again

(What follows is a blog I wrote in July of 2014 and never posted. I have forgotten the specifics that motivated my expression, but was strangely comforted by my own words as I re-discovered them yesterday while looking for art materials to create something new. I probably chose not to post for fear I would offend or draw the wrong kind of attention. But the small measure of comfort these words have brought me, as I continue to live the life I've been given, is significant--and maybe just to me, but nonetheless, here I am contemplating again, in all my glory. Thank you for reading.)

Expectation is the root of all heartache, according to a quote attributed to William Shakespeare. Whether or not I expect something to happen is not the problem; it is in the length of time it takes me to regain my emotional composure, that my heart finds the time to ache.

I have been told ever since I can remember that I should "not let my imagination get the better of me," "not make too big of a deal out of it," and "let go of such high expectations." All I have ever heard is: stop being yourself. If I did not have such an over-active imagination, maybe it would not get the better of me. Perhaps longing for more than something common or boring has been what has motivated me. Why I am never to hope for something grand has confused me.

What adds to that confusion is how little I actually hope for. I remember making a list many years ago for what I wanted in a house, back when I was a renter and not an owner. Among the items on the list were "windows that open; doors that shut" which caught the attention of a well-meaning friend who could not believe my standards were so low. They are not low, I insisted. Up until that point I had lived in rental properties in which windows were painted shut or did not have screens, and doors were either non-existent or the wrong size. When one starts at the bottom, any expectation seems reasonable.

So I check myself to measure my expectations according to what is supposedly a "normal standard" and I end up expecting to eat, without the expectation that the food will satisfy me; expecting to find shelter, without the expectation that I will ever really feel secure; and expecting to have my basic needs met though it seems to be constantly up for discussion what my "needs" truly are. The tangible never outweigh the intangible, in my book, thus heartache is inevitable.

I guess I want what people cannot give me: time to process my thoughts with interaction and without judgment; promises that we will keep trying to sort things out, even if we never fully agree with each other; a commitment to communicate when misunderstanding is imminent; an I've-got-your-back attitude that will keep me from constantly wondering if this is the case. Or, better yet, a response to my emails! But life doesn't work this way. We take each other for granted and place our own needs before the needs of another. We say we agree to work together for common goals, but what this means is we will work together as long as our own goals are met in the process.

It does not take a detective to figure out where someone is when that person posts his or her life events on social media. It is difficult to believe that someone is too ill to meet an obligation when the person posts pictures of the great outdoors, while thought to be home in bed. A last minute trip to the beach, complete with a tantalizing plate of food photo, describes one's priorities more than that person may realize. I wonder how many of those cheering the person on, by liking the post, will understand what statement is being made by the person being there, and not where many will expect.

We tell our children not to lead mediocre lives--to strive for greatness. But then if they do, are we to tell them not to expect too much? How does this equation always backfire? Hope for the best, but do not fully invest yourself or you will be seen as neurotic. Give it your all, but do not expect others to do the same. We are all in this together, at least until social media tells a different story. So are we to expect anything or not?

I would like to think that having expectations is a human experience, common to us all, but whenever I take the time to contemplate it, I end up feeling very alone. I get stuck in the grief I feel when my heart is again shattered by those whose actions flippantly remind me that I again expected too much. I feel utterly lost when I try to figuratively and sometimes even literally hold the hands of those who have already moved beyond what I was hoping we would accomplish. I am left with unmet expectations, unrealized goals, and something that used to resemble hope, wondering how I ended up here. Again.

(Postscript: Though I have tried to avoid finding myself in the midst of painful circumstances, they have a way of finding me, perhaps not intending to harm but to teach. My questions may remain the same; the answers, however, can transform and heal if I will let them.)

the illusion of friendship especially during wedding season

Before I share my heart with you, and you, in your infinite wisdom of me, decide whether or not I should be on meds or perhaps assume I have not been taking the ones I have been prescribed, please note that these experiences are from my very own near-sighted viewpoint. They are mine alone. You do not have to agree with me, but my hope is that you will be kind.

If there is anything I will ask God as I someday enter into the gates of heaven, it will be this: "Why was friendship so hard?" He will know exactly what I'm talking about because it has been no picnic for him to make friends with us either. We are fickle and sometimes downright mean. We say we are friends with God when all is well, but turn against him when the bottom falls out of life. Somehow I have always managed to have faith, though I have often wondered how it has remained possible.

