I have decided . . .

I went to church today with a tray full of cookies and a heart full of hope. The cookies, my signature recipe of molasses cookies made into sandwich cookies with the butter cream frosting in the middle, are the now expected item I bring to covered dish events, in this case the luncheon after the church service. The open, expectant heart is how I live on my good days.

As a member of the choir I needed to take my tray to the fellowship hall as quickly as I could walk downstairs so I could get to the music room, while having a delightful conversation with a woman I often sit by in choir about the delicious meat we were served at the pig pickin' the night before. Finding my seat in the choir loft I began to adhere my page stickers onto the pages of songs selected for service designated in the bulletin. We would then have a short rehearsal and stop in time for me to make a brief visit to the ladies room and even get a quick drink of juice.

Walking back into the sanctuary as the pews began to fill I noticed a woman lighting a candle, pausing momentarily to remember someone. Though I wanted to do the same without any specific intention in mind, I decided not to intrude on her prayer so I went on to my place.

Sitting in the choir I am surrounded by a musical family. We all sing our parts and though some of us do not always hit the right notes, our hearts are in the right place. We sing in unison; we sing in harmonies. We sing together to lead the rest of the congregation into the worship of God.

At some point in the service as the guest pastor was illustrating the gospel of Mark and telling us to listen to Jesus, I felt this overwhelming presence near me, around me, over me, within me. It was not of my own doing as I try not to draw attention to myself, especially when I am sitting in front of the entire church. I was grateful that the communion table had been lifted up to the higher step to serve as a wall of partition just in case I were to become emotional. It was more than a feeling, however, or even an emotional moment. It was exactly where God knew I would be, waiting for inspiration, hoping for a word from him. It was time for our divine appointment.

And just like that, this rush of words came at me saying, "Why is it so hard for you to trust me?"

After all of these years, I thought this was the sort of thing he was going to finally explain to me and not the other way around!

My mind went into overdrive as I contemplated to what the Creator of the Universe could possibly be referring? But I knew. Before him were laid bare: my thoughts, my concerns, my worries, my issues. Countless sleepless nights have been the norm as of late. Unclear focus has kept me from finding healing through the expression of my thoughts in words.Trapped in a purgatory of unfinished sentences, incomplete ideas and random emotional outbursts, I had not been fully aware of how much could be attributed to physical phenomena, what part has been an emotional burden for me to bear and where the Spirit of God fits in. Waiting, I had hoped the numbness that was eventually creeping in would not come to redefine my spiritual path.  

I have seen the provision of the Lord so many times in so many miraculous ways I have no right to question. But I do. My oldest son is in his final year of college and will graduate debt-free because he was accepted into a program that has provided for his financial need. My middle son is rejoicing as he is being accepted as a musician and a runner at the beginning of his college education, also receiving a generous amount of aid to pay his bills. And my youngest son, who has been on my heart a lot lately, went forward to light his own candle today while my husband sat in the pew, tired yet happy in his new job--a position offered to him on the very day that his current position was suddenly in transition.

With my family in good shape, my mind wandered to the condition of my church family. Can I trust God with them? The guest pastor said, "The way you love your neighbor is the way you love God. The way you love God is the way you love your neighbor." Are we as a congregation loving each other well? How can anyone say he loves God whom he does not see when he does not love his brother who is standing right beside him? I've read this in the Bible long enough to know God is not calling us to do something impossible. He is asking us to love him so he can teach us how to love each other. We can love because of the love he puts in our hearts. We can only come up with so much on our own. The truest, purest love originates from him. It is for us to wait and to pray that he can find room in our hearts to contain the kind of love this world needs. He loves through us, loving us in the process.

Becoming an elder has enlarged my heart and has made me more capable to love. I am not the same person. And yet there it is--my ability to trust--being called into question . . . again. And for good reason.

I always thought it was hard for me to trust because of the disappointments in life. When people who are supposed to be trustworthy are not, trusting is a hard lesson to hold onto. But sitting there in my choir loft chair surrounded by the people of God, I knew without a doubt that whatever happens next has no bearing on whether or not I am to trust God. Trusting God stands alone, apart from me.

But what about how I want certain things to turn out? Decisions going the way I want them to? People rising to a standard I want them at? What about what I want? Oh.

