Collage

Bethany House is an older building with large rooms and tall windows gazing out on a serene landscape. The carpeted staircase leads to five suites on the second floor that have multiple beds in them. I selected a suite of four beds with one bathroom and plopped my suitcase down on the stand by the bed nearest the bathroom. The mattress was hard as a rock, barely balancing on the simple wooden frame.

The monks had thoughtfully arranged for our needs, providing night lights, lamps, mirrors - the basics without disturbing the simplicity of the room. I unpacked the few things I would need and headed downstairs to curl up on the comfy couch. Dinner was a simple fare of home made soups (thankfully one that I could eat) and the delicious monk bread the abbey is known for.

I thought we were going to talk about bringing the light of Christ to a needy and hurting world. But we started with identifying the dark places in our own hearts. Just identifying, mind you. Our speaker, a wonderfully astute woman from Chicago, a trained psychiatrist, sister of one of the seminary professors, reminded us that these spaces are part of who we are whether we acknowledge them or not. And until we claim the dark places as our own, the light of Christ cannot shine on them and bring us healing.

Hum. I have no dark places that are unaddressed. I am fine. (Famous last words). I knew many of the women attending the retreat, and we stayed up later than I am usually able to, chatting. While we caught up we learned to make rag dolls out of yarn and scraps of cloth, then we dressed them. It was loads of fun and the dolls will be taken to China and given to orphans there - one of the seminary professors is leaving in a few weeks for the China trip. I finally hit the hay about midnight, but it took awhile to drift off to sleep since I am not used to such a hard mattress.

As the next day unfolded and we were given time to reflect and be touched by the beauty and peace of Christ that surrounded us on the grounds of this prayer filled place, I began to realize that my experiences with cancer and divorce and broken relationships had indeed left me with some shadows. They were blocking me from enjoying life fully.

In the afternoon, our speaker suggested an activity of making a collage. We were instructed to flip through the magazines she had brought, tear out pictures that appealed to us, then arrange them on a poster. She told us how she stumbled across this idea, did it herself, and found out some interesting things about the deep desires of her heart.

Right. Silly stuff, I thought. I prefer to just enjoy walking outdoors in the great sun and blue skies, a wonderful reprieve from the rain we have been having. I headed towards the door, but a magazine caught my eye. What could it hurt just to look through it? The activity sucked me in. I found certain pictures really attracted me, and though I couldn't bear to tear out the pages (my life has been torn enough), I did start cutting them out.

I was so surprised at what emerged. And as soon as I had assembled my selections, the Holy Spirit began speaking to me about Jairus House and what I need to do to be ready for this work, about where I am in the process and why I haven't moved forward with it. I was moved in the very core of my being by the outpouring of love and healing that happened in the silence of many women all open to hear from God with hardly a word spoken. Wow. And to think I almost didn't do it!

Life is a collage. It is not easy to see where all the pieces fit. Sometimes we are just confused by all the jagged parts that seem to have no relationship. But there is a pattern. Once in awhile, it even comes into focus. Like today with this picture. I plan to hang it in my bedroom for a bit to contemplate more what all is there.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the retreat was over and I found myself driving home, still in the wonderful silence of uplifting scenery. I can't wait to see the boys and break bread with them. Nice. Very nice.

NES Women's Retreat

I thought about going, but with so much going on and so little money to take care of all the needs, I put off deciding until the last minute, just to make sure I would have enough energy and resources to do it. After all, it is not a necessity. Something nice if you can swing it, but not required, going on a retreat. Or is it?

When my seminary professor called me to ask if I were planning on going, I kibitzed. I was loathe to commit either strength or money. But she felt that I should be there. She asked for me to make a decision. I heard myself say yes, then hung up the phone and wondered why on earth I had done that. Perhaps it was not too late to back out.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that even if I could see no real driving need to come away from my normal routine for some time dedicated to being quiet and hearing God, perhaps God was needing to get my attention. So with great procrastination, I arranged for someone to cover my afternoon reference shift, took care to see that the boys had what they needed food wise to get through a day or so without me, made sure they would see to Sugar's need, and packed an overnight bag.

Still I lingered at home, puddling around with nothing, reticent to begin my drive an hour south to the Abbey of the Genesee. Its not like I haven't been there before. I did a retreat during the Core classes and enjoyed the peace of their monastery. I experienced a meaningful Good Friday there. And I love spending time in God's presence. What is keeping me from joyfully bounding out the door?

