Yes, Virginia, There Is a Santa Claus

 This past week, one of my  co-workers asked me when I had first discovered that Santa was not real. Christmas music filtered through the air, Silent night, Holy night, all is calm, all is bright. "I don't know," I answered. "Guess I never thought about it." I paused for a moment." Maybe one of my five siblings spilled the beans when I was a toddler," I replied. Truthfully, I cannot imagine a world where Santa did not exist. When I see the whorly beard, fake or not, white hair peeking from beneath his red-and-white cap, I can't help but think that he is real and not just a jolly persona. This world desperately needs the wonder, hope and generosity that surrounds his name. And the child-like innocence that causes grown men to dress up in red suits, and children to send letters to the North Pole. To quote Francis Pharcellus Church, "Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see." I don't see Jesus, but I believe he is real. I don't see angels but I trust they are active. I don't see God, but I know he sees me. Maybe this week I will tell my co-workers the truth. And maybe, just maybe, one of them will look at me with bright eyes and agree, "Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus."

The Early Present

We sat cross-legged on the floor, arms lifted up, hands held together as if in prayer. One of my siblings' head is bowed. The rest of us faced my dad, a half-circle of pleading children, begging to open just one present. He stood looking down on us with his hands on his hips, right thumb hooked to the corner of his pants pocket. The tinseled Christmas tree smiled at his back. Six stockings, our own actually, not the red-and-white felt kind, hung on the white mantle. This is a picture of my own family I like to display during the holidays. It was taken eons ago, when kids played in the park all day long. Without fear of gangs. When our minds were preoccupied with the amazing brand new black-and-white television sitting in the living room. We had not heard of the Internet or held a cell phone in the palm of our hands. Texting was not an option. However, the basic needs remained the same. We weren't in charge. We had a father who was. He held the power to say yes or no. Our Christmas present was already wrapped with great love, but we were still his children and needed to ask his permission. We might have even begged. Please, Daddy, please. This past week I found myself in a similar position, head and hands raised toward heaven, lips moving feverishly, petitioning God to help my niece. I knew I had to go directly to the Father and plead our case. We enlisted prayers from friends, co-workers, family, church members, anyone who listened. We shouted at heaven to heal our loved one. Have mercy, we are really scared. Yesterday she was moved from the ICU and hopefully on the road to a full recovery. I have found nothing more glorious in this life than when my Father bends His ear down to listen, and allows us the opportunity to experience His grace to the fullest measure. And like a child who bolts toward the tree on Christmas morning, I eagerly received my present, although a wee bit early. My niece's sister posted on Facebook- She is awake! Yes, I thought, and God never sleeps. Meister Eckhart wrote, "The most important prayer in the world is just two words long: 'Thank You.'"

A Grateful Thanksgiving

In The Return Of The Prodigal Son, Henry Nouwen pens some of my favorite passages. He writes, "The discipline of gratitude is the explicit effort to acknowledge that all I am and have is given to me as a gift of love, to be celebrated with joy. Gratitude as a discipline involves a conscious choice." Yesterday at the gym, I paused to chat with a fellow gymmie friend. She asked about my welfare, and stated how glad she was to see me. I glanced around the weight room, my thoughts forming words of resentment and fear. Instantly, I knew I could either voice complaints over my health, my limitations, the economy, or I could simply say, thank you, it's nice to see you too.  Henri Nouwen also states, "Resentment and gratitude cannot co-exist, since resentment blocks the perception of life as a gift." I like that, life as a gift. Thanksgiving is an opportune time to reflect on the discipline of gratitude. I have much to be thankful for. Even though my husband groans every fall as he retrieves our rake, I love, love,  the leaves carpeting the ground, the deck, the brilliant reds and golds, the shapes and mounds of splendid color. My grandchildren make my heart do cartwheels. I have eyes to see, hands to feel, I am mobile, I do not have a scooter yet. I have a job, a good marriage, wonderful children, a home and a refrigerator filled with food. To quote Henri Nouwen once again, "Acts of gratitude make one grateful because, step by step, they reveal that all is grace." I thanked my gymmie friend yesterday, and asked after her own welfare. It was a step, and once more I caught a glimpse of how much my choices matter. And maybe one day my pace will outdistance all resentments, until every breath is an expression of gratitude. Happy Thanksgiving.

If You Build It They Will Come

This summer I bought my very first hummingbird feeder. A sea-green glass antique-looking feeder that appeared way more attractive than its cheaper plastic competitors and I felt certain every hummingbird in the vicinity would flock to its sweet nectar daily. Every day I lingered at the kitchen sink, my gaze pinned to the hanging ornamental feeder outside the window. Washing an unusual amount of dishes by hand, I tarried,   hoping to witness one of my favorite feathered friends take a drink, whir its tiny wings. While on vacation in July, after lamenting my still chock-full glass container, a few family members offered their advise. Hummingbirds like the color red they said. When we arrived home my husband tied a crimson-red ribbon around the base of the glass. Surely, they can't miss their food now. As the end of summer approached, and the nectar appeared untouched, we moved the feeder to the front porch, and replaced it with a hanging flower basket. Truth be told, I was disappointed and tired of waiting. Besides, I had other things to do than wait for a bird I told myself. The other day, laying on the sofa nursing my back, I chatted with my sister on the telephone. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I finally saw one. Whirring its diminutive wings and dipping its long skinny beak, the pale green bird hovered right next to the red ribbon and took its fill. "Oh! That made my day!" I exclaimed. The hummingbird visited for just a short while, but my longing had been satisfied. My wait had come to an end. Charles Haddon Spurgeon said, "Waiting on God exercises your gift of grace and tests your faith. Therefore, continue to wait in hope, for though the promise may linger, it will never come to late." Thank-you, I whispered, into the faithful arms of hope. What might to the human eye appear as lacking, may actually be the beginning of the answer.