This is not blind faith. It is a well-informed decision to listen to a Messiah who has my best interests in mind. And regardless of whether I have some really great ideas about how to run things, I AM NOT IN CHARGE. To try to take what God has not given--namely his authority--is to run the risk of being on the outside looking in. It is to strive for peace but never achieve any. It is to be constantly considering the possibilities instead of letting go of the outcome. It takes away the peace because the constant search of the understanding gets in the way.

Breathing deeply and trying to wipe away the tears quickly so no one would see, I finished out the service by singing very appropriately, "We shall go out with joy and be led forth with peace." I felt like I wanted to embrace everyone and love even the most unlovable. I wanted to greet the members of this church family God has given me, holding them close to my heart. I want to trust that God knows what he is doing.

country roads, take me home

On the second day of the fourteen-hour journey northward, we cross into the county where I am from. Exiting off the highway, I search for the familiar. The only constant is change. Not remembering exactly what the landscape used to look like, I knew it had been different from what we passed on the road. Trees are bigger or missing altogether. Houses are in new places; some of the old ones are abandoned. Coming up to the corner I always expect to see the old church, even though I know it was moved to the historic district in town many years ago.

The stretch of land etched indelibly in my mind is what comes into view after rounding the final turn. Fields that have produced different crops over the years roll up against the base of the big hill. What once served as a place for little girls to slide down on their sleds in the winter is covered with trees--the tree I used to sit in, among them.

The barn, milking parlor and silos rest silently in the cool breeze after decades of use. A cooling pad for tanks of cherries is a reminder of the busy days of summer when trucks would bring the newly shaken cherries back from the orchard to soak in cold water before rushing them off to the processing plant. The best cherries I would ever eat were at the end of the drive-way where all I had to do was scoop some into a bowl to make a pie.

Old buildings that once housed families who came to help with the harvest have been torn down. A larger storage building replaced one of them while the other exists only in the step-by-step pictures taken to document the time I painted a flag on the door for a school project. A corn field takes over the place where the garden was once planted, and the rest of the yard is grass with trees that are bigger than I remembered.

The embroidered picture of the farm that I made still hangs on the living room wall; the picture of my sister and I playing a piano duet in the stairway. The door to my room is closed and though I know it has become the laundry room I want to open it to find my twin bed up against one wall with my sister's against the other, our green bedspreads neatly made and floral curtains on the windows; the shelves filled with our treasures. The trunk that contained my letters and journals is the only piece of furniture that went with me out into the world.

Taking the back way up to see my sister is like following an ancient map using landmarks as road signs. Turn at the house where so-and-so used to live and continue on the paved road even though the dirt road provides a more direct route.  Go past the tavern that is further out in the middle of nowhere and keep heading north. Each small town heralds travelers in its own special way as we catch a glimpse of how life is lived there. I keep reminding myself that as beautiful as all of the flowers are, most of these places are thrust into a deep freeze for many months each year and though they may host visitors in the summer, in the winter they become ghost towns for the locals who are used to the hardship of prolonged cold.

Reunions with relatives and friends require the energy to tell life events quickly and convincingly enough so that questions do not persist. To account for decades of life is an onerous task. I can barely comprehend that so much time has passed. It is my story and I can tell it any way I want, and yet words seem inadequate when I look into the eyes of some I have not seen since we were children. Though we can be recognized by our resemblance to our parents, we retain the image we once had in high school--an image long replaced by who we became in college, graduate school and the life that kept moving us on at a brisk clip toward middle age.

The memories others have of us are thrown up against our own. In the midst of all of the sorting, I wonder exactly who I used to be and who I have become. Leaving home was something I always dreamed of doing even though it must have been a shock for those who found out after the fact that I actually got into that car after college and headed out West. Most probably did not know that I even came East to attend graduate school since I ended up in the same place after graduation where my original dream had taken me. Getting married and having our first child far from my home made these events more myth than reality since the local community was unable to participate. Moving to the South, having a couple more kids and buying a house reinforced the truth that I was never coming back to the place where I am from, except to visit. I still grieve this loss at times, but cannot be fooled like an out-of-town tourist thinking this place is warm and filled with sunshine like it was during the days of our vacation, because I know better. It is very cold in the winter and the sun may not come out for weeks at a time. Having moved away, I know of other places that are less cold and dark. There remains, however, a part of me who longs to sit a while longer on that beach with the fine white sand between my toes as the sun sets over the calm blue water.  

