editors. My drawer is half-filled with rejection letters and tiny printed post cards. Last year, my daughter emailed me a quote from Jodi Picoult who encourages writers to be persistent, to not quit, to be someone who believes in their own work to such a degree that they refuse to give up. The funny thing about Grace, and I capitalize the word to show my up most respect, is that no matter how many times we find ourselves feeling dejected, wounded, and sorrowful from lack of acceptance, Grace has a sneaky way of showing up, right on time. Recently, I received a good rejection letter. The editor had actually taken the time to read my submission and made a few comments. The fact that she did not choose to represent my work, paled in light of the simple truth that she took the time to consider my writing. I drew a big smiley face on the white envelope addressed to me, and placed it on top of the plethora of rejection cousins. Grace moves us forward.