The Grace Card

Recently, my husband and I watched a movie called The Grace Card. It was an emotional tear-jerker with so-so acting. Faults aside, it offered a profound message of grace in action. Several weeks ago I received my very own grace card. If you have followed my blog, you might have guessed by now that I have been walking through some serious pain. The kind of discomfort that causes barking words to tumble from my mouth before I can swallow them back down. Whole. Fits of tears that blotch my face, a recent addiction to television, and a hold on my gym membership. Not fun stuff. A few weeks ago, after an outpatient procedure, I shuffled through the garage to let our dog outside. My gaze landed on a cream-colored vase housing a bouquet of assorted flowers. They held court next to our dusty Universal gym, their presence presumably out of sight. Hmmm...Looks like they are meant to be hidden. My insides bubbled with excitement. Oh, when is he going to give them to me? Then, a keener understanding filtered through my mind. After everything he's been through this year, he thought of me. As darkness cloaked the house, the vase still stood in the garage. I couldn't take it any longer. "Aren't you forgetting something?" I blurted, nodding my head towards the garage. My husband's lips parted, a slight boyish smile crossed his face and he gave me a look that said, I-know-what-you-are-referring-to-but-I'm-not-going-to-answer-right-now. I readied for bed pondering those flowers with nobody oohing and aahing over their beautiful existence. When I walked into the kitchen the next morning, eagerly anticipating a cup of fresh hot coffee, their cheerful presence greeted me, surprising me, gaily exclaiming, "Wasn't it worth the wait!" The arrangement appeared vividly enhanced, an explosion of colors. A card addressed to me rested in front of the vase. I opened the envelope, pulled out the card and read the words inside. Gulping hard, I swiped wet tears from my cheeks. I found my husband reading the newspaper and I hugged him tightly. The flowers and card commemorated the exact date and time we met at a high school dance, forty years ago. "Ummm...the arrangement looks bigger than it did yesterday," I said. He lowered the newspaper. "The first one wasn't big enough, so I bought two." "Oh," I managed. Later, while admiring the brilliant display, my thoughts spooled backward, to a guy and a girl, a high school dance and a slow walk home on a cool Autumn night. Then I read his inscription on the card again. Even through the pain and suffering, he thought of me. He did this for me. Now how can I extend my card to another?

The Art of Waiting

The first thing I do after checking in for an appointment, say doctor or dentist, is to comb a rack or table for the latest People magazine. Not being fond of waiting, I find reading mindless material makes the time pass easier, gentler, and takes my mind off the tick tick tick. Usually, the wait is not as long as I anticipated. And sometimes, I release the urge to peruse the latest news on Brad or Jennifer, choosing instead to settle into a chair, close my eyes and corral my thoughts together, until I enter the peaceful place, the resting room. Having said that, I am finding that waiting all together is not an easy feat. This year I have experienced what I like to call, practicing the Art of Waiting. Whether it be sickness, marriage difficulties, economic struggles, death of a loved one, every one of us will at some time be asked to wait. I don't like that much. And this year, my resting room has too often posted a No Vacancy sign, its bold red letters telling me to give up hope, to trust my childhood God instead of truth. Today, I read a quote by E.M. Bounds. It goes like this, "Pray and never faint, is the motto Christ gives us for praying. It is the test of our faith, and the more severe the trial and the longer the waiting, the more glorious the results." Practicing the Art of Waiting requires me to switch off the No Vacancy sign every time it flashes. It requires me to pray in the morning, at work, on the fly, on my knees. It also asks that I trust God, trust his goodness, trust the unknown. My flip dictionary suggests other words for waiting, like rest, anticipate, interim. I like anticipate best. It feels good on my tongue, rolls off easier, and sounds more pleasant. I think I will add anticipate into my practice. I do not wish to miss the glorious riches that wait on the other side.

Coming of Age

I waited with my friends, the room charged with anticipation. Does he suspect? Will he be surprised? We pasted favorite memories in a large book, commemorating this special day. A Happy Birthday banner was hung in front of a long table adorned with food and chocolate cake. The room was filled with an array of people, friends, family and grandchildren, all gathered together for one common purpose. I chatted with my writing friends, some of whom I had not seen for ages. The conversations centered around our favorite topics, writing and books, with the occasional comment about quilts, canning and grandchildren mixed in. I heard his belly laughter coming from down the hallway. It was time. He rounded the corner and our jubilant HAPPY BIRTHDAY exclamation marks embraced him with full force. His surprised expression will forever be cemented in that hidden place, the space in my heart that never forgets, always appreciates, my treasure chest. As he greeted his guests and reached out for hugs, I knew that in this friend I had been richly blessed. A ruthless editor and critic of my book, he taught me to stay the course and truly appreciated my penchant for similes. His own book, a memoir still in progress, has given those lucky enough to be a part of, snapshots of his youth and authentic glimpses into a bygone era. This is what I have learned about friendship. When I witness someone cry with unabashed emotion and my own eyes well up in connection, I know  I have indeed experienced the richness of community, of friendship, of love. Today my friend, John is 90. He has truly come of age.

Word Play

I woke up this morning with the sleepy sky hidden behind closed blinds, a breath of crisp autumn air coming through the window. I rolled over, contemplating sneaking a few more winks, however, a word balloon played across my mind, one of those words I seldom use, or even ponder. It settled in my brain, the side of my brain that resists change, likes routines and embraces the sameness of life. I never DVR the make-over shows and I eat the same thing for breakfast every day. As I lay there, the word hugged my mind like a mother's warm touch, a super-soft baby's blanket. I went grocery shopping and noticed the gourds and multi-colored pumpkins on display. Autumn has arrived. The trees outside are peeking out of their dressing rooms, eager to show off their new clothes, teasing us with previews of vibrant hues tinting their leaves. The days are shorter, school buses make their daily stops and new television shows vie for mass audiences. Recently, I came across a quote by Jo Petty. "Take with you words, strong words of courage: words that have wings!...Tall words, words that reach up, and growing words, with deep life within them." Today, my word is transition. It is the word that gives me permission, alleviates my fear, and allows me to step out of the dressing room, confidently adorned in its powerful message. And like all words that have wings, I believe this one carries with it the ability to fly.

Hope Floats

Where does our hope go when life throws an unexpected pitch? When we stand at  home plate, hips slightly swaying, feet firmly in place, arms raised and our hands gripping the bat. And as we take the first swing we realize that we weren't prepared for this, this out of reach, impossible to hit change-up pitch. Our hope floats downward as the ball slowly drops, nicking home plate and our bat kisses the air. Suddenly, we realize the pitcher can throw a sneaky changeup. This isn't what we planned on,
what we hoped for. Sometimes life is hard. Our home is flooded. We can't pay the mortgage and we haven't told the children they will be changing schools. Our elderly parent forgets our name. Again. I am thinking God does his best work in us when our hope is faint. The Bible tells us to "be anxious about nothing." Don't worry. Be joyful. During my season of back pain my hope has grown as thin as rice paper. Tears of frustration pool in my eyes more often than not. My running shoes collect dust in my closet. I chat with my pharmacist during her break. But I had a thought today. Perhaps that is the master plan after all. When life is the dimmest and our strength is tapped, maybe, just maybe, that is when God does His thing. When I surrender and admit that I need to trust that He has it all figured out and His love is far greater than my magnified fear, then perhaps I can muster the courage to face the hour. Then maybe the day. And the next. Hope is more than the ultimate wish, it is the belief in a God so loving, so awesome that He wraps His hands around our own quivering appendages as we stand at home plate awaiting the next pitch. He nudges. Trust me. Jesus is here. Don't be anxious. Chill. We'll run the bases together, and remember, with me you'll always make it home. So, I inhale the rich scent of a rose I picked yesterday. I kiss my husband and tell him thank you for no special reason. I find creative ways to type my beloved words. I am stealing joy and my hope floats upward.

