by your hands

For all of the mothers and daughters who struggle with each other--this is a tribute to my mother. It represents my willingness--in spite of all else--to love her with whatever love I have to give.

(The following letter was my entry in a writing contest that was chosen to be included in a book entitled, Dear Mom, I've Always Wanted You to Know, Daughters Share Letters From the Heart by Lisa R. Delman, 2005, published by the Penguin Group. She held this contest after nearly losing her mother and desiring to give women the chance to share with their mothers what remained unsaid.)

Dear Mama,
It may have happened while I was washing dishes, folding clothes, or writing a letter, but suddenly, without me even noticing it, my hands had been transformed into yours.

The closely cut fingernails, slightly enlarged knuckles, and even the same dryness crying out for a therapeutic lotion were now mine along with the fair complexion and freckles. I stopped what I was doing at the time to stare at my hands in disbelief as though something supernatural had just occurred. Whether I liked the resemblance was not an issue for I could not change reality. I began to think about all the ways your hands have molded me to be the woman I now am.

With your hands, you held me and cared for me when I was a baby.
As your first child, I know I was special to you, though I don't know if it was more disappointing to realize that you would not be naming me Jeffrey James, or that I was bald and had a deformed lip--a far cry from the Gerber baby you had imagined. Not only that, but when my hair came in a year later, it would be red, an unimaginable color in an all-brunette family. Several years ago when you admitted I looked more like you than my sisters did. I wondered if the resemblance made you smile.

In your hands, you held up books that would open my imagination.
Though you never considered yourself a scholar, your decision to read to me caused me to fall in love with books and has helped to set the course of my life. I don't remember what you read other than nursery rhymes, but reading has always been something I have loved and I can credit you for that.

By putting your hands together, you showed me how to pray.
My earliest memory is kneeling by my bed with hands folded, eyes shut, reciting prayers. As I grew in my knowledge of God and was compelled to follow a path different from yours, I knew my decision would create a problem for us. And yet if I did not walk the path shown to me, I would be doing something far worse. It's important for a mother to teach her child about that which is most dear to her. It's because I have strong convictions, like yours, that we have never been able to settle this matter.

Your hands kneaded the dough, and cut out cookies.
How fortunate I have been to have a mother who knew how to cook! All those pies and cookies we made represent a lot of what was good about my childhood. Though we won awards for our baked goods, the memory is better than any blue ribbon.

With your hands you could take whatever you had to create anything.
I learned resourcefulness from you, even though I know you wished you hadn't lived that lesson the way you always have. But you became good at turning one piece of clothing into another, a sheet into a costume or curtains, scraps of cloth into decorations.

The hands that made crafts to become gifts for others were yours.
Not only did you make do with anything with which you had to work, but also you never allowed your lack of money to keep you from giving gifts. You simply created gifts out of whatever you could find.

With your hands you made clothes for yourself and your children.
Your sewing skills won you awards and gave you the ability to create outfits for your daughters that would match yours. Wearing the green jacket you made for yourself allows me to wonder what you may have looked like when you were young and free.

By your hands, you prepared meal after meal.
We depended on you for your cherry dessert, the perfect pie crusts, and the many salads and desserts you came up with to take to school events and picnics. It never occurred to me how much work you did, just that you would be there to do it.

Holding your hands, we could safely cross any street.
You must have been praying when we tried to cross those busy streets in Chicago during our first family vacation. You wanted to give us the chance to see the world, though, so you helped us across the street.

Your hands clapped at my performances and accomplishments.
Piano recitals, band concerts, 4-H fashion shows, and even a cherry queen pageant. There you were, my biggest fan. Graduations were more difficult because I was closer to leaving the nest with each step. Maybe that was why my wedding was most difficult of all.

Your hands waved good-bye.
It must have bothered you to leave me at Michigan State University, as big as it is. There was a time after I declared what I believed in and how I was going to live my life that I wondered if you had waved good-bye to me for the last time. But your mother's love would not allow it.

Your hands were open, ready for hello.
Even after everything I have put you through--running off to Denver with twenty-five dollars and a backpack, turning a two-week vacation into a two-year stay; taking a job in Maryland and ending up in California still seeking my path; not taking the journalist position I was finally offered in the Colorado mountains because I didn't have money to get there and was too afraid to ask for more; having a wedding so foreign that you couldn't accept it--yet you still wanted me back. I'm finally old enough to realize that you will always want me back because that's the way mothers are.