Like so many celebrations, the class reunion was over before it began, leaving me feeling like I was a passenger on a bus with the doors opening too soon, forcing me out at the wrong stop. Walking back through the memories, I try to find something secure to hold onto. This time travel is messing with my mind. We light the lanterns to honor the dead trying not to think of who will make it to the next reunion and who may not. We have conversations with those we never spoke to in high school since our social groups did not intersect back then. Band geeks did not associate with football players even though we provided a half-time show at every game. Cheerleaders had no business talking with introverted nerds who expressed themselves more effectively in writing than by public displays of enthusiasm. We were all given a role to play and did not stray much from the script.

None of this matters any longer. Some classmates left town; some stayed and built a life. We all grew older. Some got married; some got divorced, and some never married at all. We have become parents and grandparents. We have found work and ways to contribute to our community. We all made choices. Some choices were made for us. In spite of all of our differences, we once shared a zip code and now share memories of growing up in and near a very small town by a great lake.

As the remaining few of us sat around a bonfire laughing at the running jokes that got funnier as the contents of the bottles lessened, along with our inhibitions, we looked at each other in the shadows remembering youth a while longer. And though we tried to sing along to a variety of different songs, there was only one song we all knew: "Country roads, take me home to the place I belong, Western Michigan, mountain momma, take me home, country roads." Even though we changed the words, I am pretty sure John Denver would not have minded.

I hear you

Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if we would all take the time to listen to each other. I am not referring to what often passes for listening: the person talking trying to keep up with the listener who keeps on walking; the interrupted conversation that begins while watching television, and pauses for the commercial break so that it can continue; or the dreaded phone conversation in which each person is doing everything from checking email to using the bathroom.

We listen when it matters to us. I was recently introduced as a preschool teacher to a business woman who had no interest in anything I said . . . until I told her that I really was a writer, and then she could not stop talking to me. Though she works in a career that helps her to provide adequately for her family, she secretly longs to write. We were able to dispense with the mindless chatter of small talk and engage in a real conversation once she heard me say who I really am.

We listen out of politeness. The fixed, compassionate-like look; the continued silence at intervals when a response would be more appropriate, but is not forthcoming because the person has fallen mentally asleep; the sudden attempt at closure possibly before anything of note has even been discussed--all indicate one thing: communication is not happening.

My endocrinologist is pleasant enough and yet when I share with him my symptoms and he looks at the numbers on the lab report, he only hears the science speaking and not my voice. How poorly I am reacting to a new compounded medication I have been prescribed does not seem to carry the same importance as the recorded levels of thyroid stimulating hormone detected in my blood. The result is normal; therefore I am fine. In theory.

When I ask my husband if he is listening and he says that he hears me, I know for certain that he is not listening. I may employ old journalistic techniques of re-asking the same question in different ways, but until he repeats back to me pretty much what I have wanted to express to him, I may as well be talking to a wall. And even after all of that, misunderstandings are common.

I have witnessed others not communicating much better. The potential for ideas being understood falls flat on the proverbial pavement and people who had the chance to get along with each other instead make decisions not to, based on faulty information. In the meanwhile, we all get our exercise jumping to conclusions. But what if we took a couple more minutes to take a deep breath and intentionally listen to what the heart of another is speaking?

Finding a way to communicate requires more than words. It is an act of giving of ourselves that is time-consuming and sometimes impractical. It is dancing a dance that does not step on toes, and pausing long enough to consider a way of thinking that is not one's own. Though we may be speaking the same language, the voice of our hearts is as individual as we are.

We cannot assume to know what another is thinking. Appearances are deceiving, especially when we learn how to hide what we really want to say for fear of saying the wrong thing. But giving it another go may be just what is needed for the long awaited understanding. Perhaps we are closer to communicating than we think.

If we would just take the time to listen.

3 a.m.

As I become aware that I am in my bed and not on one of the adventures where my dreams often take me, I roll over squinting to read the lit numbers of my digital clock on my bedside table. It is 3 a.m. Again. This is happening more frequently than I would like to admit.

Lately, 3 a.m. is when an internal alarm goes off inside of me and I am transported from a perfectly peaceful night of sleep to an awakened state, as though I am late for an appointment and need to get up. I sometimes wonder if I have awakened to my own screaming, which sometimes does happen. If I ask my husband about it later, he does not ever seem to remember, and yet if I get up for any reason whatsoever he seems to wake up and wonder what is going on. So I choose to lie here, trying to focus on something in the darkness with my nearsighted eyes.