Brother Can You Spare A Dime?

Mother Teresa said, "If you can't feed a hundred people, then just feed one." My husband is generous. Really, really, generous. Last week his benevolent self shone like the first stars in the evening sky. Sunday, a beat-up white van drove into our cul-de-sac and parked in front of our house. Two men stepped out and approached my husband who was eyeing them from the front lawn. The men wore baggy blue jeans with large holes, T-shirts that hung loose and longish unkempt hair. The gentleman who spoke wore a hard-hat with a picture of the American flag on the side. After a few words between the three, they toured our yard while the man with the hat kept pointing upwards toward one of our trees. I resumed reading my book, lounging on the sofa, hoping they would leave soon so I could take my book outside on the deck, and hang with the birds under the glorious blue sky. Soon, I heard a chain saw revving. Peering out, I gasped as the scene unfolded outside my window. These bedraggled men were preparing to cut my tree. "What are those guys doing?" I asked my husband as he walked through the front door. He did not appear to notice my dismay. "Oh, come look," he said, and motioned me toward the deck in the back yard. He proceeded to describe how the bushes and trees were going to be groomed. I swiveled my head towards the men."They are going to do this?" Doubt coated my tongue. And I mentally counted the cost, the dent in our bank account. "He said he's an arborist." My husband gestured toward one of the gentleman, the one who seemed to be in charge, the man with the hat. I walked back into the house, closing my mouth tight, lest I say anything that might be used in court. A few minutes later my husband offered them some water. I extended narrowed eyes and a suspicious mind. Then, my husband, always the Good Samaritan left to pick up some friends from the airport. I was alone. With my barking, panting dog, Frazier. And strangers outside my house who just might be casing the place. Eventually, the good voice inside prompted me to step back outside. I greeted the gentleman, the arborist in charge who smiled wide, revealing a missing front tooth. When he extended his hand over the fence I left my own hands awkwardly dangling by my side, stiff with preconception, intolerance. It was then I saw the teen-age boy. Relief flooded my veins. Frazier, continued barking his do-not-come-near-this door bark, as I did my best to keep him inside, the better to protect his domain.  After an hour or so, they left to retrieve their truck that they used to haul debris. When they returned I saw an old faded blue Chevy pick-up parked at the curb. My grandfather drove one just like it in 1962. They resumed their work, chatting and teasing each other about spider-webs. A few of our neighbors surveyed their handi-work while I continued texting my daughter my irrational doubts and fears. The boss knocked on our front door and informed me of their imminent departure. I tried with all my muscle to keep my ferocious dog behind the locked screen door but Frazier won. He bolted out the door, down the driveway and raced to the truck which by now overflowed with yard debris kissing the pavement. I swallowed my anxiety and called him back, however, he was occupied licking hands, wagging his tail, fine fur flying in the summer air. The boy and men laughed easily, appearing to enjoy my dog's company. It was then I realized my huge mistake. Immediately, casting off the previous doubts and judgements like an uncomfortable pair of shoes, I engaged the three in conversation, discovering yet another family in need during this economic crisis. Yes, I ended up shaking the gentleman's hand. More importantly, I have a left-behind token of that day. A hard-hat sits on my front porch and it talks to me. Every time I pass by it whispers, saying you too can be generous, loving, tolerant. You too can feed just one.

A Blank Page

I meandered through the store, touching, caressing books, so many ideas, thoughts and stories transported on the pages. Signs were posted above the shelves, identifying the current sale prices. My heart sank as I strolled through the departments. I felt like my best friend was moving away. To Iceland. The diminished inventory reminded me of the second day of a garage sale. As I have stated before in my blog, I love books. I enjoy looking at my own copies, occasionally lifting one from the shelf for no other reason than to fondly recall, to appreciate. Imagining Good Night Moon on a diminutive screen sends chills up my spine. Little children perched around the elfin book, mesmerized by the grayness of it all. With the closure of Borders, I wonder what the future holds for the written word and for the publishing industry in general. Understanding change is good, and besides I don't really know the CEO of Borders so making a phone call would be pointless, I know I need to make peace with this deal and move forward. Perhaps drive to Powell's. Dust off Who Moved My Cheese? Or publish my own story on-line. Like a blank page neatly arranged in a typewriter, waiting for the first click of the key, there are still stories and tales to unfold, to be shared with a willing, eager audience. How they will appear to the public, the pages, the words themselves, remain to be seen for many authors. If the on-line world and the publishing companies agreed to marry, a seemingly perfect union in my eyes, we could have the best of both worlds. Books to hold and cherish, stores that cater to the tactile loving public and e-books that honor the ability to download scores of inexpensive titles while texting your spouse a grocery list. A blank page is an opportunity, a risk, a chance to make a difference. I wonder if the words will mean the same if I discover them on a Kindle. Will they leap out, capture me in their originality, hold me hostage for days as I dwell on the richness, the meaning, the creativity. Maybe. A blank page is a blank page.

Comfort Zone

Is it easy to step out from our comfort zone? Our satisfied, snug, contented, I-know-this-well-so-why-should-I-do-anything-different zone. Maybe that means taking another route to work. Two days in a row. Eat yogurt with raisins for breakfast instead of the familiar oatmeal. Or write a kind note to someone who drives you absolutely nuts. And give it to them. Several weeks ago I visited a store at the mall with the intention of handing the sales clerk the exact name of the item I wished to purchase, pay for said item and be finished with the errand in good time. When I told the nice clerk the name of the clothing piece I had dutifully memorized, she said, "Oh, we don't sell those any more." A pregnant pause. "We sold those quite a while ago. Here, let me show you the newer model, much nicer than the one you have now."  My heart thudded to the floor. She whisked me away to a shelf which displayed the newer version. I scrunched my face. "Umm...I'm not sure. I really like the one I have." My words spilled into a transient conversation, and I was quickly patrolled to the fitting room, introduced to Bambi, and from then on, I felt transported into a world I had never anticipated re-visiting. Getting fitted for an undergarment. She ignored my protests, whipped a tape measure around my chest and announced my current bra size to which I adamantly disagreed. "I've never been that size!" I almost shouted. "Oh, the tape measure doesn't lie," she countered. Before I could kindly suggest to her she might find a new profession, her perfectly sculpted backside retreated through the door. Soon after, I looked in horror as Bambi placed a plastic bin filled with the dreaded items she thought would be ideal for me. After trying a few on, and stealing quick glances in front of the mirror, I tossed them back in the bin and pushed the white button for her to return and help me find something I liked better. After a few long moments, she stepped into the room and asked how they fit. I told her the truth. "I really like the one I have. Don't you have a more similar model?" Bambi cleared her throat. "Well, yours is comfortable from being so stretched out," she said in a chastising tone. I looked at my article of clothing longingly, giving a silent thanks for being so faithful and suitable. Sheepishly, I picked up one of the garments from the bin and purchased it out of fear. Fear of being perceived as a frumpy, old-fashioned middle-aged grandmother. A week later, I returned it. On that same day I walked into another store at the mall, made my way down the aisles and came to a sudden halt. There it was! Excitement pumped through my veins. Rushing to the rack, I touched and felt, tried a few on, breathed a heavy sigh of relief and chatted happily with the clerk at the sales counter. On the drive home I got to thinking. In this life there are tangible goods that offer us comfort and peace, some of which I find myself unwilling to compromise on or give up. Like my purchase, or a favorite pair of pajama bottoms. Perhaps I will  stretch myself in another manner, like riding in a helicopter, take swimming lessons, or volunteer in a homeless shelter. Life is full of possibilities.