Your hands have always reached out to those in your community.
The example you gave me when you made endless plates of cookies and sent cards to people for every occasion, but especially get-well cards, has served as a standard by which I can hope to live.

In your hands is a mother's love for your children and grandchildren.
A mother's love is that constant affection that goes beyond changing a sick child's bed or cleaning up messes when she has no energy left, especially in the middle of the night. You probably dreamed of a more glamorous existence, and I know you have wanted that for me. But fame and fortune don't equal love, especially the kind that covers a multitude of sins. And well-manicured, painted fingernails just aren't our style. Your example of caring for others has helped me to serve my family in a way that formal education could never accomplish. I'm sorry it has taken me so long to realize that.

By your hands, another generation goes forward.
Getting married and having my own family has been possible because I watched you do it and knew I wanted it, too. I just didn't want it as badly as you did or as soon. I judged you for making that your primary goal, when there were so many other possibilities. I hope you can forgive me for that, but I didn't understand motherhood at the time. When all is said and done, I know I will value my family as much as you have because that's what a mother does.

Your hands are more familiar to me now, for they resemble my own.
I've now held my own babies, shared my love for reading, and continued to teach them about God's love. I still bake the bread, make the cookies, and become resourceful creating gifts, clothing, and meals out of whatever I can find. I walk hand in hand with my little boys and cheer them on during soccer games and music performances. I haven't had to wave good-bye to them yet, but that day will come. Then I hope and pray that what you taught me and what I've taught them will help them make good decisions.

I'm still learning to be aware of the community and care for another's need more than my own. Someday, if I live long enough, I may have a grandchild who will want to know her great-grandmother. Then I will stretch out my worn, bony fingers with crackling dry skin and say, "I want to tell you all about her. Look, child, at my hands."

Love,
Mary Ellen

can't see the fork for the tree

I was the next person in line at the food truck when one of the men preparing the gourmet crepes and noodle dishes with the enticing aromas for those who had already ordered, said everything was sold out. 86'd. Fini. The food truck was out of commission for the day.

This was not what I needed to hear at a quarter to two when the only sustenance I had up until that point had been a mango smoothie purchased at the other food truck hours earlier. Because I am the only person at my table, whether it is a regular Saturday morning at the Farmers' Market or a special arts and crafts show, I depend on food to be available since I am unable to leave. On Saturday mornings food is abundant; at the arts and crafts shows--not so much.

Food vendors generally are not part of the art crowd though there is the occasional pound cake, cookie and candy, or barbeque sauce maker. With a pounding head and hours remaining for the show, I located a small loaf of pumpkin bread and a bar of some kind to go along with a very large cup of coffee. I would regret that decision 20 minutes later as the sugar and caffeine took over, making it difficult for me to continue my methodical sewing. Flying around the room seemed more likely.

As the crowds were beginning to wane on this beautiful Sunday afternoon, I went to talk to some artist friends who had some down time as well. They were eating Japanese food out of plastic bowls; a large bag containing styrofoam to-go boxes remained on the table beside them. Perhaps catching me eyeing her food, my friend offered to give me an entire box of it! She said way too much was ordered. Making sure there was enough beef and chicken in the box for me, as if I would not have done the happy dance for vegetables alone, she sent me back to my table with lunch in hand. The only thing standing in my way, was the lack of a fork. I told her I am comfortable using chopsticks, but there were none of those either.

I looked around the building and asked at the desk. Someone could find one for me if I could just locate the person with the key to the back office. As I looked for this person I tried to notice whether or not any of the vendors with food samples would have something for me to use. I came up empty-handed.

Back at my table with my box of food, I started eating with my fingers. The artists next to me looked away in shame. I should have cared. I did not.

I wondered about making my own chopsticks. Would a couple of pens work?  Too rounded and slippery. I just needed something to lift the rice to my mouth without completely wearing it. Something . . . like a card, folded and curved. Using my makeshift utensil I successfully emptied the entire box of rice into my mouth without as much as a grain of it falling to the floor, or at least none that I noticed. When the card would get too soggy from the soy sauce, I would rip off that section and keep on going with the freshly folded card stock scoop. My head stopped throbbing. A sense of well-being returned.