Not being able to see, I decide to entertain myself by contemplating why I may be awake. This question prompts an overflow of thoughts to come pouring out. And it isn't just one simple question after another, but an entire dialogue involving each subject.

"What should I wear to my class reunion?" turns into this: Ok, it is going to be a long night at a park. Jeans seem too casual; a party dress too dressy. A sundress may be cute, but which one? I wish I could have lost that 20 pounds I had intended to lose by now. It is going to be in Michigan which is much colder than North Carolina. I may have to wear a coat. Which shoes will I wear? Will sandals work or should I think about my boots? Maybe it will rain, which it does there quite frequently. Cold and rainy, do I really want to wear a dress? And yet, I haven't seen some of these people since graduation day. What will they expect me to look like? Have they noticed my pictures on Facebook? Do they think I look fat? I have had three kids, but I should exercise more. I have no excuses. I can't blame everything on my under active thyroid. And yet, it is the main reason I am overweight. I wonder how I will measure up. Well, I am in my 50s. Who is going to blame me for gaining a few pounds over all of these years? And on . . . and on . . . and on . . . .

I gently nudge my snoring husband to get him to roll over, and decide to check the clock. It reads 4:30 and I am beginning to wonder if I should give up the hope of sleeping and go read something. Knowing it will probably wake him and cause him to wonder if I am sick, I continue to lie here, trying not to think of how tired I will be in the morning. It is already morning. I try not to think of that either. More questions present themselves. Checklists form: grocery lists, college supply lists, imaginary calendars with to-do lists dance before me mockingly. I should not be this stressed. It is summer. I should be well-rested. I try not to focus on how disappointed I am that I am not getting the rest I need.

With nothing to do, I decide to pray. There is a never-ending list of need: a friend who grieves the loss of a loved one; a friend who grieves the loss of her friend while preparing to do her funeral; and a friend who seeks God for guidance in his calling, all come to mind. I think of my son who is at the beach with his girlfriend's family. I think about the future of my son who will graduate from college next spring. I think about what it will be like to have only our youngest son at home with us soon. I am grateful my husband is happy in his work. I wonder which direction my work will take me, as I head off on another series of questions and tangents; my very own rabbit trails leading me on.

I have read that 3 a.m. is when the "veil" between this world and the spirit world is thinnest and the spiritual realm is closest. Spiritual activity, whatever one defines that as, is at its height. This somehow comforts me. Maybe I am meant to be awake. Perhaps it is part of my calling and responsibility to awaken so that I can engage with God, interceding for all those I love.

I have also read that sleep deprivation can result in something that resembles temporary insanity which explains a lot about those early years of motherhood. Our oldest son did not sleep through the night until he was two years old. I felt like I needed psychological counseling. Maybe what I needed was a good night of sleep.

The clock now reads 5:11 and I am starting to count on my fingers how many hours of sleep I had before my middle-of-the-night interlude. Three and a half hours? Is that all? I know the time to wake up is approaching at breakneck speed. My husband will need to get the day started soon. I wonder if I'm going to feel this exhausted all day. I try not to panic since that will not help me get back to sleep. I try to stop the questions, the prayers, the random thoughts. I need to clear my mind of everything but the beautiful tranquility of slumber, like the waves rhythmically coming in, one . . . after . . . another.

Next thing I know it is 6:45. My husband has already been drinking coffee for at least half an hour and it is time for me to begin. I keep telling myself that with the very next cup I will feel revived, reinvigorated, ready to start the day. Three or four cups of coffee later, I consider making another pot.

ascribe worth

Finding myself the elder in charge of the team who will work on worship at my church has already given me many opportunities to pray. Starting with the most obvious question, I have asked with increasing frequency and expectancy, "What is worship?" The only words that keep coming to me are: it is to ascribe worth.

Ascribe worth. To what do I ascribe worth? Looking around my house, no one would ever put my efforts to clean at the top of the list. With laundry piled on the couch, in the baskets on the washer and dryer, and if I would only take the time to look, possibly some IN the washer and dryer, the whites may as well send up flags of surrender as the colors add new decor to the room. The dog hair matted to the carpet, the unwashed dishes in and near the sink, the random shoes pushed halfway under the kitchen table near abandoned sports bags, all attest to the negligence of the lady of the house.