Perhaps I am afraid God will require something of me that I am not prepared to do. Perhaps I am always such an independent person that the thought of sharing time with a group of other women is a stretch for me. Perhaps things are going so well that I don't believe I need a time of seeking the face of God. Perhaps I just have other fish to fry. Whatever the reason, I realize that this is likely JUST the thing I need right now to keep me from getting off track. And so I tear myself away, fill the gas tank (gulp) and plug in my Tom Tom.

The drive down is pleasant and refreshing in itself. One forgets that outside the city limits lies a vast countryside filled with the goodness of God. I thought to listen to some CDs of good choral music, but preferred to be absorbed with the mountains, fields, and flowers passing my window. And in the quiet of the drive, already the Lord began whispering things to my heart. Ideas that had not had a chance to surface in the noise of everyday life. Encouragements about what I am doing. Prayers of deep desire for my children and grandchildren that had found no release. A sense of presence and love, peace and deep connection.

Ah, this is going to be a wonderful excursion after all. I ought to know how precious such times can be. I navigate into the driveway of Bethany House where we are lodging and park just in time for the Vespers service at the main abbey. OK. I am on board. I recall Isaiah 2:5:

"Come, O house of Jacob, let us walk in the light of the LORD."

This retreat is titled "Bringing Light into the Darkness." I am ready to listen.

Wall to Wall Meetings

I look at my calendar. Every hour there is a meeting of some sort. Goodness! First a meeting with the BOCES job coach to meet a potential new volunteer. Then meet with a committee to look at designing a salary benchmarking study. Then with the Library Director to chat about initiatives in Public Services. Then with the members of the nontraditional education committee. Then with other Library Faculty to discuss the candidates for our open position, then . . .

I am always amazed when I get one of these days when every responsibility seems to collide. I am surprised there isn't more from on beyond the library world (other than choir practice in the evening and a brief visit to the dentist).

It is a day requiring copious amounts of grace and God given strength and clarity of thought. If I am to be a contributing and productive member of these groups, I will need far more than my own simple abilities in play. Thank goodness for the morning verse - Psalm 28:7

"The LORD is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and he helps me. My heart leaps for joy, and with my song I praise him."

It is true that I do not dread such days because I know God will show me what I need to understand and keep me from putting my foot in my mouth. Nice to know I have help with my public interface. Now I just need to keep that last part in mind and make sure to allow my joy proper expression of thanksgiving.

ACL Award

Our Library belongs to the Association of Christian Libraries, an organization of like minded institutions. Every year, the ACL offers us an opportunity to recognize outstanding student papers that have used library resources well and evidence excellence in character and leadership. A professor has to nominate students for the award and send the paper they feel deserves recognition.

This year we received a number of excellent papers. It was difficult to choose one despite our evaluation grid. Count the number of library owned resources. How many are scholarly? Did they cite properly? Did the paper address some issue or controversy with solid support? Was there an idea worth following through on? For many of the papers, we could say yes to everything.

After conversation, we selected one paper written by a member of the staff who is completing her bachelors degree through our Organizational Management program. Not an easy task for sure, juggling work and study, class and home responsibilities. But her paper addressed the topic of how to provide the kind of support students need in order to do just what she herself is doing. She surveyed other students, then identified common themes. And provided practical recommendations that the school will actually follow up on. Good work!

We gathered in the Fireside Reading Room, a handful of Librarians and Faculty and Staff to award her the certificate and small gift card. The Director of the Library gave some background about the award and the process. Her recommending faculty person bathed the event in words of support and pride. The Director of the division where she works also added his comments about how they would be using her paper results in ongoing initiatives.

We took pictures and applauded her accomplishment. Good for you! And keep it coming! She has decided to apply for a graduate program. Brava. Perhaps we will see her again at one of these events! I hope so.

ChewedLips

Sugar and I head out into a rainy morning filled with swirling mist and echoing birdsong. She is anxious to round the corner and see who might be out and about. She half drags me forward as I juggle umbrella, raincoat and doggie bag. But suddenly I stop and Sugar is brought up short.

I squint at the tulips growing against the south side of the building. For days the swollen buds have been promising to burst forth into colorful bloom. Every morning I expect to see flashes of red and orange and yellow. Every morning I have seen only the swollen buds nodding nonchalantly in the slight breeze.

Today I am greeted not by color of flower, but by chewed off stalks. Someone or some thing has gnawed the tender buds right off the plant. There are at least a half dozen naked stems shattered and bereft of their babies, empty wombs that will never again offer fruit. Worse yet, there is a bulb that has been completely ripped from the ground and lies white and naked on the brown dirt.