Family Ties

In his book, Blue Like Jazz, Donald Miller talks about community. About having people "bugging me, and getting under my skin, because without people I could not grow, I could not grow in God and I could not grow as a human." He also says, "Jesus wants us interacting, eating together, laughing together, praying together." I thought about this today. I have a large family and it continues to expand. I consider my family to be a community. After having spent the past week with various family members I came to some very profound observations. I need other people. I truly require the kind of people who make me angry or hurt, sometimes so much that the word balloon above my head requires censoring. Then the good part of me remembers we are related and share a past. That truth enables me to practice letting go, and open up to nurturing rather than handing the microphone to the wrong voice. I need to love. When I step across my own selfish desires and reach out to another to listen, to help, to lead, I know that I have succeeded once again at pleasing God, maybe even causing him to dance. I need to laugh. Each time I giggle like a two-year-old while playing with my grandchildren or laugh at a funny joke, I know that my heart is smiling a happy-face and that makes me feel just plain good. Lastly, I need to forgive. We all carry baggage slung over our shoulders like stolen loot from a burglary. It weighs heavy. And if I take a moment to consider that the other person could be nursing unhealed wounds, some of which I might even share, then I am better prepared to forgive a hurtful comment or extend a kind word rather than a caustic remark, or allow bitterness to take root. I love my family and I tell God every day how thankful I am. With our entire brood wrapped in the arms of a magnificent God, our past, present and future tied together, ribboned in grace and love, I think I have a greater opportunity to follow in Jesus' footsteps.

Blossom Time

They teased me with their bowed heads, their delicate petals facing toward the ground. Several times this week I have gone out to the same dahlia bush, my faithful bloomer, with red-and-black shears poised, ready to cut the stems for my bouquet. Yesterday, I paused in front of the bush, examining its readiness for display in my cobalt blue vase. I perused the  tightly closed buds, the coral petals tucked inside the green stems. The early summer sun, a phantasm in Oregon, reigned in the cornflower-blue sky, giving me hope once again. I just needed to be patient. The flower simply required a bit more time, I thought. Maybe a little more nourishment.  My gaze swept the cloudless sky and I sighed into the comfortable atmosphere. Just like me, I pondered. Those buds. It felt like God was up in one of those skywriters, those airplanes that write messages in the sky, the engine exhaust spreading the missive high in the air for added emphasis. I curled my mind around the epistle, allowing the graceful message to adorn my heart. I think God sees me just like those buds I am eager to pick for myself. When I close up tight it gets awfully difficult to open my eyes, the first rays of dawn becoming me to rise, to glorify. I snuck a glance at the sky once more. Yes. Even when I am not quite ready to release my hold, He stays right by my side, tending to me, grooming me, fertilizing the deepest part of me. An elongated sigh caused my shoulders to drop an inch.  Practicing patience, I placed the shears back in the drawer, trusting that in its own time, the coral bud will surely transform into a beautiful blossom.

Write-On

Her hands are arthritic, old, with skin like parchment paper. I think she was born loving Jesus, her heart the shape of a cross. Maybe she swam with fish in-utero, or prayed the Holy Rosary while passing the time. The moment we met, many years ago, I sensed her faith was strong, super-hero strong. The kind of faith that wraps its arms around six children, a husband, numerous adopted family members, friends, and church.  A belief that transverses through the muck that life can offer and remain stalwart, selfless, rich in love. She watched my children while I went jogging, sewed the letters of our last name on my son's football jersey, understanding my fear of the dreaded sewing machine. And always the helpful saint, she reminds me of God's love as often as needed, especially during periods of my life when my own elfin faith needed a transfusion, a jump-start. When my children were young we swapped books, all kinds of books, reveling in each other's opinions, critiquing each novel with relish. She writes poetry, beautiful prose that will linger in the hearts of her family, her loved ones. Recently she wrote an encouraging message to my daughter on Facebook. It's getting difficult for her to write with a pen, and besides, she told her children, she wanted to be free to gaze at all of the pictures. Today, she posted a message inquiring of her daughter how she can make someone her friend on Facebook. There she goes, I thought. Doing the saint thing, via the Internet, a viral Paul. Now she writes on walls, encourages with a click. Next month she turns 89 on the fourth of July. I think her light is shining brighter with age.

A Beautiful Day

My copy of Tuesday's With Morrie is worn, with partial sentences underlined, some even highlighted. I wanted to imprint into memory all of the insightful nuggets, the simple truths leaping from the pages. Toward the end of the story, Mitch Albom asks Morrie what he would do if he had one perfectly healthy day. When I read the book for the first time, I really couldn't appreciate the beautiful response. Morrie's ideal day was average, simple, nothing extraordinary. Exercise, breakfast, time spent with friends. A nature walk. Dinner with dancing, maybe some duck. I like that, an unadorned day. After spending endless hours nursing my back, I can see why Morrie would have sketched out an effortless day. I don't think I would fly to Paris, shop for endless hours at Nordstrom, or even have breakfast with Harrison Ford. No, my day is looking more and more like Morrie's. An average twenty-four hours, sprinkled with family and friends. A great walk in the park and a wonderfully written book. A slice of key-lime pie. Perhaps a purple-throated hummingbird to catch me by surprise. Reading Goodnight Moon to my grandchildren, wiping drool from their chins. As Morrie says, "You live on in the hearts of everyone you have touched and nurtured while you were here." Take me into the beautiful.

