a string of broken lights and an apology

Stopping at a light on an early Saturday morning in my quiet, still-asleep city, I look over at a boarded up building, closed for business, just as a thought illuminates my mind, like the row of street lights ahead.

"What if your table at the Market is completely messed up?"

I quickly dismiss this idea as pure foolishness, although sometimes I know things before they happen. I don't know why. I just do.

Pulling into the parking lot, I grab the last of my ornaments and head toward the door. I am arriving later than planned since there is still much to be done, but because I had taken an hour before work the previous Wednesday to make sure my display was exactly how I wanted it, I figured I had enough time to be set up before we opened.

My bedsprings "Christmas tree" once tied securely to a small table with twine has come undone. One string of lights that has been turned on for reasons I cannot imagine, dangles aimlessly over the table toward the floor. The small box containing the batteries for the other string lies broken next to two of the three batteries, exposing the internal wiring. Garlands of paper and one of buttons come down one side while the glittery top star once wired into place is no longer upright.

The antique thrift store table has pieces missing, more than before, and the nails holding it together are now visible as the top threatens to detach from the legs. The pieces underneath are also coming undone. I know how they feel.

Though the table is faced in the same direction I had placed it, the tree is completely turned around. I take a couple of pictures in case I need evidence to prove why my table will not be ready by the time the customers show up. I find it odd that no one has engaged me as I start over, since someone must have witnessed this event.

I tend to think of the intent of people who do me wrong as being somewhere on the continuum between stupid and evil. And though I have been told if I can't say anything nice I shouldn't say anything at all, I reject that advice and reach instead for the truth. Those same people will say it is the Christian way not to say anything, but Jesus himself seemed to use a system much like my own, referring to the more clueless by asking his Father to "forgive them for they know not what they do" while at another time revealing their evil ways by calling them a "brood of vipers." Stupid or evil.

Before I have too long to ponder while I methodically put my display back together, a farmer whose table is across the aisle from mine comes over to apologize. It isn't a "nobody's-fault-and-couldn't-be-helped" type of apology that he could have given. It is the real deal. I've seen this man many times before as we are neighbors in the Market. He and his family have been friendly to me. He had hurriedly walked too close to the structure on my table with his display items causing my entire display to crash onto the cement floor. The look on his face reminds me of how my dog looks when he runs after a deer into the woods, gets lost, and then has to be retrieved, knowing he should not have left the yard.

He was wrong. He was sorry. It is the best kind of apology I can receive--perhaps the only one I ever consider completely valid.

As customers are coming in, looking at my table in disarray, I do not pay much attention to what they may be thinking. It is easy to judge when one does not know.

There is no way I can be angry while hanging angels with "rejoice" and "fear not" embroidered on them as bed bunnies smile at me, and I place in a basket the small gift book I wrote about how everything works together for those who love God. The problem with being a follower of Jesus is one is expected to act like one. No matter how broken your string of lights is or how much it can shine.

Not everyone who has ever wronged me has apologized or ever will. Some have judged me, choosing to believe something other than the truth. Others have created their own fictional accounts of who I am. The only people who will ever truly know me are the ones with whom I feel safe. Those who will reach out in love will find it.

On top of my torn-up little table is a "tree" that is now tied to the larger table so none of it can be toppled over. At least that is the plan. The beautifully tacky, glittery star looks out over the Market where all who have fallen short of something dwell together on a Saturday morning.

being known

Yesterday I went to an art show in an artist's backyard. I don't know her personally, and may not have had a conversation with her, but I've seen her work and I feel like I know her.

Walking up the sidewalk, going around the house and through the gate, I was greeted by artist friends who were excited to see me. I hadn't seen one of them since the last show. We talked about our art and about a movie she saw that made her cry, which was just what she needed at the time. She agreed not to give away too much information, sure that I would want to have the same experience. Every so often I need to watch movies that make me cry, too. It is good to know I am not alone.

I move on to seeing an old friend with whom I've had meaningful conversations. The reunion is sweet. Other artists I met at a show we all did together go out of their way to talk to me. One opens her little cooler and offers me a cranberry and vodka jello shooter. Greetings this good are hard to find.

Hand-made clothing hangs from the tent in the back while repurposed metal art is arranged on a table across from delicately made boxes and miniature glass bottles. Soap, perfume, pottery, jewelry and an outreach ministry that makes scarves for the homeless all find their place in this backyard on a November day as the sun shines through the leaves of the large trees, and children look down from a treehouse. I find the art to be as inspirational as the connection I have made with this group of artists.

A woman who makes jewelry reminds me of a pillow she bought from me that she still loves. I cannot even remember which one she bought, I've made so many. She said she thinks of me when she looks at it and cannot wait to get out the Christmas ornaments I made. For the past ten years, this has been my hobby, my passion, my other life--the part that makes the more difficult parts bearable.

Another woman asks why I'm not doing this show, adding, "Your art is great and we all know you."

We all know you.

There it is. The same feeling I had about the artist hosting the show. Because I know her art, I feel a connection to her. Her inspiration has touched many lives. Her vision for beauty has given others a reason to celebrate . . . life. Art has the ability to do that. It touches each one's heart in its own unique way, much like divine intervention.

With feelings of unwavering acceptance and love, I walk over the crunching leaves and drive home to my work room table where ivory wool star shapes are ready to have hearts cut from a red wool sweater sewn on them. They will be offered along with another self-published book project I sent off for printing. I will put up my bedspring Christmas tree and hang on it all of the other items I've been inspired to make.

And people who really do not know me will somehow know me really quite well. They will show up and tell me how much their babies loved the bed bunnies or share with me a story about the person in the last stages of cancer receiving one of my angels with words like, "fear not" embroidered on them. They will buy the advent garlands and bring them out again next year, and the year after that. What I have been inspired to make will become a part of their traditional celebration. It will become a part of their lives. I will give all I have to glorify God and for the greater good of my community. It will matter.

And in this way, I will be known.

in the beginning

For Worship with the Arts Sunday, October 30, 2016

In the beginning, God creates.

Sand and clay are kneaded, formed into a sphere, fired in the kiln of the universe.

Clouds of vapor are lightly whisked into place, applied gently with even brushstrokes.

A glow, increasing in brilliance, burns through the darkness, illuminating space.

Shadows slowly creep back in monochromatic shades, original black-and-whites.

A cosmic thread gathers together the heavens, stitching stars and planets into patterns.