What monster has desecrated this garden? I am angry. Deer? Woodchuck? Rabbit? Those horrible critters. I want to make them stop. I am fearful that the last few buds will be eaten. I don't want to leave these tender plants unguarded. But Sugar edges me forward, around the corner. Huh. The flowers here are untouched by gnawing lips. What makes the difference? Have they just not discovered this patch of food?

I realize that I am helpless to prevent further damage. And that the animal responsible was simply doing what animals do. It must have been a real treat to eat something so delicious as an unborn flower. My anger passes. Still, I hope it gave them indigestion. On the way back, I tuck the displaced bulb back into the nurturing earth. There. I save one, at least.

Mass Suicide

Rain. Sigh. I must drag myself to work early to open the Library, despite the fact that the students are not yet returned from their Easter "vacation," flung to the far corners of awayness to be with their friends and families in celebration of Christ's resurrection. But someone has to do it, and I, being the morning person that I have always been, am the most likely candidate. Besides, its my assigned day.

So I wearily slide my feet out from the protective warm cocoon of my blankets and pad to the bathroom to begin preparations. I ought to be bouncing with joyous celebration of the best holiday of the year! I stare in the mirror at my puffy eyes, my disheveled hair, my sagging shoulders and wonder where my joy has gone.

The gray skies and slick roads do not lift my spirits as I point my car towards Elmgrove Road and edge my way through slow morning traffic. The radio does nothing to cheer me up, blaring some avant garde ugly thing. I turn it off and drive in silence save for the squeak of wipers against the watery windshield. The gray sky reflects my tiredness.

I park in the nearly empty lot, retrieve the paper from the mailbox, and head into the building, umbrella spread wide against the pelting rain. As I walk up the blacktop, I notice a long thick night crawler sluggishly stretch its length, trying to get somewhere else. Yes, I think. Perhaps somewhere else the skies will be blue, the air warm and friendly, the people filled with joy.

Then I notice that there are more worms on the blacktop. Lots of them. I stop for a moment to investigate while the rain tap dances on my umbrella. In fact, there are tons of worms scattered across the pavement and sidewalk. Most of them lie still. Too still. They are dead. Some are mangled, probably stepped on and squished. Some are half eaten. Some are water logged and swollen. Some are curled in a circle. A few, precious few, have a bit of half hearted movement at one end or the other, vain attempts to get off the blacktop and back into the grass.

What on earth? I know worms usually show up after a rain, but what induced all these creatures to scramble from their dirt homes to certain death, exposed in the open with no chance of burrowing to safety? Was there so much rain that their homes were flooded and they were in danger of drowning? I know worms breath through their skin, and can take oxygen from water. Maybe they came to feast on the rain, like some sick orgy, and ended up dead.

Poor babies. They survived the cold harsh winter deep in their burrows, only to expire at the first sign of reprieve. I can hardly bring myself to step gingerly over their dead bodies and gain entrance to the Library. How sad. I shake myself. They are only worms. There are millions of them in one small grassy area. Pull yourself together, woman. Still, it seems right that it be rainy and gray today, mourning the loss of so many innocents. And not just the worms, mind you. But the loss of so many who ought not to have died, who did nothing to deserve an early grave.

The world sometimes does mourn injustice. Indeed, the world is filled with stories of injustice lately. So much devastation. So much war. So much calamity. Today seems to be one of those mournful days. I am touched by the memories of those I knew who left this world early. All the while I am unlocking the Library and unfurling the services, I lift my heart in prayer for those who mourn such loss. And I ask the Spirit to bring soon the rainbow of promise, the hope of better days ahead.

Half Cent Easter!

The tingling excitement isn't as strong as it is on Christmas morning, but I am definitely awake long before the sun in eager anticipation of all the Easter doings. I take joy in being old enough to go with Father to the sunrise service. First things first, though.

I pad quietly down the long curving gracious front stairs, tiptoe through the foyer past the curtained French doors that lead to the formal parlor, and into the dining room. There on the table I am greeted by a line of six Easter baskets overflowing with fake green grass and all kinds of goodies. In the center of each Easter basket is a small chocolate bunny encased in a gaily colored box, the view through cellophane windows tantalizes my watering mouth, bunnies begging to be eaten.

Each bunny is slightly different. Some hold colored carrots or daisies in their paws, others have candy bow ties or hats or eyes. I locate the basket with my name on it, carry it to the living room and dump the contents, examining each confection and counting each jelly bean. I ration the supply in my mind, wanting the treats to last as long as possible. Then I put it all back, taking a small bite out of my bunny so no one else will be tempted to swap.