Basking in the afterglow of this wonderful gift of food, my eyes rested on my table display as I contemplated the day. I was using my bed springs tree as a base to show off the birds I had sewn by hand using upholstery fabric, beads and wire. And though I have used this display before, I had not noticed it like I did now. Inches from where I had unceremoniously shoveled food into my mouth with a piece of paper, sat each bird perched delicately on a spatula, small measuring cup, a variety of stirring utensils, spoons, and even a fork.

buyer's remorse

Ever since I was pressured into making a decision I was not quite ready to make, I have had what amounts to buyer's remorse. I try not to make snap decisions about anything except occasionally thrift store purchases since there is no way to keep them from getting sold, and the prices are so low that even I can risk ending up with something that may not fit. I can always put it back in one of those Goodwill bins with no harm done.

But decisions about the more intangible things are far more difficult to undo. If, hypothetically speaking, I were part of a team assigned a writing task and after some deliberation came up with workable words, this would be considered a good thing. If said workable words show promise as a framework for the task at hand, this would be even better. But what if the others become bored with the process or feel the need to hurry it along and as a result decide to vote even though it is merely a rough draft? And what if somehow the rough draft is deemed worthy of taking the place of a final piece of writing? What does one do when the unfinished project has just become the cornerstone upon which all else will be built?

One can send out frantic emails making requests that may or may not evoke a response. Another plan can be presented, but to no avail. It is over; the decision has been made.

But it is not finished, I protest. I entertain this conversation while I am driving to work. I sound angry so I try to adjust my tone. I think about a myriad of possibilities, none of which will be taken seriously. I wonder what will happen next. And though I would like to think there is still time to do something differently, in the pit of my stomach I know the truth. What began as a collaborative intellectual exercise that got my heart racing as I tried to identify phrases that would sound good and just the right words to communicate effectively, it all came to a screeching halt. A casualty of this experiment, I went into a free fall hoping for a soft landing. Instead I went splat on the cold hard pavement of "done."

It makes me think about some of the powerful documents of our time. I wonder how long it took the Founding Fathers to write the Declaration of Independence and how many drafts were needed to pen the Constitution. Did heated discussions ensue when one word was chosen over another word? Who received the inspiration for such literary genius and who was merely standing there holding a pen? At what point did someone recognize the need for the process to end? And who got to decide when that would be?

When I'm writing a prayer I know I am done when I cry. As narcissistic as it is for this to happen, it is my guide. I figure if I am not willing to be vulnerable enough to reveal my truest self, no one is going to feel anything either. Not looking for a way to manipulate, I get concerned with too much emotional honesty. But without that part of the equation, my writing would lack its essential quality. My intent is to coax the reader or listener to travel with me on my narrative quest to find whatever it is I am searching for. I do not want to disappoint by settling for a rough draft. Even if I have to edit, rewrite and edit a few more times, it is the way of the writer. It is the necessary and satisfying part of the process. It is what I go back and do with these blogs, even after I have published them. Another powerful way to enhance writing is by sleeping, allowing dreams and visions to fill in the gaps not forthcoming in the waking hours. What I do not know when my head hits the pillow may eventually find its way to me by the morning light. Writing has its own timing. It does not answer to me.

As for said hypothetical writing project, whatever words written hastily on that easel and strung together to accomplish a goal remain frozen in place, forced to represent what we had set out to communicate. But they were not done with their creative dance. They had not explored other rhythms. The night was young and they had barely begun to get to know one another. Surely there would be one more song; one more chance. Instead, the music ended and they were sent abruptly home. In a sort of limbo they exist, wondering what happened and trying to understand why their voices were silenced. Doomed to hang forever in their unsatisfactory, preliminary structure, they dream of what can never be. They long to be rewritten.

as I went down in the river to pray

In order to process the thoughts that run themselves ragged around in my head, I either wake up startled or have a dream that brings a certain measure of clarity to these rampant ideas gone wild. Last night I dreamed.

In the dream I was at a baptism. It was not a baptism of an infant in which the baby, wearing a white dress whether the child is a boy or a girl, receives water on his or her head, sprinkled by a pastor or priest. The parents are asked if they are willing to take on the spiritual responsibilities for their offspring until the child is of an accountable age. Those present, sitting in the chairs or pews, are then asked to offer their services in the raising of the child. It takes a village to raise a child. It takes a church to raise a child in faith.

According to my baby book, I was given the sacrament of baptism while in the arms of my 20-something parents at our home church on September 10, 1961, 19 days after I was born. My mother's parents were named godparents for this momentous occasion. I believe the idea at the time was that baptism was the protective measure necessary for qualification into the heavenly realms, just in case.