My first best friend was a little boy who lived on a neighboring farm. It may have been a friendship of convenience since his mother and my mother took turns driving us into town so we could go to the parochial school for first grade, but I would like to think we were friends because we enjoyed spending time together playing in the barn and eating peanut butter sandwiches. I knew when we became friends with a girl who lived closer to his farm than to mine there was a chance he would like her better than he liked me, especially when she chose to roll down the hill with him in that barrel and I never could find the courage to do so. But kids play together with different friends at different times and as long as no one is outwardly mean, it seems to all work out until everyone has to go home for supper.

Perhaps due to my introverted nature, I always seemed to veer toward the best friend model for friendship, since being in groups has never lent itself to getting beyond the small talk in order to know someone in greater depth by asking questions that matter. This worked great for high school and even for the last part of college. These two women are still my friends. They know me in ways others have never known me or probably ever will. They know me for who I am when I'm not trying to fit in. They know my strengths and my weaknesses, where I have come from and some of the life experiences that have shaped the way I look at life. Even though I am not particularly like them in every way, together we are better than we are as individuals.

I married a friend, which I would highly recommend since a conversation that is going to last for decades had better be an interesting one. And though there is the temptation to marry someone similar to yourself, the man I married has a personality more similar to those of my closest female friends and for that reason we are able to complement each other and not compete. (Sometimes we do compete, but not on our best days.)

What happens next is the part I have trouble understanding. We have old friends we see at reunions, and friends we see at church and even better friends who have parties in our honor; we have work friends and acquaintance-type friends, and make new friends once in awhile randomly, but just when I think I know what is going on, I am left without a clue. What I am referring to specifically is the dreaded making-it-on-the-list sort of friendship that gets one into parties and weddings.

I have learned that if I am not invited to the birthday party, I will not be invited to the graduation party. It follows that I will then not be invited to the bridal shower, the wedding or the reception. When the happy couple reproduces, I will not get invited to the baby shower or ever get to see their child. Why would this be important since I was not involved in any of their other special events? I cannot answer that nor can I predict which list I will end up on, if any at all.

Seeking answers, I have googled a number of articles explaining the etiquette needed to navigate these events that can be accessed by invitation only. Brides and grooms should pick which of their friends they would like to see at their wedding but their parents' friends should not be allowed to come, one article stated. Another pointed out the obvious: it is not possible to include everyone. It is cost prohibitive and makes no sense to invite everyone one has ever known. One article qualifies it by stating that if one has had no contact with someone for a specific amount of time, that person does not get let in to celebrate the couple's special day. I wonder if the determination for who gets chosen would be better handled by some kind of online quiz since there does not seem to be any kind of rating system that could provide a more scientific result.

Maybe the invitation process should be handled more like a college application. I know I could write a convincing essay about how I love weddings more than most people do and would even be willing to assist where needed. I could record every encounter I have had with those about to tie the knot, the prayers I've spoken on their behalf, the needs I've brought before others for their benefit. If I could somehow prove my loyalty as a friend and my commitment to the family to uphold them in all future endeavors and even give the newborn child they will someday have a bed bunny (which is the very best gift any child could ever have since I created it myself), I may stand a chance of getting in. But the "friend" who does not make the list has no voice.

There is now a website called The Knot which I have stalked to vicariously participate in the impending nuptials I will never get to witness in person. I can see when and where the ceremony will be and dream about the beauty of the day. I get to know when and where the reception is in case I decide to get drunk and crash it. (Just kidding--sort of.) And I even get to see their registries and all the cool gifts the happy couple will receive as I try to forget the design of the homemade gift I was going to make. I stop shopping for the dress I will not need to wear. I free up my calendar with a date I was never supposed to save.

Life moves on. Once everything is professionally photographed, it will appear on Facebook and I will get to see not only how beautiful the bride is, but will inevitably catch a glimpse of someone in the background who made the list when I did not. I will wonder about that friend's credentials. What was it that afforded that person entry into the best day of their lives when I was not deemed worthy? Maybe that person was willing to roll down the hill in the barrel with them when I was not. I may never know.

I have started joking to myself that I must be bad luck--the kind no one wants at their wedding. I have not received an invitation to a wedding in over four years and even then I had to negotiate with a relative of the bride's to be given a chance at the open bar and to be handed a sparkler to see off the newlyweds. I knew I deserved to be there and yet question myself when that fact is obvious to no one but me.