By now, other brothers and sisters are drowsily appearing, sniffing the delightful sweetness of candy hanging in the air. I whisk my basket to my bedroom. Time to wriggle into my new Easter outfit! Every year, Gram Appleby buys us girls "store boughten" outfits. We always get a fancy dress (usually with a gauzy overlay of pink or purple), a spring coat (also pink or purple), a straw hat sometimes decorated with little white cloth flowers, a pair of patent leather shoes (either white or black depending on how early Easter was), matching frilly lacy socks and a neat little purse, often the same patent leather as the shoes. I feel like a grown up lady as I pull the wonderful crinoline slip over my head and wiggle into all the duds. My hands fuss with tiny bead buttons and uncooperative little shoe buckles. But I have to be ready when Dad wants to leave or I will be left behind.

Off we go, sometimes just me and Dad, sometimes another sibling or two. We drive to the church parking lot, climb out of the station wagon, then walk the block or so to the ancient cemetery. We pick our way gingerly among the moss covered, crazily tilted, sometimes fallen washboard style tombstones until we reach a small clearing where others are gathered, shivering in the cold predawn air. As I stand there with chattering teeth and shaking limbs waiting for everyone to arrive so the service can start, I try to read the names on the gravestones. Many of them are worn smooth by years of weather.

I really don't remember much of what was said during the service. Some years Dad had tried to record someone playing the hymns on a piano with a small cassette recorder. Back then the quality of the sound was not good for music, and pressing the button brought such wobbly warbling music it was all I could do not to laugh out loud - it was certainly not very conducive to singing.

By the time the 20 minute service ended I was so frozen that my fingers wouldn't work and it was all I could do to walk back to the church. But walk we did, eagerly. In the fellowship hall we are greeted not only by comforting warmth, but the delicious fragrances of sizzling sausages, hot coffee and hot chocolate, fruit syrups and golden pancakes.

I loved to watch the cook pour a circle of white batter onto his huge hot griddle. The circle of yellow would soon form little bubbles that popped. That was the signal to flip the pancake, revealing the deep golden brown and causing the cake to rise fluffy and steamy.

Soon, Mom and the other kids would appear, all of them in their Easter finery. We would load our plates with sausages, bacon, pancakes, applesauce, syrup, eggs - everything and anything we wanted with no limits. Unbelievable for a household where everything was rationed to ensure that everyone got a fair share. Man, I would eat and eat and eat until the waist of my new Easter dress got tight. I just wanted to sit there feeling full and contented.

Soon, the little bell would ring signaling the start of Sunday School and I would tromp up the wooden staircase to the little room on the second floor where kids my age met with one of the women in the church to work our Sunday School manuals, reading stories from the Bible and answering questions. We always had a bigger class on Easter Sunday, and the visiting kids would be given a guest manual to work on. They were usually pretty clueless and we ended up helping them a lot.

Then the bell signaled time to head to the sanctuary. There the platform was swathed in lilies - tall leggy plants with two or three white fragrant blooms on each stalk. I can still smell the heavy perfume of all those flowers. Whenever I smell lilies, I immediately think of Easter!

The best part came after service. Mom would put a roast in the oven before she left for church, and we came home to the delicious smell of dinner just ready to eat. We usually had mashed potatoes, a vegetable, and dinner rolls warm and toasty. By the time we were ready to dish things up, Gram and Gramp arrived, their truck full of Easter abundance - fruits and cookies and cake and bread. And more candy, of course!

But the best best part was after dinner when the dishes were done and we gathered in the parlor, everyone stuffed and happy. The grownups chatted and we kids could sit with them and listen in. We sprawled here and there, draped over footstools and curled up on a pillow on the floor and just were together. The conversation was punctuated by Grampa's raspy laugh and Gram's exclamations of "Hub!" while Mom and Dad laughed. In between threads of discussion was that fulfilling silence where everyone was lost in their own thoughts. We girls fuddled with our Barbie dolls while my brothers played with cars and gadgets.

There was no hurry, no upcoming event necessitating winding up our relaxation. The afternoon passed quietly. Sometimes I was so sleepy I would tear myself away and climb the stairs to my bed to rest. Sometimes the weather was so nice outside that we moved to the front porch. But mostly we just shared each other's company and the respite from the weary world.

I love Easter. It is a time of friendship and family after the isolation of a long cold winter, a harbinger of better times ahead. All embroidered with chocolate and flowers. What's not to love?

Holy Saturday

I didn't grow up in a religious tradition that observed Easter Vigil. In fact, I was in my fifties when I was first exposure to the concept. A friend of mine invited me to her Greek Orthodox Church's Vigil - a late night (and for some, all night) event. How strange it all seemed - the ikons, the incense, lighting skinny candles, walking around the outside of the building en mass following the priest raising a bejeweled cross, singing music I never heard in a language I did not understand and yet somehow it all making sense, feeling familiar.

