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.