Below splash the waters, roaring and foaming in a rhythm unique to the deep.

Dividing the sea comes an expanse, knit together with moss and soil, mud and rock.

Earth: fashioned with mountains, constructed of woods and prairies, fastened together.

Vegetation takes root producing seeds, form, and texture—a profusion of color.

Every imaginable hue on the palette is established in the composition of each design.

Life is called forth in an infinite variety, painting the landscape in coordinating colors.

Globes of brightness, one for day and one for night, begin the keeping of time.

Woven into the atmosphere, light dances on the water to a song not yet written.

Under the surface are perfectly adapted fins, scales, webbed feet, synchronized.

Feathery wings glide through polka-dot skies to papier mache nests, a macramé roost.

Creeping, hopping, hoof, claw, pouch, trunk; the Creator’s imagination is boundless.

From the dust arises a man, from his rib a woman, and the two begin to sort it out.

Dancing in the garden, they breathe in the fragrant new creation in all of its glory.

In the beginning, God creates.

And it is good.

reclamation

Mental preparation is not possible for the tasks at hand. I do not know where to begin. I skip my early morning workout at the gym, (my latest attempt to regain my health) knowing what lies ahead will be workout enough. This is not basic house cleaning. This is an archeological dig.

The large bottle of rum, enjoyed by the "pirates" who lived and visited here, and almost empty of its contents, I take from on top of the washing machine and place on the pantry shelf next to the sugar and the peanut butter. The last of a large bottle of Coke which served as its mixer was already used to make my Coke float the night before (a questionable choice, I know). Beer glasses, taking up too much space next to the water glasses in the cupboards, threaten to derail my planned progress. Choices for what to keep will have to be made another day. This goes for old shoes, as well.

Load after load of laundry provides the background music for my day: the washing machine beeps until it is ready to go into the wash cycle, stops to beep at 19 minutes, must be turned off and switched to drain and spin, and turned back on to finish out a remaining 12 minutes. Seven minutes of cleaning potential are lost with each load. This cannot be helped and I am grateful for each time a load is completed. I know the day will come when . . . (I would rather not finish this sentence.)

Not wanting to look too closely at anything and invade my sons' privacy, I only do so in order to categorize. VHS tapes may as well go into a box; our machine broke a long time ago. DVDs end up going into the box as well. Books, textbooks primarily, are stacked neatly in a box on the dresser. Clothes are hung up or folded and put into drawers. Some of these shirts have played a lot of soccer.

I am at a disadvantage. Almost all of the shirts are medium, the size of all of the men in the house. It is impossible to remember who originally owned the shirt, to whom it was given, or who took it from the other. I do not know if it was left behind because there was no room for it, no interest, or if the owner cares. The shirts with "Love Machine" and "I Love Soccer Moms" are welcomed finds.

I strip the sheets in preparation for washing and remaking the beds and am momentarily distracted by a hint of Old Spice and the faint scent of boy-turned-man lingering in the room. I take a moment to lie down on the queen-sized bed that we had recently strapped on the top of my vehicle to haul from an apartment where our son no longer lives, into a "new" bedroom, after taking the smaller room to be my workspace. Emotions I had kept carefully in check roll off my face onto the memory foam pad that turns an ordinary bed into the kind one may enjoy at the type of resort we cannot afford to visit.

I go to the front part of the house, where I have not really been since college let out last spring and where our middle son parked his thrift store chair in the center of the room, pulled out the piano bench, put up the music stand and stacked piles of books and other miscellaneous debris around the room. A flute book is found behind the couch; a book entitled Famous Last Words is in a basket.

An expensive, inherited guitar our oldest self-taught himself to play leans silently against the wall. Guitar picks end their game of hide-and-seek, coming out from under placemats, the corners of end tables and bookshelves--little reminders of musical creativity discovered by an economics major.

The speakers most recently plugged into our oldest son's laptop need to be boxed in order to be passed onto his brother. A friend, who felt comfortable enough with us to spend many nights on the couch, is given a memorial place at the end of the hanging rack for the shirt and hat he left behind.

A college honor roll certificate for our middle son is taken off the shelf, along with the paper tube containing a college diploma for the oldest. Youngest brother's prom pictures, including the handkerchief that folded neatly in the pocket of the rental tux along with the clip-on boutonniere--never worn due to a real boutonniere being given--are put away. More certificates, plaques, medals, diplomas, and possibly even more prom pictures may one day take their place.

As the two older sons have become temporary tenants from time to time, leaving their belongings wherever their hearts desire, my husband has done his part not to be left out. I find at least two dozen pencils, pens and markers piled in a corner of the hutch, and in a decorative pottery bowl are tv cords and ear plugs he wears while mowing the lawn. Papers, books, calculators, and various teacher items find their way into a box that goes on the floor behind the door, making room someday for a freshly baked apple pie served with vanilla ice cream (one piece, I promise--ok, maybe two).

Red anniversary roses are dried out, shedding petals and leaves. The live plants have somehow developed an ability to survive the drought-like conditions they unintentionally have been given. They have been raised on a steady diet of alternative indie music, some produced in that very room.

Empty shoe boxes are flattened for recycling, including the box that once contained the solar panel that went with our oldest son, the Peace Corps volunteer, to provide sustained electricity in the foreign land where he now lives. What is not kept is thrown out until layer after layer is dug through and there emerges a dining room table. The end is still broken, as is the arm of a chair; the piano still in need of tuning. Placemats are wiped off and arranged correctly in anticipation of a family dinner.

The couch cover is tucked in and pillows put back in their designated spots. Random found artwork, other creative expressions by the economics major, make their way back to the bedroom for storage. Vacuuming takes care of much of the dog hair and the tiny abandoned bits of our lives scattered from room to room. There are more stains on the carpet than I remember. Wear and tear; lives lived.

The house, more straightened and organized than actually clean, is reclaimed. Two rooms used for bedrooms: the two of us in ours and whoever is here in the other, two bathrooms: one, co-ed and the other for boys only or those brave enough to enter, a small kitchen in which the flavors of life are savored, a family room with a large falling-apart leather sectional from which we all try to watch tv, a front room that provides a place for us to dine together whenever we can, and an adjoining more formal living room which becomes the common area shared by as many as it can hold with far too many books and a piano, which I have gently closed . . . for now.

at the bottom of the deep

They're all behind you
They'll never find you
They're on the ocean floor
Your sins are forgotten
They're on the bottom
Of the ocean floor

(Audio Adrenaline, Ocean Floor, 2009)


Into the ocean deep, I toss all of my troubles--those that weigh heavily on my mind and on my heart.