If there is anything that sets me straight again after all of this needless worry, it is the idea that after I walk through those pearly gates, ask God the tough question about friendship, and we have a good laugh together, he will usher me over to the banquet table where I will find a place setting with my name on the place card. I will sit down as an invited guest, fashionably dressed for eternity, and chosen to be on the list of his friends.

on the road to Glorieta

(I have been asked to join a class on storytelling and evangelism at my church over the next couple of months. During the first session we are each to tell one of our favorite stories. Here is one of mine.)

It was mid-February in 1988, and I was living in a studio apartment near downtown Denver, Colorado. Though I had finished my graduate program in journalism, I continued to pick up temp assignments, hoping for my career to begin. Since I was between jobs, provisions were running low.

When Lee, a friend from church, called to inquire whether I was going on the church retreat to Glorieta, New Mexico with the rest of the group, I had to admit I could not afford to go. I could barely afford a cup of coffee and was considering restaurant work for the free employee meal. The next thing I knew he was offering to pay my way. I wondered if meals were included.

His offer was problematic for two reasons: 1) It felt way too much like a date and I didn't want to mess up a perfectly good friendship, and 2) Even though he hadn't asked, he would probably want me to ride with him from Colorado to New Mexico and that would seem even more like we were dating, when clearly we were not.

I told him I would accept his offer. He then wanted to know if I would ride with him.

On the way to Glorieta we listened to music and barely spoke. I was grateful for the change of scenery and the dinner that awaited me. I was not prepared for our pastor to greet us at the entrance with a big smile on his face or the friends I hadn't seen in awhile who assumed Lee and I were together. We were not together . . . as he paid for my room and helped me with my bags.

By lunchtime of the following day, I had prayed that God would give me direction for my life. I was considering becoming a missionary with Wycliffe Bible Translators since at the tender age of 26 I was almost an old maid by the standards of my small home town. I would go to some faraway land and spend my remaining years serving God, with only words and the Holy Spirit to keep me company.

In the cafeteria, a group of my friends were getting ready to head to Santa Fe for the afternoon break before the chapel service that evening. Though I wanted to see the galleries, I also needed time to myself and turned down the invitation to join them. No sooner had they left the table did this overwhelming loneliness take hold. I had been living alone for years and when I was not working, I spent much of my time alone. This is the life a writer longs for, yet in that moment I realized I was hoping I would have someone to talk to, even for a couple of hours.

Looking up, there, directly in front of me on the other side of the cafeteria, sat Lee.

As I approached his table, the group of friends he was with quickly excused themselves, laughing quietly and whispering, leaving the two of us alone together.

"Would you like to go into Santa Fe?" he asked.

"I'd love to!" I said, not believing what I was saying or how I was saying it.

We walked the streets of Santa Fe window-shopping and admiring the art. As we re-entered the retreat center a few hours later, Lee asked if I would sit with him during chapel. Oh yes, how thrilled this unfamiliar person who now somehow conducted my life was. I even went back to my room to change my clothes and fix my hair. One of my roommates demanded to know who I was trying to impress. I naturally lied . . . to my friend . . . on a church retreat. It is a wonder God ever answers my prayers!

Finding Lee in the chapel, the entire pew of people got up and moved when they saw me coming. They were of course laughing quietly and whispering, as I made myself comfortable next to Lee.

All I really remember of that church service was when the first pastor got up to give his sermon, it was about provision. I started to think about how this retreat was provided to me and how food was provided when I had run out, and how the man sitting next to me was . . . GOD'S PROVISION! I suddenly knew with absolute certainty that Lee Shores was going to be my husband, and like every girl who is proposed to, even supernaturally, I burst into tears. This caused people to pass the box of tissues as Lee put his arm around me. No one knew what was wrong (or right) and I could not begin to tell them.

Our return trip to Denver was filled with our life stories, our views on certain topics, books we had read, music we enjoyed, and just about everything else we could think of to share with each other. So convinced was I that I had heard the voice of God, I took perhaps the biggest chance I could have and said to Lee, "I no longer see you as just a friend."

"I feel exactly the same way about you," was his answer.