Buried Treasure

Recently, while rummaging through our plastic storage bin we use to house photograph albums, I uncovered a black-and-white picture dated July, '57. In the photo, my husband, who was then four-years-old, is seated in one of those aluminum lawn chairs with the webbing, the kind that leave stripes on the back of your legs if you sit too long. He is seated opposite his grandfather, who is wearing a baseball cap, long pants and a short-sleeved collared shirt. They are beside a lake, the water gently lapping along the bank. A long fishing pole mounted in a metal tube is staked into the ground under my husband's chair. When I showed my husband the picture, he denied that he was indeed the little boy, the one with his feet resting on the aluminum slat, his small arms folded across his chest. "No," I said, "That's you and that's your grandfather, your Opa." A look of disbelief crossed his face. "See," I continued, "It looks like you and he were having a nice time together, all relaxed and conversing. He pondered for a moment. "No," he said, "We're staring at the fishing pole, at the bell on the tip, waiting for it to ring." It didn't matter to me what he remembered, or what he saw in the image. Even though the photograph is a bit blurred and faded, and an odd shape that will be tricky to frame, I figure it needs a better home than a plastic storage bin. To me, this was buried treasure. What better way to remind ourselves of a simpler past, unhurried moments, and generational connections. I hope one day, when our grandchildren are grown, and the image of our faces have grown cloudy with the passing of time, there will be a photograph to remind them. One they can cherish and gaze at from time to time. Photographs are a wonderful way to keep the lamp burning and to pass the treasure along.

Tunnel Vision

Why do human beings have to suffer? A dearly loved one dies and your heart is broken, aching. A colicky baby cries for nine months straight and your strength is thin as parchment paper. The doctor gives you a diagnosis, one with few options, and each evening when the moon takes command of the sky, you lay your head down on a soft pillow and the wrestling match begins again. Fear sneaks between the covers. The experiences that cause hardship, anguish, grief, and even fear, make us doubt and maybe even question the existence of a God who loves beyond measure. During my recent experience of pain, I searched for God everywhere. In the Bible, in my heart, in the words of comfort from good friends. I wanted so desperately to believe that God was on my side, fighting this battle for me because I didn't have the strength or the ability to handle this alone. My vision clouded beneath the fog of medication, my emotions were tangled as loose cords dangling from a computer tower, until all I saw before me was the unrelenting pain. Yesterday, as I left a department store, I passed a man and woman making their way down the stairs toward the entrance. This woman walked on crutches, one leg of her jeans knotted just below the right knee. I stole a look at my husband and then glanced at my own two feet cloaked in black clogs. Instantly, the veil lifted and a deeper understanding blanketed my mind. I had been looking at my situation with tunnel vision, with a limited view.We don't know the whole story, or even the next chapter. However, once the picture expanded, my focal point shifted, pointing me in another direction, away from my affliction and toward something with greater meaning. For during this season I am learning to appreciate more, to accept more, and surpsingly to me, to love more. My vision is improving.

Grace Like Rain

Tiny pink cherry blossoms drifted slowly onto the path, swirling on their descent, a snow day in spring. A gentle breeze kissed my cheeks, the nape of my neck, my bare hands. Continuing on my way, I heard the pounding of a basketball, shouts of glee from small children on the playground, an airplane crossing overhead. Birds chatted together, their music threading through the air, an aerial choir. I stooped down to pluck a dandelion weed, brought the round fluffy circle to my mouth, blew a wish. Ordinary happenings, nothing super-cool or earth shattering. I searched the sky, the gray clouds pregnant with rain and flipped my red hood up to cover my head. I continued strolling, careful not to tax the back, exchanged a greeting with an older couple who were sitting on a bench. Drops of rain moistened the pastel petals on the ground. The lenses on my glasses grew wetter with each droplet. I often find God hidden in the ordinary, the simple pleasures of life. He must enjoy watching us pause to appreciate, to admire. Before heading home, my gaze scanned the scene one last time, the images a bit blurred through my glasses. This is the way it is, I thought that day. For I discovered once again, a love so magnificent that it snuck through the back door of my pain, broadening the path beneath my feet, lighting my steps, in yet again a most elemental way.

The Departure Gate

Our eyes encountered one another for the first time, hers a set of bright blue, mine clouded with a mist of pent-up longing. Over five weeks I had waited to meet her, to hold her, to kiss her chubby cheeks. Most importantly, to tell her how beautiful and precious she was. In  anticipation of this event, I had imagined a number of scenarios, one of which included a lucent circle that would surround our two forms, hers and mine, linking the past with the present, love and forgiveness, grace and acceptance. A generational embrace. The pain in my back bowed down to the toothless smiles, the gurgles, the innocence. Gazing at her fresh face, I tried hard to imprint upon my mind the round nose, the swatch of light brown hair reaching for the ceiling, the smooth flesh. The current distance between our homes remains vast, and babies change quickly. Will she remember the sound of my voice? As we readied to return home, from Virginia to Oregon, my mind spun backward, to a farm in Wisconsin, to a grandmother who taught me how to thread a needle, to play gin rummy, to milk a cow. And as the engine roared and I clamped my seat belt tight, a photograph snapped across my brain, displaying an image of my own mother cradling our newborn daughter in her arms. Rays of slanted sunlight from the picture window danced across their bodies, spilling across the daffodil-yellow blanket under my daughter, illuminating my mother's graying hair, her beaming smile, and my daughter's pristine face. A halo of sorts. The tender memories eased my fears, massaged the lingering doubt and I muscled up a little extra faith. As the departure gate grew further away, the airport a mere speck in the landscape, and the plane cruised above the clouds, traversing the electric blue sky, I played with the memories. I heard the sound of my grandmother's high-pitched voice advising me which  card would be perfect to lay down. A contented sigh escaped into the crowded airplane. There is no distance between love.