Misunderstandings rising from steaming piles of assumptions, creating a foul stench.

Unsubstantiated claims that could have filled balloons thought to have safely cleared the trees, but instead are found in pieces in someone's yard--colorful bits of stretchy nothingness.

Unasked inquiries decomposing and drawing flies.

An ever-changing, not-ready-for-stage drama becoming the standard by which all is measured--a script carved meticulously in stone before it had been edited for error.

The blurring of what happened with what became the accepted version of what must have happened, seen through the out-of-focus lenses of unreliable witnesses.

Uncertain responses never spoken, causing the mind to travel to a dark place and getting caught in its rip current, relentlessly carried out from the safety of the shore, but not from the steady gaze of the Lifeguard.

Exhaustion setting in. Rescue needed. The weight of this load causing me to go under. 


I make my offering to the sea. It sinks quickly and quietly to the depths which now hold remnants of persistent thoughts along with dashed hopes and unfulfilled longing.

All of this is laid to rest on the bottom of the ocean to drift among the random fisherman's boot, broken glass and rusted metal objects once considered necessary, rendered unidentifiable--almost.

Sunken in sand and seaweed, shells and rocks, what has been given to the deep transforms over time. It surfaces occasionally to be flung rhythmically by the waves into tiny pieces which are then warmed by the sun to become the soft ground on which my barefoot feet will walk.

With lightness of step, I walk on.

held in the light

She sat staring at the lab report, glancing over at me from time to time as she spoke mostly to herself, checking off where my hormonal levels are, based on the supplements I was to take to restore my health. Thyroid levels had improved, but nothing else had. It seemed, in fact, that the progress I was beginning to make, about nine months ago, on the regimen of vitamins and hormones toward greater health and vitality had taken a sharp turn before regressing into a state of fatigue, joint pain, and sleeplessness. A look of worry is not something a patient wants to see on her doctor's face.

Stress was again the culprit for my lack of energy and inability to heal. I had begun this health journey with hope and somewhere along the line had lost it. The lab report blared the truth loudly and clearly. Whether I had wanted to share with my doctor what had been going on in my life or not, one cannot escape provable scientific fact.

As a woman of faith, I pray. And yet, some days the pressures that come from living in this world threaten to overtake me: a work situation gone awry; assumptions made about me, devoid of truth; bills mocking me as I continue to stack them neatly on my desk; the health of my parents; and most recently, my search for a way to contribute to the household income so my teacher-husband will not have to work his second job as frequently as he does. In the midst of all this, good health eluded me.

Leaving her office with new prescriptions, I made my way home from a nearby city through rush-hour traffic, thankful to get into all the correct lanes for exits, as drivers zoomed by. I would spend only a few minutes at home debriefing before heading back out. I was too tired to do another thing, yet too tired not to go to what promised to be a few minutes of peace.

The Taize Community is an ecumenical monastic order in France composed of Catholics and Protestants who promote kindness, simplicity, and reconciliation. At a Society of Friends Meeting, a Taize service with musicians leading the chants, readers sharing Scripture passages, and a 20-minute time of silence, would guide us into a time of peace and rest. I had the requisite cup of strong coffee a couple of hours earlier so that the time of silence would not turn into a time of sleeping.

Sitting in this quiet, comfortable room with those seeking revelation, I noticed how the light from the candles created patterns across the floor, shining off the metal on the backs of some of the chairs. The faces of those sitting closer to the source of light were illuminated more than those of us sitting near the back, in the shadows. The closer we are to the Source of Light, the more we reflect light. Simple scientific fact--like my lab report. For over 20 minutes I had explored the state of the health of my body with my doctor and then in the 20 minutes of silence at the Taize service, I sat in the presence of the great Physician who restores my soul and reignites love in my spirit.

My prescription is to live a life of purpose, holding others in the Light, as the Quaker expression goes, with the hope that I will provide a greater reflection as I draw ever nearer to the Source of Light. May it be so.

race relations

At the end of the summer of 1985, I was the last passenger to board a plane in Denver heading east, dragging my Smith-Corona typewriter, as tears streamed down my face. It was the end of another questionable relationship, this time with a man who always pointed out when someone referred to him as Mexican that his family was not from Mexico; he was of Hispanic descent. He could not take me home to meet his family because I did not share his family's heritage, or at least this is what he told me before I found out about his girlfriend of similar heritage who had recently given birth to his son. He had written a farewell letter to me on the back of one of his pencil drawings he had given me, hoping I would someday read it when I decided to re-frame it or when that frame broke, which it did, along with my heart.

I would begin a new chapter of my life at Marshall University in Huntington, West Virginia, where I would learn more about race relations and poverty than I would learn about journalism. It was a place I chose to get a Master's degree after combing through one of those big books that contained information about colleges and universities. When I came across my Graduate Record Exam (GRE) scores in recent years, I had forgotten all of the places I had them sent: three small schools in Illinois, Arkansas State, Louisiana State at Baton Rouge, along with Marshall. I had never been to any of these schools. All I needed was a school to give me a graduate assistantship so tuition would be paid for, and Marshall was the one that met that requirement.

I wasn't even sure I should have been studying journalism since I had already received a Bachelor of Arts degree from Michigan State University and any journalism position I could get would not require a higher degree unless I wanted to go all the way to earning a PhD so I could teach at a college level. I had looked into studying Urban Development for reasons I cannot even remember. After abandoning my home state immediately after graduating from college the first time for Colorado, living on my friend's couch and touring with her band, eventually getting my own apartment and becoming a secretary and then a waitress at The Brown Palace Hotel, I needed to do something to get back on track. I think the real reason I went to graduate school is the academic world had always treated me better than the "real" world and I wanted to get back to a place where I could succeed.

Moving back into a dorm after years in my own apartment had its challenges. My roommate's sexual preference didn't bother me nearly as much as the fact that she lied on the application about not smoking. That, and her proclivity for listening to The Pointer Sisters at high volume first thing in the morning after coming in late at night from the biker bar where everyone knew her name. She is the one who insisted that I thought I was better than she was because I was a Christian and to whom I calmly explained that didn't make me better, I just knew where I was going when I died. She said she wanted to go to heaven, too, and would get her act together someday before the end of her life, which, I had mentioned casually, could very likely be that day.