And yet, I have been here for hours praying, reading, researching, and thinking. I am living out the Mary and Martha Bible story with me cast in the role of Mary who sits at the feet of Jesus, hanging onto his every word, while her frustrated sister, Martha, does the housework to prepare for the guests. My problem: I have no Martha and my housework is not getting done!

I ascribe worth to those who love me and whether or not I can always fully demonstrate it, there are relationships that I value. It is more than making time to have coffee with friends or picking up the phone to chat, which, by the way, I do not do unless I absolutely have to. Sometimes it is more of an understanding that people are there, not necessarily available at my every whim, but can show up if need be.

One of my favorite visions of Jesus is the one in which he happens to be standing on the path of a familiar wooded park I frequent, taking me by the hand and walking by my side. What comforts me the most about this is not that I finally have him all to myself to ask him question after question, whatever my heart desires, but that I have no need to ask him anything because he already knows my heart, my desires, and my needs. I ascribe worth to a God who quietly walks with me when I need him to.

When I contemplate the communal worship of church there is a great deal to consider. It begins in the parking lot. What happens when one exits a vehicle and heads toward a sanctuary? Has any contact with a Creator been made yet? When does "church" begin? Walking into a narthex, a word not ever spoken out loud by anyone except for church people who need to deal with it, does the person feel more loved if he or she is greeted or does the thought of being greeted cause one to find another way into the pew? There is freedom in anonymity, regardless of what those extroverted greeters think.

As the music begins, to bring order to those who have found friends with whom to converse, the music leaders, be it a choir director, worship leader, or any combination thereof, invite the congregation to join in the singing. Songs may be taught, appear on screens or handouts, or in hymnals. Musical preference will often outweigh the reason for the singing. It is supposed to be about ascribing worth to God and not to ourselves which is an easy enough thing to forget when the praise song is going into its eighth repetition of the chorus or the hymn only serves to remind one of a relative who went on to glory a very long time ago.

Sermon messages, liturgical readings, dramatic portrayals, poems, prayers and promises--are all intended with one idea in mind: to ascribe worth. Entertainment is not the goal though quality is. Inclusion of all is in theory a wonderful idea as long as preparation is part of the plan. Giving our best to God is at the top of the list.

Worship is a uniquely personal expression, not something I even feel comfortable talking about with most people. I love Jesus. That makes me sound like a freak. It could even lend itself to a psychiatric evaluation of which I would not pass because I believe in a God who communicates with me and not just the other way around. And what God speaks to me is a message that only I can hear in ways that only I can hear it. The Tower of Babel account in the Bible does not seem so strange when I consider that we communicate with God in ways unique to each and every one of us. We have been given individual personalities, gifts and callings. No two of us are alike, have ever been or ever will be.

Given our vast differences, we are commanded in the Bible to not forsake the assembling together, but are to exhort one another to love and good works. As the people of God, our purpose is to meet in unity to ascribe worth to him while loving our neighbors as ourselves. We are to invite all. Challenged to communicate and meet a diversity of needs, we struggle to understand the call of God on our lives. It sounds so grand and glorious. But the pencil in the pew still needs sharpening and the bulb under the baptismal bowl is burnt out.

And once the final song is sung, candle is perhaps lit, and prayer spoken, what then? Do we all abandon the beautiful carriage that has carried us into the heavenly realms of worship just to watch it turn back into a pumpkin? Are we challenged in our thinking to attempt one small act of kindness in the course of the following week? One kind word spoken to someone who needs grace?

Ascribing worth is the beginning of worship--an act that flows out into the streets. If everything we experience at church is thrown into the recycling bin along with the bulletin on our way out the door, our worship is in vain. It is supposed to matter that we worship. It is to effect a change in our hearts and minds to the extent that we cannot go back to living how we did before.

Needing to transition from waiting at the feet of Jesus to evaluating the tasks of the day, my life beckons me to reenter its rhythm. Sadly, that Martha never did show up.

living near water

When I am asked where I'm from, I usually give the name of the town: Hart, Michigan, population around 2,000, six miles from the family farm in Elbridge Township. But when I let my mind wander to memories of home, I always seem to end up fifteen miles west, at a Lake Michigan beach, in the village of Pentwater.