Ready To Run

The radiant sun shone proudly, looking pleased with itself for bringing such pleasure to us Oregonians below, deprived of its cheery presence for so many sodden winter months. My sister and I were enjoying the shops in Hood River, the change of scenery, and the simple delights of touristing. Exiting a store, I stepped out onto the sidewalk, and an intense wave of pain took my body hostage. For the weekend, I had placed my back pain on the shelf, daring it to disrupt my brief respite. Shuffling to a nearby bunch, most likely strategically placed for the elderly, I gratefully took a seat on the varnished wooden slats and watched my sister's back as she headed toward our rental home, in search of rescue. Meanwhile, I dusted off my sunglasses preparing to steal some joy, to reap the benefits of the grinning sun.Taking a deep breath I leaned back, trying to get comfortable, trying to accept the reality of my current limitations. Interrupting my reflection, a man asked if he could sit down on the bench. "Certainly," I said. A throng of teen-aged girls passed by, dressed in tank tops, flip-flops and shorts that said, I am wearing these just because I can. "Getting old stinks," the man beside me announced. Swiveling my head his way, I took a look at this old person. He had long jet-black hair tied in a pony-tail, a dark-colored scarf knotted in the back covered his head and he wore leather pants, the kind bikers wear. His sunglasses looked very expensive. He appeared in his early fifties. Unsure of how to answer, my defensive inner voice shouted, I ran a marathon! I work out and pump weights! I have three brand new grand babies! I nodded my head in silence."I had my knee replaced," he said, rubbing the offending limb." Stepping closer into my sanctuary, he continued, "And I had my hip replaced, both surgeries were done within nine months of each other." I winced. My hand reflectively moved towards my back. Breathe, breathe, you are not old! "I hate bikers! They make so much noise." His tone reflected a definite angst. Surreptitiously, I glanced at his pants. Deciding not to be rude, I queried this gentleman about his profession, his interests. After sharing his vocational pursuits, he told me in an emphatic tone that he liked older women, that younger women just don't have it together. "Uh-huh," I answered. Jesus told me not to be scared, but I rummaged into my purse, retrieved my cell phone and quickly punched in my husbands number. "Calling my husband," I said, maybe a little too loud. Flipping my phone shut, I mentally calculated the distance to our rental home. A resigned sigh escaped into the spring atmosphere and I couldn't help but notice more young girls stroll by, texting, chatting, giggling. Definitely not sitting. "I was a professional athlete. A windsurfer. Until a bad injury. Then it was all over," he said."I took 562 pain pills." He tapped his open left palm for emphasis. An image of my carefully halved one white  Vicodin nestled among my colorful vitamins popped into mind. Gesturing across the street, toward a pizza restaurant, he voiced,"I made that sign over there, all by myself. I'm a one man operation." I assured him it was great and he must be proud. My husband called my cell phone, signaling his impending arrival, and like a child lining up at the door for recess, eager and antsy, I stood, turned toward the man and thanked him for chatting. My mind raced to the car, yet my body shuffled, lest a tidal wave of pain wash over me again. Later that evening while resting, I thanked God for my metal-free body, for the sunshine, even for the stranger. I think that my God is getting oh so creative in helping me pass the time, filling the void, and offering unique surprises during this season. Even though my heart is ready to run, to race  after my new grandchildren, my God is telling me, rest, rest, I'll surprise you along the way, but don't ever give up, ever. You will run again, it might look a little different, but remember how wide my arms can stretch.

Back-Up Plan

One night, long, long, ago, when I was a little girl, I remember feigning a deep sleep in the back seat of our family station wagon. We had just pulled up into our driveway after an evening spent at the drive-in theatre. Traces of  grape Kool-Aid branded my upper lip. Kernels of popcorn littered the floor-mats. The stars in the inky sky, clusters of bright seeing eyes, must have laughed at the game I played. The car door opened and tendrils of summer air tickled my nose as  my dad angled himself into a good position to lift my small form. With my body limp as a rag-doll, he carried me safely into our house. I never knew if he realized I was wide awake, or if his own fatigue warned him not to mess with an eight-year old girl. However, this is what I do recall. The yearning inside of me for a daddy to hold me closely, especially when I felt exhausted, caused me to fake a slumber, to shut my eyes tight and allow him to lift me up into capable, reliable, strong arms. Arms much wider than my own. During this past month, in my season of back pain, of uncertainty and weakness, I found myself once again longing for escape, for deliverance from the constant hurt. I think we all have that little child inside, especially when our bodies ache, and we become exhausted from our own efforts to ease the pain. I have become well acquainted with the pharmacist at Walgreen's, and all of my whining now falls on deaf ears. It's times like these, when the unknown appears heavy like cement, that I am forced to acknowledge a simple truth. Since my own efforts often lead to frustration, emotional fatigue, and more pain, I need to return once again to those potent arms which hold a power far greater than all of my wayward, fretful thoughts, the fear, the dreaded muscle relaxers. Henri Nouwen says in The Prodigal Son, "Jesus, the Son of God, is the man of sorrows, but also the man of complete joy. We catch a glimpse of this when we realize that in the midst of his suffering Jesus is never separated from his father. His union with God is never broken even when he "feels" abandoned by God." I like that. I am not alone in the crisis, I can rely on someone else to help me, and in return I receive the gift of joy. I imagine by now Jesus is smiling, nodding that wise head, saying to me once again, oh daughter, I don't need to be your back-up plan. I've got your back.

Character Development

What defines a great book? Is it a fascinating story line? Splendid writing? Or conflicts the characters face and hopefully overcome? It took me three attempts to write, My Red Shoes, my still oh-so-unpublished novel. During the second draft, I was told unequivocally, that the protagonist was an unsympathetic character. Unsympathetic? At first my feelings were crushed like shards of glass. The desire I once had to write the story weakened to a faint pulse, my passion for the characters diminished until the only noise I heard was the sound of the other voice, the one telling me to throw in the towel, to take up the harmonica instead. I am glad I didn't listen to that tyrannical fearful taunt. Perseveringly, I retrieved my laptop from its quarantined corner in the spare room and said to myself, never give up. Like the first squiggly lines on an etch-a-sketch, I began to draw them out, the people in my story, getting to know them. It's a process, developing strong, altruistic characters. It means allowing them freedom to find their own way, to make mistakes, suffer hardship, and if the story calls for it, weep with them in triumph. I like that. The triumph. We are all born with untold stories inside of us patiently waiting to unfold. Every challenge and success we experience writes a new chapter of our lives, creates new scenes. As in all beautiful stories, we cannot witness the full potential of the protagonists without them first undergoing character development. And like writing a compelling tale, our own character develops over time, with much patience as we walk under the umbrella of grace. Hopefully along the way, we will catch glimmers of the pristine place deep inside, the place that eagerly awaits our blossoming character, our sympathetic selves.

The Book Thief

In one of my favorite books, The Book Thief, the protagonist, Liesel, a young Jewish girl in Nazi Germany, steals a book that had fallen into a grave dug for her brother. The Grave Digger's Handbook. This begins her love of reading and words. I thought about that today. Would she have become passionate about words if she had first seen them on a flat impersonal screen, void of tactile stimulation, the feel of paper as she turns each cherished page with her adolescent fingers. Would she have discovered the value of literature and find her own voice during the terror and uncertainties that encompassed her world? If she had held a Nook or a Kindle in the palm or her small hand, would that have deposited the same desire for words? My favorite bookstore (other than Powell's) is declaring bankruptcy. When I received an email from Border's President and CEO, reassuring me that they were operating as usual, suspicion draped my mind. Was this a ploy to gain an entire online audience? Will I still be able to browse the aisles, touch book jackets, turn to the back cover, and peruse the author's photograph and bio? I love books. I love the musky smell of a beloved novel as I flip through the pages, perhaps blowing dust into the atmosphere. Sometimes I re-read a favorite paragraph or chapter and an elfin sigh escapes from the happy place inside. A friend of mine has a Nook. She said you can read and multi-task, "Isn't that great!" I don't know what else I would like to do while reading a good book, other than sip on my favorite espresso or a glass of Pinot Gris. Literature was Liesel's escape from a bleak life and she wrote a book herself. With the popularity of online shopping and ebooks, I wonder how many adolescents will share Liesel's passion for words. I hope that the lure of downloading a plethora of books at whim won't in fact steal our beloved books from our eager hands. And wipe our minds free from an age-old  romance with words.