Our biggest conflict, that of my roommate and I, did not revolve around her spiritual beliefs, health practices or even the fact that she was dating girls. The conflict between us had to do with whom I was dating. He was black.

I should have known there was more to the idea of interracial dating, when the guy I had been dating, editor of the university's literary journal who liked to talk about going to the Kentucky Derby with his family, dared me to date this undergraduate journalism student whose ancestors happened to be from Africa, as he laughed, probably drinking his mint julep in anticipation of race day. I didn't find the dare to be humorous or even understand why it was a dare. In any case, I took him up on it and he wasn't laughing then.

This new boyfriend's mother had been an African Methodist Episcopal (AME) minister who had died a few years prior to our meeting, leaving a gaping hole in his life and in the lives of his brother and father, an executive at a chemical company in Ohio. He was a straight-A student who bore a striking resemblance to the actor, Gregory Hines, who had portrayed a dancer, along with Mikhail Baryshnikov, in the movie White Nights that came out in 1985, a year before we met.

As journalism students, we had a lot in common. We even wrote a news story together about interracial dating that did not go over well with our professors when it was published in the university newspaper. I was told by the university photographer with whom I worked in the dark room every afternoon, developing photos to be published in the yearbook, that he had been told he was not allowed to ever publish a photo of an interracial couple. I got the feeling he had tried.

As Christians, our lives were more problematic as churches were segregated. Going to a white church together brought about a forced kindness and general coldness by the members, as he would be the only black man in attendance. The songs, as well as the Scriptures, seemed to be re-translated into a culturally accepted point of view. Walking across the railroad tracks, literally, we found ourselves at a black church with a name almost as long as its services. As college students we could not regularly devote ourselves to five hours of worship, but found the time on Sundays when there were covered dish luncheons. It was the best fried chicken I had ever eaten, and helped to soothe over how being stared at as the only white woman in the church by an entire row of the faithful had made me feel.

The general student population did not seem to care one way or another that we were dating at first. It did confuse them, however, that we were not fitting into the stereotypic black football player having a one-night stand with a white cheerleader story. We were serious students who studied together and went to church. We weren't doing what others thought we were doing and as time went on it somehow seemed to anger them when they realized our relationship was based on a true friendship. We found this out while walking through campus late one evening and having a bottle thrown at our heads, its shattered pieces glistening on the sidewalk the next day.

I would be called "casper" as in the ghost, "white bread" and "cracker" as I would make my way to the library or to class. This was not like the teasing I had endured about my hair color or freckles I had grown accustomed to all my life. These were angry, threatening voices, trying to break me. I continued to follow my conscience by intervening when a black girl was being hazed in my dorm, going to the dorm room of the suspected girl-in-question with my Bible in hand. She said she was a Christian. I wanted her to prove it.

In the end, it was not the color of our skin that ended our relationship, but our age difference and level of experience in dating. I was four years older and had already dated a wide variety of guys over the years. Though I was his first girlfriend, when temptation came knocking on his door one night, he succumbed, giving the title of first to her.

We would remain friends for a few years, meeting briefly in Los Angeles where he had an internship and then in Denver where I had returned, noticing that in neither place did anyone even raise an eyebrow as we walked together, two people of different racial backgrounds, talking and laughing about books and movies, and making observations about life the way writers do.



(I was reminded of this time in my life recently, in the midst of a nation at war with itself, and in no way am I casting judgment on Huntington, West Virginia or on Marshall University. Though my two years there would be fraught with the challenge of new experiences, it was the 1980's and change takes time. I would like to think that segregated churches are a thing of the past and that those from different cultural and ethnic backgrounds can live peacefully together, but it comes down to individual decisions and intentions--a hand opened to accept the hand of another instead of a hand drawn into a fist. It is easy to fear those with whom we do not break bread and difficult to take the time to consider how different any of us really is from another. We are all human beings bearing the image of our Creator. We, every single one of us, need to be loved. It is by His Spirit, we are able.)

where all the women are strong

I first heard of A Prairie Home Companion from a couple of guys frequently seen wearing camouflage and talking about hunting. They were students at Michigan State University, along with me and the girl who lived next door to me in my dorm, whom one of them dated. These were also the guys who talked that girl and I, along with a couple of others, to join them in "surviving" which meant camping outside near a railroad track on the other side of campus in February without a tent. It was great for the ones who were already dating; rather awkward for those of us who were not, but we had to survive so . . . .

I wouldn't take the time to listen to the News from Lake Wobegone until I was far from the little northern town near where I grew up and was living in the densely populated Capitol Hill neighborhood, within walking distance of downtown Denver, Colorado, a couple of years later. It was in that one-bedroom apartment, once a living room of an old house, that I would turn on my radio one Saturday night. I grew to love the radio show so much that even when I was invited out to do something with friends, I would sometimes turn them down preferring the "friendship" of the people who were in many ways more familiar to me, as their adventures were carefully recounted in hilarious detail by my favorite storyteller, Garrison Keillor.

When I left Colorado to attend graduate school in West Virginia, A Prairie Home Companion accompanied me. I saw a live performance of a similar type of show, Mountain Stage, in Charleston and found it enjoyable, but decided what I really needed to do was to go to Minnesota someday and see my favorite show. The same year I received my Master's degree, the show ended. I was heartbroken but figured I could at least listen to the small collection of cassette tapes I purchased or read a couple of Garrison's books when I felt lonely.

I was pretty sure I had grown up in a church like Our Lady of Perpetual Responsibility and knew of the religious skirmishes that happen between churches in small town life. Ralph's Pretty Good Grocery reminded me of how limited our choices were but how we were determined to find contentment anyway. The Sidetrack Tap is the type of establishment that figures prominently in small town life, especially when severe weather precludes one from doing much else. I had eaten the food described that was brought to the socials and marched in the parades for the variety of holidays and festivals. Lake Wobegone was as real to me as any place I had ever been.

The show came back in another form from New York for a few years before returning to its original name and location about the time our first son was born. As a married couple before children, we could arrange our Saturday nights around its broadcast, or at least I could since my husband was working in restaurants at the time and rarely home at night. With children it became more of a challenge. When we moved from Denver to Grand Rapids, Michigan, listening to Garrison's soothing voice was one of the more stable aspects of life. Once we moved to North Carolina, we would sit down together to listen to A Prairie Home Companion and feel like we had plans on a Saturday night, even though we had no money.