(A month later, we were sitting on his couch when he asked if it would be too wild if he asked me to marry him. I told him that it would be too wild, but I would probably say yes. "Will you marry me?" he asked. "Yes," I said. After an awkward pause we agreed we should probably get to know each other. "When should we get married?" I asked. "Before I turn 35," he said. "How old are you now?" Thirty years later, we are still getting to know each other.)

a tale of two grandmas

I recently posted on Facebook,

When I think of Billy Graham, I remember walking over to Grandma's house, opening the back door and walking past the washing-up sink with a water dipper, into the kitchen where the smell of molasses cookies and freshly baked bread lived, through the dining room with the treadle sewing machine, all the way into the living room where on the console television in the corner we would listen to a man talk about God's love, while Grandma sat next to her piano with the hymnal on it and I sat next to a table with a Bible, feeling loved.

 . . . and realized that was only half of the story of growing up with grandmas.

The grandma I described in the previous passage was my father's mother. She had five kids; my father was number four. Her husband, my grandpa, died when I was ten. The only memory of him I have is when I was five and sleeping on the davenport, as Grandma called it, in their dining room, because it was the night my youngest sister was being born. I remember Grandpa getting up early to tend to farming chores. It seems like he was wearing a flannel night shirt as he hurried to get dressed in the cold house in the midst of a Michigan January. I pretended to be asleep, but cuddled among the quilts Grandma most likely had made out of her old house dresses, I soon was asleep, warm and safe in one of my favorite places.

The other half of the story is the part about my other grandma, my mother's mother. She, too, was the mother of five kids; my mother was number two. Her husband, my grandpa, also died when I was ten. I have two memories of him: the first was when he would bounce me on his knee singing a song about a happy hippo, and second, when I would see him being helped down the hallway of their big, old farmhouse, where he would find his bed and sleep it off. No one spoke about why he needed help walking or why he had to take so many naps. He was gone before I knew him. I remember walking out into the dining room of our house one morning with my mother holding my sister, crying, and telling me that Grandpa had died. I was not as sad as I was jealous that my mother was holding my sister and not me. I always felt that I needed to be held more than I ever actually was, but being the practical people we were, the chores that needed to be done always took priority over real or perceived emotional needs.

My other grandma did not watch Billy Graham on television, worked in a canning factory and did not do much baking, did not know how to sew or play the piano, and most likely did not spend much time reading the Bible. This was the Grandma who would teach me how to play rummy and we would play cards while she filled up a small cup for me with cream and sugar, adding just enough coffee to create a beautiful caramel color. I would gratefully sip on the warm treat and when I was finished she would offer me coffee candy. It would not take long before I was addicted to caffeine, at the ripe old age of six or seven, an addiction I have had ever since, not to mention tooth decay from all of the sugar that would wreak havoc on my chalk-like teeth.

This was the grandma who would let me roast marshmallows over the burner of her stove so we could make s'mores, which may not have been the best decision, but I do not recall ever getting burned, though sometimes the marshmallows did. Years into the future she would invite me to share in the mysterious concoctions that would be poured from the blender on Christmas as everyone got happier and I naively wondered why--why they were getting happier and why someone not of age was being invited to share in the merriment. Fortunately, that was an addiction I flirted with briefly in college, but it would not take hold and define my life.

That grandma would like to say, "ooh-la-la" and attribute that to being part French, which I never would have believed until it was recently confirmed on a DNA test I took: French, German, Scottish, Irish, British--100 percent European ancestry. I knew all was true except for the French and somehow felt slightly more exotic and glamorous after that. Maybe that is why I wanted to study French and ended up with a French minor, becoming semi-fluent for awhile. It was in my DNA.

Both grandmas went to church. The one who listened to Billy Graham took me to her small community church once in awhile where we would sing hymns and I would wonder what it meant to be saved. Before that she was part of the Brethren Church. She asked me before I went to college how I would treat a roommate if that roommate happened to be black. We only knew of one black family in our township and they seemed the same as everyone else in that small, rural community so even though I did not know the answer to her question, I said I guessed I would treat her just like anyone else. Grandma said yes, that is exactly what I should do. She is the only one who ever addressed the issue.

The coffee-drinking grandma had converted to Catholicism in order to marry Grandpa, just like my father converted in order to marry my mother, making me only part Catholic, though it had a major influence on my thinking, and probably still does. This grandma did not talk about her faith, but many Catholics I knew did not talk about theirs either. It was a given that one went to church for no one wanted to face an eternity in hell for missing mass. The ten commandments were pretty straightforward, though we all knew when we were looking at the prayer cards before making our confessions that there was no way we were going into that dark little booth and not have something to tell the priest. None of us could ever measure up and that was why we needed the priest to intercede for us. Maybe just maybe, if we recited the prayers just right, and never dropped a communion wafer on the floor, and didn't pinch our sister too much in church or actually laugh out loud, we could make it to purgatory and hope that someone in time would pray us out so we could go on to our final reward. There was a lot of pressure in being Catholic. And seeing that gigantic crucifix with the larger-than-life Jesus staring down at me every week certainly did not help.

