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.