My happiest days were spent having picnics with my family or friends before splashing in the waves or riding on a floating device out to where the buoys marked out the swimming area. Running back under the shade of a small tree to apply more Coppertone 8, the highest strength sunscreen at the time, I would usually go home sunburned anyway. After spreading the therapeutic baking soda paste all over my red skin, letting it dry, and eventually washing it off, I would peel in a day or two before going back outside for more sun. And yet, going to the Lake was always worth it. The body of water embraced me, as the sun baked my skin, and I would find comfort for all that was wrong in my world.

On my saddest days I would sit alone in the bluffs reading or writing in my journal. Walking barefoot on the fine-grained sand up and down the shoreline gave focus to my thinking; the rhythm of water and wind calmed my spirit. I would sometimes find a piece of driftwood to lean against as I poured out my heart to the water, the sand, the birds, the sky, . . . to God. Cradled by the warm sand, I could fall sound asleep.

The Lake, in all of its life-giving beauty also takes lives, as one living near water is well aware. As we breathe in the fresh air we are reminded that we cannot breathe underwater. I would often bring a raft with me when I went out over my head since the water was so cold my legs would cramp and the raft would help me make it back to shore. The water was somewhat warm enough for swimming by the end of August and too cold right after Labor Day. When one's lips turned blue, it was time to get out.

There was more to do than just to swim, as boats on the Lake were abundant. The summer I worked at the yacht club I was invited to take a ride on a sailboat named the Northern Light. Sailing on the cool, smooth water of the Lake while the sun was setting is a once in a lifetime experience for someone who will most likely never become a member of the boating crowd. It was different from the experience of riding on the car ferry that carried my family across the Lake on family trips, or the smaller ferry used to transport us to Mackinac Island on our family vacations. Being on a large, luxurious sailboat allowed me to be someone else for a couple of hours; someone like those who lived in this northern resort village in their summer homes, while local girls like me served them their steak and seafood, and brought them their drinks.

One summer I worked across from the dock at a restaurant called the Dry Dock, a restaurant so small it only took two waitresses to work the dining room on any given night. Groups of men from the boats with big appetites would fill the place up and as long as we kept the food coming, they would reward us with even bigger tips. Though waiting tables was not something I enjoyed or was any good at, the homemade soups, freshly baked breads, combined with local produce, meat, and fresh fish made for some of the best restaurant food around at the time. I did not mind the work when it included getting a taste of the good life.

The seafood I would buy for myself would be every bit as delicious though far less expensive as I would obtain it from a local fish shop: Lake Michigan perch, lightly breaded and fried. When I could not get to the fish shop, I could always stop at the soft serve ice cream shop for deep-fried breaded mushrooms to take down to the beach for a tasty snack. And of course the soft serve vanilla cone dipped in the kind of chocolate that would instantly harden providing a satisfying crunch was another one of my favorite beach treats.

Soon I will be traveling Up North with my husband to attend a class reunion. I haven't dipped my toes in Lake Michigan in four summers. I read that the last of the ice melted on the Great Lakes at the beginning of June so I am not foolish enough to think that swimming will be much of a possibility. Of course, swimming has never really been a great possibility unless one has a wet suit. But if we can bear to step into the cold water, on the hard-packed sand, and allow the brisk air to send us grabbing for our jackets, we can walk together along the shoreline, talk about the stops I will want to make and the people I will want to see. Looking toward the West at the setting sun, we will pause to remember how our lives together began, turn toward the East, then travel back to our home in the South.

inherited

The antique silver tea service has found a place in our dining room, upon a vintage table cloth covering the credenza that is filled with glassware, serving bowls, and small figurines of angels and old-fashioned Christmas carolers. On the wall above it is a mirror with a large leaf and vine border. Hanging over the table is a rather spectacular crystal chandelier; near the window, an antique wooden plant stand. Though each of these fine quality pieces are different, they all have one thing in common: they are inherited.

The dining room table and hutch were wedding gifts as are the china, silver platters and almost all of the rest of its contents. I did get to be the one who picked out the dining room set, along with the china, over a couple of decades ago, and yet the individual style of these items somehow gets overshadowed by my mother-in-law's many other items reflecting her unique personal taste which was quite different from my own.