Both grandmas would lose their husbands while they were still somewhat young, but only my mother's mother would remarry when I was 13 and I would get to wear my long green dress to their wedding. Afterward we had lunch with the priest and Grandma and my new Grandpa got to go on about their lives in a different house than the farmhouse, and spend time in their camper like the time they took a trip out West. Grandma soon discovered, however, she did not enjoy camping nearly as much as Grandpa. When I brought my fiance to meet the family at Grandma's birthday party, Grandpa pulled me aside to give me all kinds of marriage advice. Tell him you love him every day and show him, he said. He went on with instructions for how I could be the best wife possible. I would find out later he had advice for my husband-to-be as well. Be patient, was all he said.

I would not be the woman I am today were it not for both of my grandmas. The quilt-making, bread-baking, hymn-singing, listener of Billy Graham grandma along with the coffee-drinking, card-playing, somewhat French, Catholic grandma both taught me a lot about faith, love, and living life to the full. Both suffered great loss, endured hardship, loved their families and lived into their 80s.

Today I sew all kinds of things, love to bake and have even come up with a version of my own molasses cookie, drink coffee with cream or black--no sugar please, and have an enduring faith that allows me to love God and try to treat everyone with respect. I hope someday to be the kind of grandma I was blessed enough to have and to pass along all I have learned. Well, maybe not all.

standing in the need of prayer

What I love about my Birkenstocks is how the leather softens and molds around the contours of my feet over time. I wear them every day and sometimes with socks in the winter. They are my bedroom slippers and my footwear for the summer months. I have an old pair I take to the beach. I even chose to have a worn out pair resoled instead of breaking in a new pair--they are that comforting and good.

If you tried to wear my Birkenstocks, you would not find them nearly as enjoyable because they would not fit your feet the way they fit mine. My long, narrow feet with no arch are given extra support by this footwear that perhaps you do not need. And even if you do, they have been worn to accommodate my feet, not yours.

There are simple truths we need to hold dear when we come alongside each other--truths that define us as individuals. It is far easier to come up with generalized remedies for each other's ills than it is to consider we may not know exactly what is best. Sometimes the answers are out of our grasp. We want to understand, but we don't and maybe we can't. Admitting that we have limitations takes courage. Knowing we are not in control is a sign of maturity. Being open to learning gives us hope.

There is a gospel song, a spiritual, that came to my mind during prayer this morning: Standing in the need of prayer. "Not my brother, not my sister, but it's me, O Lord, standing in the need of prayer."

Sometimes it is easier to pray for others than it is to ask for prayer. We can pray with long lists starting with family members and praying in ever widening spirals until we have prayed for the whole world. Prayers for people who are dying seem to take precedence though I often wonder if these prayers should be directed more toward those who will need to adjust to the loss that will occur when the loved one transitions out of this earthly plane.

To tell someone you are praying for his or her need sounds noble, but I believe something happens when these prayers are actually prayed. I can feel lifted up, embraced, made secure every once in awhile and wonder if this is a moment when a prayer on my behalf has made its way to the throne of God. Because we all have different belief systems I try not to impose my ideas on others. Most of my references seem to be from children's fairy tales anyway. But whether we are talking to God or merely wishing someone well, I believe there is power in our thoughts and words. For this reason we must have times of quiet--times when we can stare out a window into the pre-dawn sky and not think about anything more than the squirrel's nest that has now become visible as the neighbor's tree branch, bereft of its leaves, leans ever closer to our driveway. It is in listening to the crunching of the fallen leaves, seeing large, fat robins, and wondering for the briefest of moments why they are hopping around looking for food in January when they are supposed to be the first sign of spring, but then remembering these are the ones that flew South for the winter and that is where I now live.

Though it may sound like this sort of thinking takes a great deal of time, time none of us can spare, it does not. These are momentary experiences that happen without prompting if one is open to them.

Moments of being reminded that whether it is cold or warm, sunny or overcast, a day reminiscent of loss or celebration, I can stand here in my Birkenstocks in the need of prayer and know that someone somewhere is praying for me right now.