Love As A Weapon

I happened upon a website the other day titled, Love Is Our Weapon. Before seeing that title, I had never really thought about love as a weapon. Webster's Dictionary defines love as a strong affection for another, a warm attachment, a beloved person. I continued on through the entries. Unselfish, loyal and benevolent concern for the good of another. The fatherly concern of God for mankind. Brotherly concern for others. I grew up with four brothers and they owned boxing gloves. Love as a weapon? Pondering the possibility, wrapping my mind around the true meaning meant I would have to change the way I think about love. Perhaps it's not about buying the perfect gift, or saying the right things at exactly the right moment, but more about a state of being and a deeper understanding of why we are here. At any moment I can wield my weapon against evil, do something kind for someone who drives me insane, or sit and listen to an elderly person re-telling the same tale for the zillionth time. Or buy myself a present, just because. When I hold my grandchildren, I sense a great importance to brandish weapons of mass destruction around their innocent bodies, shielding them, protecting their minds and hearts. It's not easy to surrender my concept of love. But as I wake each morning, roll over and peer at the clock, I am reminded of a vast responsibility. Like two men preparing for a duel at dawn, with ribbons of fog curling around their ankles and light filtering between barren tree limbs, I will do my best to outwit the bad guys and choose my weapon oh so carefully.

Pass The Carrots Please

Proverbs 11 v 24 says, "One man gives freely , yet gains even more; another withholds unduly but comes to poverty." During the past few weeks I have had the opportunity to witness benevolent acts of generosity. With two newborn babies and recovering from surgery, my daughter and her husband have been the recipients of great kindness from friends and family. But one gift plays across my mind like those old vinyl records. The ones with the tiny grooves, reminding me of an era when our parents believed in the importance of following the rules they inherited, rather than simply lifting the needle and changing to a different song. In our family, like many baby-boomers, we were forced to adhere to strict eating guidelines. We had to finish every morsel on our plate before being excused from the table. We longed to pedal our Schwinn bicycles, play hide-and-seek, or even do our homework. I would cut my potato pancakes into tiny pieces, hoping the dreaded food would disappear. My brother hated carrots. With a passion. He would sit at our long maple table, his round cheeks puffed up, storing the detested veggies inside, afraid to swallow. I am sure he implored my mother with all of his heart to please let him spit the horrid stuff back onto his plate. My mother usually won the battle. Sometimes he darted to the bathroom and while we scraped our plates, the toilet flushed and we knew he had caught a break. Last Sunday he cooked a dinner for my daughter and her husband. I peeked through the glass lid. Inside, scattered around a pot roast, hugging white potatoes, sitting as proud as pieces of dense chocolate cake, were the nemesis from his youth. I wondered how he could do it, handle the carrots as if they were friends and all. After delivering his meal, and he readied to leave, my brother handed me a plastic bag housing the unused portion of the odious food. "Here, I won't need these. I hate carrots," he said. This week his words flashed through my thoughts, painting a vivid picture of the art of giving. In my book I wrote, When you fully give all that you have-and then give some more-you find yourself the proud owner of everything that can't be bought. In our giving, we discover freedom from the illusions that kept us practicing safety. The only thing it costs us is our false beliefs. My brother gave and then he gave some more. A pot roast is naked without carrots and he understood that even though he had issues with the super-food, others would enjoy the bounty. My brother was a rich man last Sunday.

Joy To The World

Joy cannot be purchased. It cannot be borrowed from your best friend. It does not hide, but rather begs to be found. Once you have experienced joy, you will say to yourself, Oh yes! More please! If you stay in that hidden place long enough, the place that is yours alone, you will learn two things: that joy is the truest expression of love, and that without joy your life is hollow, doleful, even depressed. I think joy is one of God's greatest gifts. We are meant to cultivate joy, to deeply appreciate the benefits received when we live a life in search of joy. When we reach for those things that bring us happiness, the result is an outpouring of peace and love to those around us. This past week, I met my twin grandchildren, cradling them in protective arms. Tiny bundles of joy. Not being prepared for the peace that swathed my heart, the innocence of newborn boys, the miracle of life itself, my lips made an Oh-shaped expression. Swaddled up in blankets, eyes not quite ready for the world, and tiny hands that reached for each other soon after birth. I was thinking today that it must begin in the womb, the cultivation of joy, for why else would these babies seek each other, if not for the truest expression of love?

A Pregnant Pause

The sun poked its head in the eastern horizon, dazzling, shades of dusky pink surrounding the golden orb. It took command of the sky, displaying a magnificent party of colors. I gave a quick nod of my head, the kind of nod that says, oh-yeah-that-is-so-totally-cool-but-I-have-to-go-to-work-right-now. Turning my back on the richly hued vista, I got in the car, stepped on the gas pedal and began the drive to work. It wasn't long before I had totally forgotten that beautiful gift. A slow driver inched their way down the street, causing me to move my car just a little closer to their bumper. Shortly after, another driver ran a red light and a swoosh of angry breath escaped from my mouth. Hours later, the work load piled up, my frustration grew, and the earlier surprise of the morning had faded into dull shades of gray. By now the knots between my shoulder blades begged to be named. I decided to go for a short walk around our office. Cool air kissed my face, birds sang a chorus on a telephone line, and an elderly couple with their walkers smiled a greeting. Stopping, I looked upward, at the wispy clouds and inhaled a deep breath of thankfulness. I sat down on a wrought-iron bench and searched my brain for the image of the earlier sunrise, my eyebrows pinched together in concentration, like twins doing homework. I wanted to swath my fretful thoughts, hoping the memory would shroud the anxiety, and that the beauty of the mental image would eclipse the need to be in such a hurry. To be distracted by the busy-ness of life. Moments passed and I think I experienced an epiphany, because the birds grew louder and the cascading water-feature to my left reminded me of Ramona Falls. And the elderly couple who were now sitting on a bench opposite mine, their hands clasped together, seemingly in perfect harmony. It felt like God was speaking through his megaphone, saying to me, Do you see and hear all that is surrounding you this moment? It's all yours for a flash of time, drink it in, enjoy, appreciate. Open your eyes and relax. My heart thumped at the messge. I sat real still and listened, reflected. In my haste, had I truly seen the sunrise? Now, at this moment, fresh new experiences were feeding my soul, lifting my heart. But I had to stop, to slow down, simplify my thoughts and renew. During this time of expectancy, waiting for our new grandchildren, I decided to make a daily commitment.  Each day, I am going to make a strong effort to stop in the midst of the urgency, the self-imposed fast lane, and take a pregnant pause. Maybe one every twenty minutes or so. I do not want to miss another sunrise.