With a couple more kids and weekend schedules that included more soccer than anything else, we would miss the Powdermilk Biscuit song and the catchy Bebopareebop Rhubarb Pie jingle. My memories of life on the farm near a small Lake Wobegone-ish town were fading as my life was now being lived in a three-bedroom brick ranch in a small subdivision in the South, just outside the city limits of a town the size of the one my family would travel to for Christmas shopping, an hour and a half away from the farm. Now, one no longer has to drive somewhere to obtain a certain item. Ordering on the internet can send that item to your door from anywhere in the world.

And yet, I still had not experienced a live production of A Prairie Home Companion. I was not sure I ever would.

Garrison Keillor came to do a monologue one time and we found the money to go, but this did not suffice. The movie came out and though I loved it, Meryl Streep being my favorite actor of all time, it would not be until about five years ago that I would sit at a local outdoor amphitheater eagerly awaiting, "Oh, hear that old piano, from down the avenue . . . " and suddenly there he was on stage, this very tall man with the black-framed glasses singing the songs I knew and loved.

At the break when most performers would be sitting down for a few minutes, Garrison walked among the gathered crowd leading us in the songs that used to be taught: patriotic songs, folk songs, and hymns. The crowd was diverse as he somehow figured out a long time ago how to draw in conservatives and liberals, Christians as well as those who would never darken the doorway of a church, old and young, those coming from small towns and those who only read about such things, Northerners and Southerners, people who have a sense of humor and the ability to appreciate a good story well told. A community singing together and for a little while putting aside differences of opinion to focus instead on what it takes to harmonize with one another is exactly what this radio program was created to do. But even if it wasn't and this result was all just an accident, as I read in an article in which Garrison said the whole thing should never have worked, it did and was a grand success whether he knows it or not. It gave us a couple of hours each week to do nothing but listen, laugh, and sing along, always feeling better for having done so.

"Well, that's the news from Lake Wobegone, where all the women are strong, the men are good-looking, and the children are above average."

what if

There are at least a dozen stoplights to either pass right through or stop at on the way. Once I get inside the parking lot, it is a matter of going around the outside to the row near the grass. I almost always park in the second spot from the right. This may seem peculiar but to me it makes perfect sense. Even when it is my turn for the special parking space, I prefer to park in my spot and walk. I like how the church's steeple looks with clouds behind it, aglow in the morning sun.

I often take the sidewalk, watching carefully for those who do not pick up after their dogs, as I pass the gigantic tree, the one where kids will try to play just a little bit longer while moms chat with each other to keep from losing their patience, past the small parking lot where the red doors come into view. Using the fob on my keychain, I walk into the school.

Checking my mailbox I exchange greetings, sign in, and immediately head to the kitchen to make the coffee. I had reached the point a long time ago in which bad coffee was no longer acceptable. I chose to buy my own as a way to serve the women with whom I work. I figured if I bought it, I may as well make it. It also gives me a chance to converse with those gathering snacks and getting bleach for their bottles. A quick glance at the bulletin board and I am on my way down the hall to my room.

Before I take off my shoes, I set down my purse and take my first bathroom break of the day. Returning to the room, I take off my shoes to enter, put my purse on the cubby, hang up my coat if I have one, get my cup near the sink, and head back out the door, sliding into my shoes as I go back down the hall.

By this time the coffee machine has beeped and the pot is full. Ever since whole milk replaced two percent as our milk of choice, I have not needed to buy cream. It works fine. I see cars lining up and parents with children standing outside the door. The welcome flag goes up. The children who were in the early birds group make their way to their classrooms. The last day of school begins.

The two teacher kids are first to arrive in the classroom. They have already adapted to spending extra time in classrooms where they will continue to spend more time than most for possibly years yet to come. Next comes a little brother of a 4-year-old who insists on kissing him just one more time. Both parents usually drop off the kids thanks to their flexible work schedules. Last are twins brought in by a mom who already had a household of children. Though they come in last, they seem to know they are loved. Loved by us, by their parents, by all who could not possibly miss the double stroller making its way down the hall or up the sidewalk with identical twin boys smiling and waving.

Bags are hung up, diapers and refrigerated food put away, and playing continues until snack time when bottles are warmed and high chairs are pulled out of the crib room. Soon following eating comes a diaper change for each one. Some will sleep; some will not. It all depends on timing and a certain amount of skill in calming everyone down.

Naps and/or stroller rides come next and then it is time for lunch. More bottles, more food, more diaper changes. The babies have learned independence in feeding themselves. Fewer need bottles and those who do can hold their own bottle. Watching them go from lying on the floor, to crawling, to standing, to walking never gets old. Each one of them is a living miracle. I feel of rush of gratitude having been in their presence each morning, holding them and helping them to be ok in a place not their home. I know they will never remember me and yet I somehow hope they will.

When parents come to retrieve their babies, they slip a card or small gift into our hands while we give them back the babies we have come to know and love. Starbucks gift cards are a good gift. Scuppernong Books gift certificates are my favorite. The cards tell me how much we are appreciated. Sometimes they are written in first-person as though the child is writing. There can be tears if the family has made other plans for the next year, though usually there is more emotion in the 5-year-old room when the child is leaving the school for kindergarten. Families who are on their last child are especially emotional. Leaving preschool is an important marker in a child's development. It will be the last time in the child's life that play is considered work, unless they love what they will do.

After the children have all gone home, we mop the mats and spray down the toys. We wipe those toys played with the most. We put away laundry and take down the IGP monthly pages that now form a book--that last page featuring the class picture and a short letter summarizing the year. Names are wiped from the calendar and all of the poster sheets covering bulletin boards and the door are wiped clean. It is not necessary to do extensive cleaning as it is a room used frequently for childcare.

The original used to make copies of the take-home sheet is replaced in its file folder. The sign-in sheet is kept as a record no one will ever need. One name predominates. The others rarely signed in. All is wiped down and the crock pot is turned off. The refrigerator will not be defrosted until it is time to do it all over again in the fall. Toys are taken back to the toy room. Everything is straightened.

Lights are turned off and the door closed, as I make my way back down the hall, wishing others well as I walk by their rooms. I stop to hug those who will show up only one more time before taking their leave permanently. I go into the 5-year-old room where I've always felt comfortable and look around at all of the color and art on the walls. With extended time, they have yet to completely dismantle the room. The door to the playground is open and inviting. The laughter of children playing in the sand blends with the music. It feels like it will be a long time before we are together again. We know better.