The occasion celebrated in the dream was, however, an adult baptism. Not the kind Baptist churches are known for with the baptismal font behind the altar and white robes reserved for those whose salvation experiences have led them to this decision. Nor was it the more contemporary version of this sort of baptism that is also held inside a church with a less formal baptismal. This was more of a horse trough baptism out in someone's backyard.

In some ways it reminded me of the thought process I went through before the baptism I experienced at the age of 21 after I decided to give my heart to Jesus and wanted to make my own decisions instead of relying on those made for me by my parents. Though I had a dramatic spiritual encounter while in college, I hesitated to run down to the Red Cedar River which meanders its way through the campus of Michigan State University to have a man of the cloth perform the rite of baptism there. It was an unconfirmed rumor that if one accidentally fell from a canoe or intentionally jumped into the Red Cedar River, a tetanus shot was strongly recommended. I found it amazing that baptisms were done there in light of this possibility. Perhaps my faith had not yet reached the level that could allow for such a risk.

By the time I had found myself in Colorado, I knew it was time to be baptized. The large, nondenominational church where I went held baptisms at a recreation center swimming pool. I had hoped for a natural body of water, like Lake Michigan in late August, but since none had been forthcoming, I decided to go ahead with the pool idea.

It is a tricky thing dressing appropriately for such an event as one's baptism. I've heard more than one embarrassing tale regarding the see-through nature of those white robes. But my church was so casual, swimsuits were actually encouraged. And I knew my swimsuit would be deemed acceptable since I had never worn anything but a one-piece, a modest one at that. I always needed as much sun protection as I could possibly get, especially since back then sunscreen had only reached a level 8.

What I remember more than anything was that even though I knew having a pastor dunk me in water had no significant properties in and of itself to effect any kind of spiritual manifestation, something unexplainable happened to me as I was coming up for air. My friend who came with me said I stood in the pool praying for a long time in comparison to the others who were quick to get out and wrap up in their towels. It was as if I went to another place--a place where my soul found peace.

Back to the gathering of people near that horse trough in the dream, I came to realize I had been invited to see others get baptized since I had no need to do this again. One by one those who had prepared to make this decision would come forward, say a few words about why it was important for them to make baptism a public sign of their faith and then go through with it. Though I did not recognize anyone there, I apparently had been invited by someone and felt that we shared a bond of faith.

As the pastor finished baptizing those who were planning on this event, he asked if anyone felt so moved to experience it also, followed by the predictable hushed silence. Just as he was about to pray to dismiss, a friend went forward to be baptized. When one has walked in the faith a long time and has considered a second baptism as somewhat disrespectful to those who came before, I was surprised to see my friend go forward. Not concerned with what was being worn or what would be worn afterward, my friend stepped into the trough. The joy on the face of someone being baptized is a sight to behold. For a moment afterward I could sense the vulnerability of my friend being uncomfortable in front of others, realizing what had just occurred. Without a thought for what I was wearing or what I would wear later, I too stepped forward and requested baptism.

As I reflected on this dream today, I hoped if a situation required it that I could do something selfless to bring comfort to another. I thought about how we say we want to walk with someone through darkness or pain but often are reluctant to get too close. We make time in our schedules as long as our needs are met first. We listen intently as long as we are not terribly inconvenienced. But in this dream, none of that mattered. The pastor conducting the baptism was going to stay for as long as it took. Those in attendance were going to keep on singing another verse to a song. What anyone looked like was not important. What mattered most was the condition of our hearts.

a time to dance--revisited

If I were able to revisit my much younger self, I sometimes think about what I would say to her. I wonder if I could say something that would prepare her for the events that will shape her life.

To celebrate Easter, I was going to run the short story I wrote several years ago about one of those life-changing events. I actually went as far as typing it, and then changed my mind. Instead of sharing the story, I need to write the review. And even though the ending has already been changed once, I sense another ending in the works.

My story begins as I am dancing on the steps of my small Catholic school, wearing my plaid uniform and dreaming of being swept away by a handsome prince. I loved the story of Cinderella and wanted so badly to be cast in the leading role. But every time I looked in the mirror, my deformed lip that I had since birth stood out as my predominant feature. It would not be until later in that first grade year that plastic surgery would be performed to remove the unsightly bump, becoming a traumatic event in itself as I was not sure my parents would come back to get me after leaving me at the hospital. I am not sure why I thought this. But I did.

My red hair drew unwanted attention and relentless teasing. To make matters worse, my hair was unevenly chopped off either because it was one of those times I ran out of the beauty shop before the lady had finished with it or my mother had cut it herself. In any case I was not at all pleased that it had to be so short. Freckles offered to add color to my fair complexion but did little to create the princess persona for which I was aiming.