Thoughts On Trust

In whom do you put your trust? Your best friend who gossiped behind your back, to your boss? A classmate who cheated on an exam, while peering over at your own paper? A child weighted down by the chains of drug addiction, who hangs around with shady friends? Or perhaps the politician you voted for is corrupt. Victims of abuse often take a life time to conquer the need to control, to protect themselves, to trust love. I've been thinking about trust lately. Oswald Chambers says in My Utmost for His Highest, "Never trust anything in yourself or in anyone else, except the grace of God." If that is true, then by forgiving the accuser, the abuser, the cheater, and even myself, does a channel open for grace, thus eclipsing the pain? I am thinking by keeping my eyes pinned to grace, I might have a better chance at walking in light rather than the darkness of mistrust. It's very difficult to trust someone who has kicked our ego, stolen our property or told lies about us. My natural instinct is to withdraw and withhold, until my vision is clouded by the memory of the pain inflicted, craftily disguised in untamed emotions. But every time I witness a spectacular sunset painted on the horizon, a hazy moon silhouetted  in the sky, another well dug in Africa, or hear the still quiet voice, God's grace blankets my soul. Every time I ignore the voice of fear, the demanding spirit, and cling to grace, my spirit calms and my limbs loosen a bit, reminding me all is well. I believe there is an awesome God observing, applauding, high-fiving, every time we leap over our fears and trust in the magnificent gift of his grace. When I believe my wayward emotions or the suffering inflicted more than the will of God, grace takes a backseat, unnoticed, unappreciated. Each time I trust grace, in goodness, I reach a little bit higher and take a few steps further into love. It's not easy and often seemingly impossible, this trusting thing. I don't have it mastered yet, but I am beginning to see the wisdom in Oswald Chamber's words, that good has already won.      

Great Expectations

With the impending birth of our three grandchildren, I find myself pondering my capabilities for this new responsibility. Having never been a grandmother, and being somewhat of a perfectionist, I have a strong desire to meet certain expectations, all the while knowing I am the person developing the job description. Do you like babies? I think so, but it's been a while since I changed a diaper. Are you a multi-tasker? When I am at work yes, but at home not so much. Do you like interruptions? I am currently working on that one. Can you lift twenty-five pounds or more? Yes, I have a gym membership as proof. Do you have a valid driver's license? Yes, and I promise not to drive over the speed limit, lest I harm precious cargo. Are you willing to work over-time if necessary. Yes, if I am allowed to take a nap along with the children. In my head, I imagine a litany of duties expected, a perfect grandmotherly position to fill. But in my heart, if I allow my mind to behave long enough to listen, there is only one question I need be concerned with. What is the basic requirement of this job? The Beatles must have known about newbie grandmothers, their fear of failing, of under-achieving, or over-protecting. In 1967 they sang, "All you need is love. It's easy. It's easy." I just might revamp my expectations.

Thoughts On Friendship

Good friends are a gift. They arrive like the changing seasons, and at times in our life when they are needed the most. They ebb and flow, nurturing our current needs, as we in turn foster theirs. With the popularity of Facebook, I have had the opportunity to get reacquainted with people who once walked alongside me on this journey. I like the ability to see how my friends have changed, how their families have grown, what turns their lives have taken. God is quite clever in allowing these people back into my life. C.S. Lewis said it best: "Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: What! You too? I thought I was the only one." Good friends never really leave, never give up, and always listen without checking their watch. When your emotions are twisted like a rope knot, and tears are streaming down your cheeks, they don't try to interrupt, even if they've heard the same story a zillion times. And when you are sick, they sound concerned on the telephone, not making you feel like a hypochondriac. Good friends see your flaws, and love you regardless. They will hold you, take your side, speak with honesty, and laugh at your jokes. A cherished friend knows you on the inside and helps you to become greater than you ever thought possible. A sister is golden, irreplaceable, a keepsake. Friendship with a daughter grows steadily over time, standing taller, stronger, the disappointment's replaced with acceptance. Sons no longer need a curfew or a stern eye over a recent speeding ticket. Instead, they become a friend, a person with innovative thinking and unconditional love. A brother is always there, always faithful, always a constant reminder of the unyielding bond of family. A vintage friend will give until it hurts, giving no thought to their own self-gratification, but rather to the person who is receiving the precious gift of their time and presence. I am very grateful for the friends in my life.

Somewhere Over The Rainbow

I read a quote a number of years ago on one of those daily inspirational calendars someone bought for me as a gift. Expect nothing, live frugally on surprise. Through the ensuing years my mind has drifted back to that quote, the sage advice, the words sponging my mind, dabbing at the need to control the circumstances and lives in my own little world. Yesterday at the coast, I saw a splendid rainbow, a multi-colored arc whose one end touched down upon the foamy caps of the rolling waves. A gasp of delight escaped my throat as I scanned the brooding clouds overhead, their bellies ready to explode, then glanced back to the unexpected gift of nature. Turning to my right , I noticed a jogger running through the prism of colors, how it brushed her shoulders while toying with the winter sand. "Get your camera!" I said to my husband. A second, more hazy rainbow emerged next to the primary one. He stepped backward, eager to capture the entire scene for future viewing. A number of shots, a few quick looks at the small digital screen, a few more clicks. As we continued back to our room, I couldn't help but notice a certain buoyancy to our steps, a lifting of the spirit. The older I get, the more I am beginning to see the wisdom of that quote on the calendar. In a violent, hectic, often greedy world, it's sometimes tempting to demand explanations, material things or the financial freedom to retire before the age of seventy. I like to dwell upon my God, somewhere over the rainbow, loving the mess, hugging the wounded and lavishing the human race with unexpected gifts along our way.

Extraordinary Measures

Yesterday, I watched as a news station played a tribute to the notables who passed away during 2010. Most of the faces I recognized, some I didn't. Actors, politicians, comedians, scientists, athletes and more thread through the clip. A sense of nostalgia blanketed my mind as I recalled how I had been touched by their unique gifts. An unforgettable line in a movie, a refrain from a song, the title of a book, or a sense of awe at the impact some had made on our history and culture. When I first began writing, I dreamed of penning a stellar novel. In this alternate universe I imagined book signings, the beaming faces of my friends and family as they watched on a giant flat-screen my guest appearance on Oprah. It was never about money but rather the idea of doing something extraordinary and good. When I watched the fleeting images on the television, it reminded me of something I had read a number of years ago in a book by Rhonda Britten. She says, "We all share the same qualities, we are at some level ordinary. It is our ability to to be ourselves that allows our uniqueness to shine. To live with intention and be ourselves we must be ordinary." Not many of us are called to be the author of a best-seller or a rich athlete. I am thinking most of us are called to be just plain ordinary. I am warming up to ordinary. It reminds me of a grandmother reading to a sleepy toddler. Or a teenager gathering a plethora of shopping carts in a crowded parking lot in the pouring down rain. Mary and Joseph were ordinary. I don't think God would have chosen them had they been celebrities. Rather he took extraordinary measures to accomplish his divine purpose which in truth embraced their commonplace lives. I might not be a famous author, but this next year I might just dare to be ordinary.