I sign out and open the red doors to the warm, summer air which beckons me to take a deep breath. Another year of spending time with small children has ended. Summer vacation begins.

(In an On Being interview with Kevin Kling, Krista Tippett asks him how he dealt with the trauma following his motorcycle accident that nearly ended his life and caused him to lose the use of his only good arm. He said his therapist told him to re-tell the story with a different outcome. By giving an alternative ending to his story--in his case, not crashing his motorcycle--his mind was able to move beyond it instead of reliving it and allowing it to repeatedly terrorize him.

"We need to rewrite our stories sometimes just so we can sleep at night," he said.)

for Carl

In the cool of an early Saturday morning, she breezed through the farmers' market, stopping only long enough to make a couple of necessary purchases. Seeing her out of the corner of my eye while I stood talking to a fellow vendor, I had the momentary urge to call out her name if only to wave, but thought better of it. She looked like she was in a hurry and I had no way of knowing how many items she had left to check off her to-do list. Next time. I would speak with her next time.

The first time I ever spoke to her was after her pastor husband did a study at our church on a Sunday evening. As a line of those eager to speak to him began to form, she stood off to the side, as pastor's wives learn to do over time. I decided it was more important to share my story than wait in line to share it with him, so I introduced myself to her. When I asked if we could talk since the line to her husband was so long, she welcomed me to sit with her on the first pew.

I told her of a time I needed prayer and had met with her husband and my pastor. I had been in a bad way, trying to shrug off a feeling that would creep back in when I least expected it, leaving me in the dark, unable to find my way back to the light. After talking and praying, I could sense the pastors were attempting to bring some closure to our session so we could all go home. Panicking, I said I would not leave until I was doing better. I knew right then I had become a pastor's worst nightmare, but could not stop myself. I needed something tangible to happen. I had no idea what I was expecting.

After all was said and done, I told the pastor's wife that her husband asked if he could anoint my hand with oil. I agreed, having given up by that point, when I unexplainably started to feel a peace coming over me, restoring a healthy sense of well-being and a sound mind. Though I could not understand it, something supernatural had taken place. Grateful, I went home and slept peacefully.

Checking my emails later in the day, my closest friend--who was aware of my need for prayer--wrote that she had forgotten to tell me she had awakened the night before with a persistent thought that anointing oil should be used, along with the prayer. She had no idea why prayer would not be enough. That pastor may not have known why either. Yet this meeting needed to happen in just the way it did. We had all done what we were supposed to do, even though none of it made any sense.

What I wanted the pastor's wife to go home and tell her pastor husband was when he agreed to assist my pastor at my time of need, God used the faithfulness of both of these leaders to continue a healing in me that would inspire me to write prayers and eventually empower me to enter into leadership.

This pastor and his wife who now knew me, would stop by to visit me at the farmers' market and in time would ask me to make them a garland. I would see one or both of them from time to time as they enjoyed shopping there. He would eventually become my counselor during a time of transition.

Last December the pastor's wife bought my advent garland with its 24 pieces resembling houses that are either tied or clothes-pinned to a cord, numbering the days leading up to Christmas. When a number is turned over, a letter is revealed. By the time Christmas arrives the garland spells: LET PEACE BEGIN WITH ME which can be left up year-round as it is a sentiment that bears repeating.

The pastor's wife may have already left the farmers' market by the time I settled in to do some sewing, while greeting those stopping by my table to browse. I had spent hours in the days before cutting out the 24 parts to the advent garland, along with the numbers and letters, as this garland had already been ordered by a woman who showed up to buy it a couple of hours after the pastor's wife had purchased the one I made for last year's holiday season. Saturday marked my beginning of this year's holiday season, as I stitched this new advent garland while thinking of the pastor and his wife.

Hours later . . . in her heavenly home, the pastor's wife now has no need for an advent garland to mark off the days until Christmas. Every day is like Christmas, only better.

for free

She handed me a warm biscuit and a jar of plum jam.
Sustenance

She surprised me with antique lace to use on my next pillow.
Joy

She appeared before me as though I had summoned her, ready to listen.
Peace

She waved and smiled, eyes twinkling.
Kindness

She brought me a small vase of flowers from her garden mixed with rosemary.
Beauty

She did what a mother does, wrapping me in her arms.
Love

She brought someone she wanted me to meet who had gone through "seasons."
Empathy

He introduced me to his daughter and grandson with great pride.
Family

She stopped by just to say hi and see how I was.
Friendship

She gave me a big onion, laughing.
Happiness

She came to tell me good news and show her friend the bed bunnies.
Hope

All for free.


It was a beautiful morning.

pumps and pearls

Dress is business professional, the email inviting me to an interview stated, and even though it would no longer fit, I was suddenly wishing I still had my interviewing suit.

It was a light brown, wool suit that perfectly coordinated with the brown pumps I gave away when my third pregnancy flattened out my feet further, causing all of my shoes to be too small. I would wear this suit with one of the few silk blouses I ever owned, this one an emerald green. I felt invincible in this suit although it never really did for me what it was supposed to do.

I had walked into the offices where Mademoiselle Magazine is published in the Conde Nast building on Fifth Avenue in New York City wearing that suit many years ago. It was my one claim-to-fame interview, an interview that could have changed my life.

Clutching my portfolio and trying to keep a smile on my face, I chatted with an editor who was quite advanced in her pregnancy, perhaps so far along that she had not gotten the memo that retracted my invitation. But somehow I was invited to interview even though I would be told later there was never a position and it was all a misunderstanding. Maybe that is how rejection letters are written in NYC.

Before I knew there was no chance that I could be granted one of the copy editor positions, sitting across the desk from that editor made me feel like I was someone important. I sat wearing that beautiful suit, wondering if I got the job what I would wear the next day since she was already seeing my best, well, my only. She would tell me about ten minutes into the interview that she normally did not talk to prospective employees that long, before continuing on for another ten minutes. She seemed to want to instill hope in me. Maybe she saw herself as me, a small-town girl longing for an opportunity in the big city. I have no idea where she was from. Maybe she was not thinking clearly. Pregnancy does that.

Back to the matter of the suit. I settled for a dress, black with white polka-dots and even though it was a hot day in the South, I absolutely needed to wear a jacket to fulfill the professional requirement. Another problem. I still have the black jacket I have worn to many interviews in the more recent past. I call it my journalism jacket and wear it once in awhile, even though it no longer can be buttoned. It did not go with the dress. So I thought I would take a risk and wear something that expresses my sense of style and go with the vintage black jacket that I love. Pumps, pearls, red lipstick, and I was ready to take on the world.