New Year in New York

I decided to take up the offer my friend, Ann, had made to spend New Year's Eve in New York City with her in her tiny brownstone in the Village. It was 1985 and my first time to explore the Big Apple.

Ann and I had been in the same GRE prep classes in Denver where she was from and where I had landed, tutoring each other: she tutoring me in math, and me tutoring her in English. We had enough in common to become friends and would go out for coffee and Baileys to talk about life and dream about the future.

She decided if she were going to go to graduate school, it would have to be a top school. I decided if I were going to graduate school I needed to go to the one that would offer me a graduate assistantship since I didn't have any money. She did not get into the school of her choice and decided to move to New York City anyway, taking a position that would one day get her into a position of choice. I decided to go to Marshall University in Huntington, West Virginia, where my tuition was paid.

Since Ann was working and I was on break, I toured the city alone, which was how I did most things those days. The real difference between walking around inner-city Denver and New York was the sidewalks in New York were always crowded, even in the middle of the night. I went to all the places I had heard of--the Empire State Building, Wall Street, toured the Guggenheim, looked at all the people going in every direction at Grand Central Station and walked through Central Park. I remember pausing outside of the World Trade Center thinking it would be fun to go to the top and take a look, but decided there would always be next time. (Whenever I catch myself thinking that way, I think of this.)

Since I had been watching the ball drop in Times Square on television all my life I thought that would be our plan for the evening. My friend quickly intervened in that thought process saying it was far too dangerous and we could get mugged. She had a different plan--dinner with friends . . . her friends.

First she would lend me her stockbroker roommate's cashmere dress and string of pearls so I would fit in, and then she would instruct me to not tell anyone that I knew her from Denver, which, she believed, was too much of a "cow town" for these sophisticated New York-types. I wondered, after the fact, where she told them she was from--Long Island? Before I could say anything, she also forbade me from talking about graduate school since I was living in West Virginia, and that, she said, was even worse than Denver. Who I was, and who I was supposed to be for that evening, had very little in common.

After a dinner in which I didn't have to worry about saying anything because there were a couple of young women with a lot of money from somewhere in the South who were sharing with us how they "just had to buy those darling $80 t-shirts because they were the cheapest little items in the store." I could barely afford a cup of coffee, but I digress. Ann decided we would drop by someone's party. She was confident she would be meeting someone there and hoped I was ok tagging along. What other plans did I have?

Standing in a hallway of a tiny apartment on what I think may have been the lower west side, a decent looking guy approximately my age, started a conversation with me in the most predictable way, "So, where are you from?"

I looked around to see if Ann were nearby and when I didn't see her, I responded, "Do you really want to know where I'm from?!" He seemed ok with it. "I'm from Hart, Michigan," I said. "Don't worry if you've never heard of it. Some people from Michigan have never heard of it either. And I don't even live in the town of 2,000. I grew up six miles east on a dairy farm." I couldn't decide what the look on the guy's face meant. Either he was thinking--take a hike farmer's daughter, or, I've never met someone like this before--tell me more. As I waited for him to make some excuse and walk away, he said, "I know where that is. It's near Silver Lake." I had not given him that information. How could he possibly know? He then did what people always do and asked if I knew a certain person. In most cases this sort of thing bears no fruit, but I knew to whom he was referring! In a town that small one either knows the person, knows someone who knows the person, or is related to the person.

We were well in the midst of a wonderful conversation by the time Ann, with a look of--let's-get-out-of-here-before-someone-tries-to-kiss us--made it clear it was time to go. The guy pulled a business card out of his back pocket and said if I were ever in the city again to please give him a call.

The next day as I was enjoying one of the best, most expensive bagels I had ever eaten, I pulled out the guy's card. He was an executive with MTV! But alas, I had to fly back to West Virginia where some students didn't like me because they thought I was a big city woman from Denver. But I wasn't. I was like them--a country girl from a small town who learned that being invisible was not her only option, and the people who really matter will always be able to see you.

The Bright Hour, A Memoir of Living and Dying by Nina Riggs: my review and contemplations

Sitting on my small canvas beach chair next to an identical one occupied by my husband under our shade umbrella in the warm sand while the ocean roars and foams in its usual fits of ecstatic delight may seem to be a odd time for me to be reading a woman's memoir about death--perhaps as strange as the way death intrudes on a perfectly good life at what will always be the wrong time.