Walking into the front room, one's eyes are drawn to the variety of candlesticks gracing the top of an antique piano. The candlesticks, heavy and sharp enough to ward off an intruder, were inherited; the piano, which happens to be a rare antique that would be valuable if refurbished, was given by a man who bought a house with a piano left behind in it. Above the piano is a large mirror with an ornate border that looks like it goes with the piano. On one side of our couch, one of the few pieces of furniture we actually went into a store and purchased for ourselves, is a beautiful wooden end table with a brass lamp on top. The coordinating piece holds our stereo. A couple of trunks, one we got at an auction holds collectibles, many that are also inherited--from my mother; the other is a trunk I've had since childhood that continues to hold bits and pieces of my life. The last time it was opened my moldy wedding bouquet that I never throw away was right next to my high school portrait that my mother insists I hang up. I never do.

There is a framed print above the couch that we saw in a black and white photo of my husband and his mother when he was her only child. That was how he knew he had seen it first when it came time to divide up her belongings. That and the rose chair that used to set in the corner of her bedroom he decided he would like to have; both of which were sent to us by his sister sometime after the estate was settled. We will never know if the chair was broken before it was shipped or if it got broken along the way. There had been so much breakage . . . along the way.

An appraisal was done to assess the value of my mother-in-law's most prized possessions. The plan was to divide them evenly among the three siblings. The problem was one of the siblings wanted to use the appraisal as a guide, the other wanted to choose according to what she desired to have, and the third was not able to use any of the items since he lived alone in a group home setting for those with mental illness. As the daughter-in-law and sister-in-law, my voice was eventually silenced and I had to stand by while my husband's hope was crushed as two men and a truck disappeared some of his inheritance into a storage unit the day before the distribution of goods was to occur. We would then be threatened with a lawsuit to turn over the family jewels, though in the end I got to keep the diamond wedding ring given to me by my husband since his mother had given it to him explaining that she received it from her husband who had received it from his mother. The lucky recipient of the third-generation diamond, I have often wondered how it could have more meaning to someone other than the bride who received it at the time.

In the midst of the family turmoil as attempts were made to divide up a household of memories, I wrote a letter and suggested we sit down as a family to have a discussion before the communication that was already tenuous at best had completely ceased. My letter was ignored and I was figuratively shown the door. Five years later an email to cover over everything that had occurred, without doing the work of reconciliation, was not the restorative balm it may have been intended to be. Other packages would arrive randomly through the years, containing what was left of a woman's life that had been reduced to stuff to be divided between people who no longer called themselves a family.

Forgiveness had become a reality for me when I struggled to fight back in the midst of the intense battle and I had heard the still, small voice in my heart tell me that what I needed to do was to admit that the money was not mine. Barely providing for our family at that point, I was not eager to receive this news. But God is faithful. He did not hesitate to remind me that the money did not belong to the other family member either. The money had always belonged to God, as everything ultimately does. It was at that moment I unclenched my fists and with upturned hands gave thanks to a God who provides. Soon after that, the settlement was finalized without a lawsuit. Each of the two households would be allotted a certain amount of family heirlooms. And reconciliation would continue to elude us all.

Recently my husband was contacted by his sister to alert him to the fact that she was again moving, had no more need of the silver tea service and wondered if he wanted it. He has wanted it for the past nine years. It arrived in two separate shipments; one large box containing the set itself along with pieces of china that match one of the sets we were given, and one containing only the very large, heavy silver tray. Unwrapping it was like taking the bandage off a wound. After this amount of time a wound should have completely healed. But it never really has.

I stare at the silver tea service while I drink my coffee, remembering what it looked like when we used to have dinner at my mother-in-law's home. We were never served tea from it and I was always nervous to have the boys, who were very young at the time, go anywhere near it or the rest of her precious belongings. Now that many of those items are in our home and our boys have grown into men, it is a different feeling. I cannot really put my finger on it, but it feels like more than just loss. It is the loss of what we had hoped would happen in that family while my mother-in-law and brother-in-law were still on this side of heaven. It is the hope anyone from a dysfunctional family has--the hope for more. More communication. More time to work out problems in a less intense way. More consideration for the personalities of all involved. More love.

The antique silver tea service has found a place in our dining room. Its cold beauty remains untarnished, unlike its family of origin. I do not know whether to put it back into a box or begin serving tea.