Arriving 15 minutes early, I thought I would show that I was a serious contender. Walking into a nondescript office along a row of other nondescript offices in no way excited me. A rug and a wall painted a bright shade of green adorned the room. KLOVE permeated the airwaves. I heard one member of the staff say to her coworker that she takes everything back to the Bible. An antique-looking bottle of water was set out with small plastic cups. A Keurig coffee machine with styrofoam coffee cups, next to it. A version of Chicken Soup for the Soul is available on a corner table.

Having never been part of a group interview, I imagined four, maybe five, candidates sitting around a circle with the employer and maybe his staff joining in with questions. I thought maybe we would do an ice breaker exercise as though we were at a retreat or book study. I was the second interviewee to arrive, followed by eleven others. After we had taken all of the chairs in the waiting room, late-comers were ushered into a bigger, more open room where we would all eventually go.

What became immediately noticeable was that no one had dressed in business professional, but me. Several of the women had worn pants, but not really the kind that would go with a jacket. Some looked like they had put forth an effort; others not so much. I wondered if these girls even had pearls and pumps. They appeared to be young, single, and uneducated. With the exception of the woman who said she had an 18-year-old grandchild, I am pretty sure I reigned supreme as the elder woman, which was in no way an advantage.

After a brief introduction by the employer looking to hire one of us, we were each given two minutes to say who we were, where we were from, what was one unique thing about us, and how we inspired others. This is not what I was expecting. The first woman was called up front, as my mind swirled with possible answers. Suddenly, my name was called and I had to stand before the group. I had no idea what I was going to say. It was as though I had been transported back to Mrs. B.'s speech class on impromptu speech day when we had to draw a slip of paper out of a bag on our way to the podium to expound upon a topic. There is no slower, more painful death for me than that.

I wanted to connect with this potential employer and made a point of saying that I came from his home state though I had relocated here long ago. I was the only one in the room who could say that. I do not think it helped.

Trying to pick out a unique thing about me is the wrong question. Maybe I should try to choose one normal thing about me because there may only be one or two. To qualify myself by Myers-Briggs personality types, I am an INFJ and there is less than one percent of people like me. I need to associate meaning with everything I do. I am considered mystical and hard to get to know. I am always writing something in my head. I have to work hard to pretend to fit these job descriptions. I am a people person. HA! If you count the people I spend time with in books and movies, I am a very popular girl. Outgoing. That is completely a matter of perspective. I can be friendly. Really. Unique, on the other hand, is how I have been described from the beginning. I am usually the only redhead in the room. I have unique issues that plague me. I have many untold stories because I have yet to find someone who can relate to them. Uniquely qualified. Why didn't I say that?

Having no idea what the appropriate answer should be, I said the unique thing about me is that I used to live in Colorado, ride a bicycle, camp, and hike. I have no idea what bearing that had on anything or anyone. No one in the room seemed to register with the concept of living in the West or doing anything quite so athletic. It seemed to suggest that I was once in shape and healthy. Once.

On to how I inspire others. I am a writer. It is what I do best. It is how I inspire. It had nothing to do with this job. Having not formulated an answer to that one either, I heard myself telling the group that each morning on Facebook I post a quote with accompanying picture that is thought-provoking and hopefully uplifting to help those suffering with loss, illness, and the troubles of life so they can find a little something to get their day started right. I saw a glimmer of connection on the faces of these young women when I mentioned social media. The inspiration stopped there.

I would then listen to the rest of the interviewees, one by one, standing before the group telling us their unique qualities and how they inspire. I wondered how many of these girls had gone to college. I wondered what their grades were in high school. I wondered how I had ended up in this room among them. I felt punished, the butt of a cosmic joke. I tried not to let my mind wander as one of them said the most unique quality she possessed was that she had been in marching band in high school, which may have been last year by the looks of things.

Of course I was attributing living somewhere else as setting me apart. I am sure no one in that room lived in any of the states I have resided, but it does not make for a unique quality. The unique part is how I got in a car with virtual strangers and 24 hours later made a home for myself on my friend's couch when we weren't touring with her band. The unique experience was of finding a job in a strange city and living alone, making my way without money or resources. What continues to be unique is how I keep on surviving--still without money, resources, or a career.

There were a couple of women I thought were appropriate for the job--young women who would blend in and warmly welcome those coming into the office for their appointments. Women who could restock the plastic cups and turn on the radio at the beginning of the day. They could chat about their faith while scheduling and filing. When asked to stay late, they will smile and willingly agree because going back to their empty apartments leaves little to be desired. They will try to imagine a day when they can spend their afternoon hours taking their imaginary children to the park before going home to a real house and fixing dinner for their imaginary husbands. I hope they know how to cook.

not just another cover letter

Here's the cover letter I wish I could write.

Dear Future Employer,

There are some things you should know about me that my resume cannot begin to explain.

EDUCATION: My parents paid for one year toward my bachelor's degree. I paid for the rest through student loans that I would probably still be paying off were it not for the substantial inheritance we received from my husband's mother. I worked a work-study job every day that I could so I would have money to travel home and for other expenses. I went to graduate school in West Virginia even though I had never even visited there because that was the college I found that offered me a graduate assistantship, eliminating the cost of tuition. It meant, however, that I would work on-campus four hours a day. A loan allowed me to take an unpaid internship one summer. I worked hard for my education as I have worked hard since I was a child, working for my dad on the family farm.

WRITER: Most of my writing work has been unpaid. I have a portfolio filled with articles published while I was in school. I have written many articles, tributes, prayers, and a few short stories. I worked for about a year as a Features Reporter for an inner city newspaper in Denver, Colorado. I helped "typeset" the stories in proper format on my home computer, an early Macintosh Classic. I learned how to do this myself as everything prior to this time had been done on my Smith-Corona. I have always written. This means I have many years of experience, much more than a resume can adequately represent. I have tried to keep up with technology. I am always eager to learn.

Here is something harder to explain. I was hired to be a journalist at a newspaper in Gunnison, Colorado. The editor hired me over the phone after a couple of conversations! One of the major questions he said would be a deciding factor was whether or not I would be able to live in a mountain town comfortably, after the road connecting it to civilization would be closed for the winter. "Yes!," I cheerfully answered him, "I am from Michigan. I have been snowed in for weeks!" No sooner had I accepted his invitation did my friend who was going to drive me up there back out. Then there was a blizzard. I checked into bus transportation and only one bus ran up there a day. I had no money. I had nowhere to stay. I had no transportation . . . except this one guy I knew from church.