As my story goes, I am approached by the most desirable girl in the class at recess. An awkward child with few friends, I could not understand why I would look up to see this popular girl standing before me. What is even more confusing is that she has come bearing a gift--a gift for me!

Because it is almost Easter, this girl wants to give me a small basket filled with jellybeans and chocolate eggs. I see this as a gesture of friendship. I accept the gift equating it to receiving an invitation to the ball at the castle with all of the beautiful people. I have arrived!

At recess I can't understand why my new friend wants nothing to do with me. Even at the age of six I needed to know the truth. When I finally ask her what her intentions are, she says, "I gave you the basket because my mother told me that we are supposed to give to the poor. I don't want to be your friend."

Memories are faulty and unreliable. And yet, I remember this event as though it happened yesterday. It shaped the way I would look at friendship. It made me aware that I was perceived to be on the wrong side of the haves and the have-nots. I still think about it before giving to someone in need, not wanting anyone to ever feel like I did on that day. Sometimes it makes it difficult for me to give at all.

As I recall, I started crying just as the bell was ringing and in order to not have my hands slapped with a ruler by the mean nun who stood by the door, I had to act as though I was fine and go back into the school. With all of the pretending I had to do just to survive my childhood, I may have excelled as an actor if I had ever found the courage to take an acting class. Thus the real-life event ended here.

Years later, after counseling to overcome what this one simple incident had done to me, I was sitting in my rocking chair praying for a different ending to this story when I saw myself reenter the story, get up from the sidewalk and instead of walking into the school, I walk into the church. One was as scary as the other. The church was dark since vines covered the large stained glass windows at the front and the lights were permanently on dim. The confessional booth was the absolute worst when it came to scary places. Afraid of the dark, I would confess every sin I could think of just hoping to escape.

As a new ending for my story, I see myself standing below the huge crucifix holding the basket of candy I was given and wondering how I am ever going to end up having a real friend. I think maybe I need to give a gift even though the offer of friendship was not that girl's intent. The story ends as I sense the love of God surrounding me. I see Jesus as alive instead of hanging on the cross. I am not alone.

What emerges as I think about another ending for this story today is the strong maternal instinct I have toward this sad, lonely little girl. I want to meet her on the sidewalk where she sits brokenhearted, take her by the hand and lead her back into that church, no longer a place of fear. I light candles and we sit together on the altar as she considers her gift, and I consider mine. Even though I know a whole lot more about life than she does, I am at a loss for words.

I want her to know that she has more to offer than a silly little basket filled with jellybeans and chocolate eggs and that her need to know the truth will never steer her in the wrong direction. I want her to see that being the princess is not the goal and that true beauty is more spiritual than physical. I want her to never doubt that she is loved, even though she will. Though she looks so small and helpless, she will persevere. She will learn to forgive. There will be a time for her to dance again.

Leaning toward her, I smooth her hair, help her pull up those blue knee socks and tie those ugly orthopedic shoes. I offer her a tissue to dry the tears flowing down her sweet, freckled face. And then I hold her . . . for as long as she needs. Because sometimes words are just not enough.

knowing

As a person of faith, I usually go about my life blithely aware that there is a plan for me, carefully mapped out by a supreme being who has my best interests in mind. All is well until I smack up against the idea of trust. I know that I am supposed to have full confidence in this idea, this plan, this larger-than-anything creator of the universe, but sometimes . . . I don't.

It is Holy Week and I've been busily being "holy" attending to my lenten sacrifice and following a daily devotional. But it is now Maundy Thursday and I don't like what happens next in the divine narrative.

I like to picture the Last Supper as a dinner party. Jesus has rounded up his best friends, well, his best guy friends, and they are to celebrate the Passover together. There is an abundance of wonderfully prepared food, perhaps prepared by women who are not mentioned in this recorded history, and the wine is flowing and cheerfully consumed. It is a time for conversation and laughter. The kind of event that friends look forward to and remember long afterward.

But then the festive mood becomes more somber when Jesus feels the need to share with the group that one of them is about to break with the fellowship. He decides to get deep and philosophical with the bread and the wine. And he borders on inappropriate and perhaps a bit too intimate with the whole foot washing bit. Friends, however, can open themselves to each other when there is a certain level of trust involved even when they do not totally understand. At this point I wonder if they are starting to realize something significant is about to happen. What bothers me is that they probably are not.

