one last look

Sometimes I try to force myself to consider how I would spend a day if I knew it was my very last day on earth.

I remember walking in a hospital gown down a hallway with my husband about three weeks after our first son was born. I was on my way to surgery, wondering if my life as a mother would end before it really began. I could not imagine my husband raising our son alone and assured myself that he would remarry someone who would love them both. The time it takes to walk down a hospital corridor is not long enough to express any meaningful last wishes to one's spouse. All I could manage to ask him was to not be angry at God if I didn't wake up. I knew my life was in God's hands. I also knew that our prayers are not always answered in the ways in which we think they should be.

I'm not sure I would have been able to spend that day so many years ago in any more significant way than any other day. The pain I was in at the time did not allow for a tender "Goodnight Moon" departure, but more like "Let's get this over with already, Goodnight!" The surgeon would later tell me that the last thing I said before going under was, "This is going to be the first good sleep I've had in weeks." Our first son would not sleep through the night until he was two years old.

Yesterday, when I called my dentist to admit that the second root canal had failed, I was surprised to be scheduled for root canal--the sequel, today. It isn't a simple thing--me going to the dentist. It is more like surgery. I can't eat or drink for many hours prior to the visit and then need to be driven home so I can sleep off the anesthetic for the rest of the day. I pause while signing the waiver, agreeing to not hold anyone responsible for brain damage or death. Dentistry is not an exact science, the document states. And there are no guarantees in life, it should say.

Before I would have to face my worst fear, I had a lot of work I was trying to accomplish. I thought I should consider the possibility of this being it--my last day--and wanted to have a moment to do something significant: listen to a song I'm particularly fond of, watch a favorite movie, have a good cry, and spend time in quiet meditation and prayer. Perhaps I could make time for this once I finished balancing the checkbook, answering emails, registering for our second son's college orientation, updating financial aid forms, and getting him to transfer the invitation for his graduation party from his phone to my computer so I can continue with the party preparation plans. I wanted to at least get the sewing order started for one of my customers, and then work on one of my writing projects. I even made the cookie dough for cookies I will take to the church picnic.

My mind wandered back to thoughts about having a significant moment while I was shopping at one of my favorite thrift stores with my now college-aged firstborn son. I hummed along to the background tunes in the shop, while he made disparaging remarks about the kind of people who would enjoy such music. On the way home we debated the existence of a word I knew he would use regardless.

I would then bake a tray of chicken to take to a school banquet in which my two younger sons would be recognized for being part of the track team. My youngest son would arrive after his soccer tryouts. My graduating son would be recognized for signing with a college track team. Both would sit with us and as many friends as there was room for at the table. We would sit in a cafeteria that was too hot because of the school system's cost-cutting measures, and we would stand in line half an hour as a continuous stream of kids cut in line in front of us. With a throbbing head caused by this rogue tooth accentuating my already natural anti-social ways, I had an epiphany: I was just glad to be there.

If my life was reduced to nothing more than sitting on an uncomfortable high school cafeteria stool, eating questionable side dishes after snagging a piece of my own chicken, watching my sons becoming men before my eyes, waiting for my teacher husband to finish correcting the stack of papers he brought with him, and seeing the coaches and teachers who have helped raise my children standing there smiling, it was all good. Not the moment I thought I needed, but the moment I was given. And I was grateful.

food versus non-food

The sugar free, maple flavor, low calorie syrup on my kitchen table is not food.

I do not know if anyone ever intended for it to be food or if the plan was merely to come up with something that resembles food, leaving it up to those who market syrup to make sure it gets onto the beautiful stack of pancakes adorned with a pat of no-one-will-ever-believe-this-is-butter, as pictured on the label. It is the idea of syrup that is being sold; not syrup itself.

Though there are only 30 calories in a one-fourth cup serving, the ingredients that comprise this delicacy are mostly non-edible.

Ingredients: water, sorbitol, cellulose gum, natural and artificial maple flavor, salt, sucralose, sodium benzoate (to preserve freshness), caramel color, phosphoric acid, acesulfame potassium, potassium sorbate (to preserve freshness), sorbic acid, citric acid.

Sorbitol has unpleasant side effects; cellulose gum is derived from wood pulp; sucralose (Splenda) can make you crave sugar; and acesulfame potassium contains methylene chloride--a known carcinogen which causes cancer. Sodium benzoate and potassium sorbate are added to preserve freshness. The freshness of exactly WHAT?

It is gluten free for all who are finding gluten avoidance to be the answer to whatever it is that ails them. Refrigeration is not required. It is best if purchased by September 18, 2016, but if not consumed until 2026, it would probably be just as good.