The Bright Hour: A Memoir of Living and Dying by Nina Riggs came with me from our home in Greensboro, where Nina also used to live, to the southern part of the Outer Banks where we camp a few days every summer when we can. Now that we travel, just the two of us, I have more time to notice those with children around us: the French Canadian brothers talking quietly while I try to translate, the annoyed adolescent girls leaving a trail of pink plastic razors and the scent of fruity shampoo, and an exhausted couple guiding three small boys across what probably seems to them a very long boardwalk. As I begin to get to know Nina through her words, I think about her sons, as well. When I had gone to Scuppernong Books for the book reading, I happened to be sitting right next to them, saw her husband, and know a couple of her friends. Her life, with all of its leading characters, is right there before me in all of its brilliance as she tells her story.

In an attempt to convince my husband to camp at the beach instead of renting a cabin, I had ordered a tent we had not bothered to set up beforehand since we are seasoned campers and would make do with whatever difficulties presented themselves. The tent is extra roomy and a lovely yellow and red color. What we would not fully experience until the next morning is how light interacts with the mesh and rain fly creating a variety of changing colors inside the tent that in no way relate to the yellow and red of its outside. Purple, green, and orange of varying hues welcome us to the morning, as the dew sparkles like glitter, literally like silver glitter--a tent designed in Colorado by people with a sense of humor, I suggest, while my husband offers a scientific explanation about light refraction I only partially understand. I think about Nina's journey, remembering the part about the MRI as she and her friend, Tita, look for bright spots, hoping not to find them as they indicate more tumors, further metastases. For once, light was not the hoped for result but a preferred steady darkness leading out of a tunnel darker still.

Nina's vulnerable portrayal of a real marriage with its spontaneous intimacy of understanding, as well as chasms of differences too great to cross, made the idea of her having to depart from it almost unbearable. By the time she told her husband she had secretly purchased tickets for them to take a trip to France, a place where they had lived as a young couple years before, and only told him because she was beginning to realize he needed to know all of her secrets as she may not be there to tell him, I cheered her on when she then wrote that they got to take the trip. At last, here was a dream fulfilled. Even knowing the outcome of her story, I wanted Paris to last just a bit longer. I wanted there to be a round of treatments that would make a difference, a drug trial that would save the day and her life.

I did not know until reading her book that she was a direct descendant of Ralph Waldo Emerson. She quotes him in the preface:

"I am cheered with the moist, warm, glittering, budding and melodious hour that takes down the narrow walls of my soul and extends its pulsation and life to the very horizon. That is morning; to cease for a bright hour to be a prisoner of this sickly body and to become as large as the World."

Nina becomes larger than life as she cares for her dying mother, learning from hospice the clinical definition of what it looks like to lose one's life one step at a time. All the things no one ever tells you, Nina suddenly becomes competent in and does not lose her compassion or humor. She keeps on going in the midst of grieving her hair falling out and disfigurement from the surgery. She writes like a friend sharing a secret and holds nothing back. She does not seek pity and even goes out of her way to not shock a babysitter whom she had not seen in awhile with her new look, choosing not to say hello on the street. She just lives her life like everyone else, hoping she will get to keep doing the same things families do as they go through whatever awaits them in their day and tuck everyone in at night.

Looking out at the vast array of stars complete with the Milky Way Galaxy that we only get to see when we are camping at the beach, I see life in all of its glittery glory shining at me from horizon to horizon. I wonder about life on other planets, in other galaxies. I've seen so many science fiction stories of time travel, worm holes, and varying dimensions that these sorts of things no longer seem so far-fetched. I believe our souls go to a place when we die. And even though there has been much speculation about such a place and who is allowed to be there, none of us really knows--even those who say they have gone there and have returned to tell the tale. We do not know how we will be when we are set free from our earthly bodies and perhaps given new ones, or what the environmental conditions of the place will be like. I think I could spend eternity walking barefoot on the sand, letting the water wash over me while sea oats bend in the cool breeze and sea birds with long beaks find nourishment in the surf. To see the first rays of sunlight in the morning and the last in the evening while experiencing the ever-changing colors of life in-between, and finding those with whom to share such moments, is as good as it gets.

On her final page, before her husband finishes the memoir by saying she died in the early morning which was her favorite time of day, Nina writes, "We're making our way like this, though: We are breathless, but we love the days. They are promises. They are the only way to walk from one night to the other."

Thank you, Nina, for writing it all down and allowing us to see you.