Like so many things that end up being disappointing, I wonder afterward if the outcome could have been different had I been briefed ahead of time. Is there an equation in which "more information" somehow equals "less disappointment?" Why do I always think knowing something ahead of time is going to give me an upper hand? So I can protect myself? So I can control my emotions--perhaps choosing to withdraw instead of commit? Is this what I do to eliminate the need to--yes, here it comes--TRUST?

Where does trust get me? I wonder if this is an idea that crossed the minds of the disciples as they saw their leader taken away: the man they lived with and loved; the one they left everything and everyone behind to follow with their whole hearts. Maybe they figured once Jesus defended himself in court, their lives would go back to normal. Everyone knew he was not guilty. But then he chose to remain silent. He chose to let those who wanted to get rid of him win. This group of men may have been as angry at Jesus as they were at those accusing him. How could they have put their trust in someone like this?

Before they could catch their breath from the series of events that would have seemed more dream-like than real given the intensity of each hour that followed that seder meal, Jesus' life was over. Left feeling more alone than they had perhaps ever felt, his disciples now had to grieve his shocking, seemingly senseless death. So afraid and filled with sorrow, they, save one, could not even go to the cross. That part was left to the women.

That trite phrase, "God doesn't give us more than we can handle," in all of its sickening sweetness, slips into my mind. YES, HE DOES!!! If he gave the very closest friends of Jesus way more than they could ever deal with, who am I to think that I deserve better? When I have no ability to understand, no more words to speak, and my mind has gone blank with a numbing sorrow, all I can do is drag my bag of fears, insecurities, anger, and every other sin that hinders me to the foot of the cross. And like those who came with nothing to offer a dying savior, I perceive in that moment of utter despair something like a whisper--a knowing. This "knowing" has nothing to do with logic or reasoning, explanations or even information I think I should have had prior to this occasion. It is the simple knowing: it is ok to trust.

a night off

I am often asked, "What will you do when the boys leave home?" as though my very existence is dependent upon their every need and my life is lived vicariously through them. I try to make a veiled attempt to come up with appropriate answers. But when it gets right down to it, unlike others who seem to resist being by themselves and fill the hours with various sound and activity, I actually enjoy being alone.

With Joel out of town for a soccer tournament as a guest player with his friend's team; Ariel with his girlfriend for most of the evening; Gabriel enjoying his life at college; and Lee in Raleigh in preparation for an early morning marathon; I had an opportunity to spend the night in any way I saw fit.

Knowing this was going to happen in advance, I could have arranged a girl's night out and took in a movie or had gone out to eat. I could have even gone out by myself as I used to do many years ago. When one takes a book to dinner, she does not dine alone.

I then considered watching movies at home--the chick flicks that I can sometimes persuade one of the boys to watch with me when it is just the two of us, though they usually will not permit me to watch them when I am in their presence. Seeing their mother cry is not on their list of favorite things to do.

But I had a refrigerator of leftovers clamoring to be combined, so I made a big pot of soup. I turned on Prairie Home Companion as they were talking about their upcoming 40th anniversary and realized I have been listening to that program for about 30 of those years. Not exactly a social butterfly, I used to spend my Saturday nights in my tiny apartment in the Capitol Hill neighborhood in Denver making dinner or baking cookies and listening to the radio show. I would then eat while listening to the news from Lake Wobegon, and though I did have friends who would try to lure me away from my solitary life, I often preferred staying home and being told stories that reminded me so much of my childhood, but in a better, funnier way. Besides, laughter is good for the soul whether one is spending the evening with Garrison Keillor or with others.

Once the soup was made and the next radio program came on, I briefly entertain the thought of taking in that movie. Maybe I can have a good cry since I am alone and no one would be the wiser. Maybe I should finish that book I am not really enjoying but am trudging through since I do not like to leave a book unread. Better yet, I could read something that will speak to my soul. I then consider a musical accompaniment. We so often have either the television, stereo or something on the computer providing some sort of background music to live our lives by. But the lovers of such things were all out of the house, leaving me who prefers silence!

Taking the dog out into the night, I suddenly wished I were at the beach, sitting in my portable chair and looking up at the stars. With no schedule for days, I would feel the sea breeze as my mind wandered out beyond the confines of daily living into the arms of an awaiting universe. The wind, stars, Spirit of the living God would all be singing their gentle songs to me, beckoning me to find rest. The best part about being alone is that I never really am.