In case someone reading this is tempted to think that I should be grateful for this gift, I would like to point out that it was among the "treats" my parents were pawning off on us after cleaning out their cupboards and heading back to their home Up North after a winter in Florida. The syrup took the place of the jello this year. (Refer to my post entitled "I hate jello," for further explanation.) It was in a grocery bag right next to unsalted Saltine crackers and unsalted pretzels, more items on my "foods I hate" list.

Though it truly is not fair for me to judge the syrup without tasting it first, the syrup remains unopened. I wanted to protest when I received it but decided instead to be compassionate toward my parents by not giving it back, thus prohibiting them from the ingestion of this chemical compound. Though I may sometimes take items we do not prefer to a food bank or pass them along to friends, I could not in good conscience do that with this item. For fear of harming wildlife, I cannot even pour it on the ground.

Perhaps the saddest part about this wanna-be syrup is that real maple syrup is one of my favorite things. I still remember with fondness the school field trip in which my class went to a cider mill and a place in which maple syrup was made. I remember learning about the process of the sap running out of the spickets into pails that would be emptied into a large vat which boiled out impurities. We were given small, Dixie cups filled with warm, maple syrup to taste. It was 100 percent natural, straight from a maple tree. It was some of the truest goodness I would ever experience.

Natural maple syrup can be purchased in most grocery stores. The kind I get has one ingredient: pure, organic maple syrup. There are 220 calories in a one-fourth cup serving, and it is worth every single one of them. It costs more than the sugar free, maple flavor, low calorie syrup. Because it is food.

edited

Sometimes, in a well-meaning effort to get me to say and do the right things, people will attempt to edit my life.

Someone will ask me how I'm doing, for example. You and I both know that the only acceptable answer to that question is: FINE. I get to decide whether to fill in the blank with the correct answer or perhaps give a response that can take small talk toward the larger space required to consider further possibilities. For me, small talk is akin to taking out the garbage and just about as exciting. For others, it counts as something real. If a verbal exchange never progresses beyond this point, I tend to think we remain strangers. Somehow this ends up meaning that I have a bad attitude. Of course I cannot admit this because I am supposed to be fine.

For those of us who grew up with the saying, "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all," the idea of speaking the truth does not bring with it heartwarming sentiment. No one wants to hear "the truth" if it is not happy. Of course those of us who possess a somewhat twisted, dark sense of humor can find happiness in all sorts of disturbing realities. Our challenge is in finding the right audience. We do not think we are being "negative." We pride ourselves in being "truthful." It is just that we often find ourselves alone since the person with the "nicer" response gets to be invited to the party while our invitation gets lost in the mail, so to speak. Act right and be accepted is the predominant theme here.

I remember as a child of about ten standing next to my mother in the grocery store in our small town while she was casually talking to a woman she knew. The woman asks, "So, how is Mary?" and my mother says, "Mary is fine." I am standing right there. I am NOT fine! But I am made aware that though the question is directed at me, it is not for me to answer. Perhaps my mother knew, due to my precocious nature, that I would give what may be considered an inappropriate answer. It is what writers do--even as children.

Not wanting to offend the person inquiring about me, provoke anger or judgment, I weigh my answers carefully. But sometimes my guard is down due to fatigue or even the hope that the truth would be a welcome change, and I say something I should not have said. Too much honesty seeps through the expected correctness and I can sense the person mentally backing up, averting the eyes and praying I do not notice the hesitation to engage me. I tell myself that I should have said, "Fine," but it is too late. I have already given an answer that is deemed unacceptable. And it is precisely at this moment when the editing occurs.

"That person did not mean to hurt your feelings." "It must have been an accident." "Surely no one would intentionally do that to you." "That situation could not have possibly been that bad." These are the types of comments that are part of the re-write. Self-doubt comes next. I try to convince myself that maybe the person is right. Maybe I have overreacted. I must be making this stuff up. My proclivity for exaggeration is getting the best of me. A cup of coffee, yes, that will make me feel better. Some chocolate is needed to help me regain my proper foothold. Low blood sugar must be the culprit. I need to work out. I will take the dog for a walk through the woods. That will turn me back into the person I need to be. Pray--of course, I need to pray more. Valid reasons must exist as to why I am coming up with any other answer than the acceptable one.

Try as I may to suppress it, the truth will not let me rest until I say it out loud. Or I write it.

The truth is that there are people who would rather die than live. And there is nothing we can do or say to save them. There are people who say hurtful things. On purpose. Sometimes acts of kindness are lost on those who cannot receive them. Expectations ruin relationships. Forgiveness needs to be repeated--often. On the same people. Loving someone guarantees nothing. We love because we want to. We withhold love because we want to. We say what we think others want to hear. We decide how much we want to reveal. We edit our stories. We let others edit our stories. We try. We fail. We either give up or keep on trying.

What happens to me is what shapes me into who I am. My responses are mine. Mine alone. Being appropriate is overrated. I seek truth. Whatever that means. Edited or not, it is what it is.

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.