That guy got out his maps and we planned the trip. There was, however, something he wanted to do more than take me to the mountains so I could be a journalist. He wanted to marry me. I was 26 and already an old-maid by the standards of my very small hometown. If I took the job, would I one day marry a mountain man? Or would I be the spinster newswoman eventually editing the newspaper, driving a jeep home to my one-bedroom apartment where my dog, my only companion, awaited me.

Here's another thing. I knew if I married the guy I would have children with the guy. In my mind marriage and children were an inseparable reality. No marriage, no children. But put a ring on it and we may as well move to the 3-bedroom ranch and set up the nursery. I never thought I could do it all.

As soon as we returned from the honeymoon, life as I knew it changed forever. I could no longer apply for jobs in different places. I now lived in a house with a spouse who had a job that made more money than the vast assortment of dead-end jobs I would now have. I would doubt my abilities and wonder why I had worked so hard to get an education when I would walk into office after office filled with people who had no idea what I'm capable of accomplishing. Or what I had been through so far.

But then I turned 30 and decided I was ready to have a baby. By this time my husband was ready, too. The next thing I know I am wearing fashionable maternity clothing to the long-term temp job at the law firm where I was editing coded documents and actually enjoying it. I remember the day I closed up the office. I was probably the last one to leave since my co-workers had a baby shower for me and I was gathering up the baby booties, cards, and what was left of the huge chocolate chip cookie. I wondered if the trip down the elevator was my last one. I found out about a permanent job I had a great chance of being hired for but as a first time mom-to-be was nervous about daycare and thought it would be better if I stayed home, thus ending my career.

I would try to continue a typing service out of the home for seminary students primarily and soon discovered that trying to work around the schedule of a baby was not conducive to meeting deadlines. I would face unbelievable loneliness as I rocked my baby and took long walks with the dog. Work had become such a natural part of my life for so long it was awkward wearing sweats and not having anything pressing to do other than changing diapers and fixing bottles after breastfeeding failed.

One of the paralegals I had done research with called me one day inviting me to a near-by city to do similar work as before, and though I was absolutely wanting to go, could not make it work out with transportation and childcare. We would then move from Colorado to Michigan and then to North Carolina leaving behind every connection for work I ever had.

By the time we had two children and I was able to work again, there was an opportunity for me to take a paralegal's position at the law firm where I was then working, just up until I got what I thought was the flu. It turned out to be my third child. Another possible career had blown away like a puff of smoke. And I was convinced with three children that I would never work again.

TEACHER: It was because I had the third child I realized I needed to be the one who could leave work to take kids to the doctor, pick them up early for special practices, take time off to go to their assemblies, etc. that I needed a mom job. I became a preschool teacher. (Please refer to my blog, I AM NOT A TEACHER for more information if you require some.) Working as a teacher did not mean I stopped being a writer. It never meant that.

ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT: These are the type of jobs writers get so they can pay their bills. Journalists make great secretaries. We know how to type fast and accurately. We can construct sentences that convey information effectively. We are curious types who enjoy the challenge of a diverse workplace. We do not like to be treated as though we are failed writers. We are not. We just plain would like to eat some dinner. In order to do that, WE NEED TO GET PAID!

LEADER: I personally believe my leadership activity is far more impressive than most of my paid work. Being asked to serve on a Board of Directors and making it to every meeting over a period of three years is no small feat. It takes dedication and commitment. Taking on the responsibilities of church leadership requires a lot more time than one may think, especially if one becomes Clerk and must attend every meeting, take minutes, type out the minutes, submit them, and then make corrections as needed in order for approval by the church's governing body. The minutes must be as accurate as the documents I used to type for the attorney I worked for when I found out I was in a delicate condition. If there was an error, the document would have to be re-done as it would not be admissible in court. Though perfectionism is supposedly frowned upon as a character trait, in my experience it has been expected.

QUALIFICATIONS: When I say I am committed to accuracy, it is because of the leadership and administrative experiences mentioned previously. The self-motivation I refer to has been a part of my life since I was a student always striving to get the best grades possible. I am somewhat of a loner and can work alone happily. I can also get along with most people. Being creative and resourceful is what I have learned along the way. Creativity in financing a life with three children and a teacher husband has given me many opportunities to improve my communication skills as I have wheeled and dealed my way through payment plans and promises. Being resourceful is all I have ever known. As a result I am the kind of employee who will not waste your supplies or your time. I will endeavor to reduce, reuse and recycle. I will assume you want me to treat your resources like I do my own: with great care, stretching their usefulness as far as they will go. I will choose quality over quantity. It lasts.

My resume lists 15 years of teaching a preschool curriculum and a couple of one-year office jobs. The rest is unpaid writing and leadership roles. It has the appearance of a stay-at-home mom who will not necessarily show a whole lot of initiative because maybe she does not have enough professional experience, and yet, motherhood has taught me more about managing an organization than anything ever could. I have multi-tasked through soccer, track, and band concert scheduling always aware of what exists in the pantry and the various combinations of ingredients available in the refrigerator since dinner must happen in some form at some time. Endless pieces of uniforms that have to be ready for the next event, along with continual communication as to who will drive whom where became a masterpiece in choreography. Nothing has ever been able to get between me and the needs of my children and this focus, honed over years of cheering on a bunch of boys, has created in me a fierceness I never knew existed. I have seen the inside of an emergency room more than once. I have what it takes to endure anything, including what is required for me to handle in the workplace.

Maybe the people I have spent my time supporting can say who I am through their lives. I helped my husband obtain his teaching certification and two master's degrees. We have been married 28 years. My oldest son graduated from college with a degree in economics and months later landed a great job in his field. My middle son is half-way through a top-rated music program degree, already thinking about graduate school. My youngest son, though not particularly thrilled with high school, is smart and a great athlete. He has taught himself how to do some cooking and does not hesitate to help those in need. All of these guys know they are loved. They know buying stuff isn't as important as having experiences. They know they can bring any friend home at any time and there will always be more room at the table and enough food to share.

Considering all this, I seek employment. To improve your organization, I am your next best choice.

Sincerely yours,

Mary Ellen Shores