It almost felt like I could have been one of the women who stood at the foot of the cross while Jesus was dying, who afterwards had to go home and await the dawning of the next day to go out and anoint the body of Jesus for burial. Can you imagine how difficult it must have been for them to abandon Jesus' body in an unfamiliar tomb because of the Sabbath laws? How do you go home (and to what) when you are in such turmoil and grief, to endure the long, long night of darkness, left alone with the surreal events of such horror playing in your mind over and over and over? Where is the relief from such agony?

Yet you have no choice, so you lie there, rigid in the silent night, waiting, waiting, stiff with sickness, alone in your sorrow, inconsolable, perhaps rocking yourself in a futile attempt at relief. Perhaps you rise from time to time to wander about the house to no purpose other than that you cannot stand the waiting, trying to assuage your need to do Something, Anything to relieve the angst.

Finally, you can stand it no longer. You get up, put on your sandals and head out even before the first tentative rays of dawn.

Attending such a vigil was an interesting experience, especially since it was followed by an incredible meal of celebration chock full of Greek specialties. Wow, how amazing and memorable!

This year, I attended the Great Vigil of Easter at Community of the Savior. How wonderful it was to be among friends and family. We gathered in the lobby, hugging and catching up. The conversation rose and fell as people arrived, many of us a bit nervous as we waded into unfamiliar territory. Then, at the given moment, our cantor provides a few whispered instructions and we all file out doors, huddling together on the front walk, watching from the darkness while the Christ candle is lighted, holding our breath while the wind blows the flames, challenging the minister to catch the fire on the wick.

The cantor lifts the candle high, shielding it with his hand until he enters the foyer. Three times we halt our procession while the cantor sings "The light of Christ" and we respond, repeating his cadence, "Thanks be to God!" We enter the sanctuary by the sole light of the Christ candle and take our places while the cantor chants an invitation to the world and the heavenly realms to Rejoice in the rising of Christ, an event we are about to celebrate.

Like the disciples on the road to Emmaus, we listen as various members of the congregation tell the stories of Scripture beginning with Creation and the Flood, continuing with Abraham's Sacrifice of Isaac and Israel's Deliverance at the Red Sea, encouraged by Ezekiel and the story in Luke 24 of the women arriving at the empty tomb. The pastor encourages us in his homily to remember, to cherish these things.

As was the custom in the early Church, we participate in the baptism of a baby girl (unexpected bonus!) followed by partaking communion. Times flies away unnoticed as it always does when you love what you are doing. This is so much better than seeing in a New Year or even than unwrapping an Easter basket of goodies when I was young. I wouldn't miss the rich reflection on how much God loves us, the tempering of the brutality of the crucifixion, the sweetness of arms of fellowship hugging me, the community of singing praise to God with others I know.

This is a healing time when the hardness of one's heart, so battered and bruised by the daily events of suffering inflicted by a fallen world, is massaged, softened, revitalized. I can almost feel my heart moving to a more tender place. I hope it stays renewed for a long time.

God's Friday 2011

Asbury United Methodist Church, downtown Rochester, offers a lunch hour observance of Good Friday. A simple service of Scripture, artwork from all ages and styles, music from all eras, all focused on the events of that fateful day. It touches my heart deeply to hear and see the world's reaction to Jesus' torture and death.

For many, this may well be a sterile liturgy that simply tells a story far removed from our experience. Yet for me, it is tantamount to reliving the events of the day someone I loved very much died. I think of my son Michael. Could I bear to relive his death every year in vivid detail, complete with passionate music about how he died, embroidered with graphic scenes of the suffering he endured? And hearing the words of people who were there tell how it went?

I don't think I could do it. Seeing and hearing every nuance of the way Michael died would be devastating to me. Its difficult enough to look at pictures of Michael that portray happy events like Christmas and birthday celebrations. It would get no easier over time. In my thinking about his death now, I am less distressed than I was the year it happened, mostly because my memory is so selective about what I choose to recall. And when the horrifying scenes try to surface, I can refuse them.

But the portrayal at Asbury does not allow you to refuse to think about what happened that day. Even if much of what I am seeing and hearing is someone else's idea about the way it happened, it is still extraordinarily jolting. I cannot help but cry, feel wretched, want to make the lash less ripping, the nails less piercing, the pain and blood stop, the cruelty to go away.

It is much easier on the heartstrings to consider this less intense poem I wrote awhile back - but perhaps not as effective in helping me appreciate God:

God yet man
One fatal moment.
Jesus' cry
For our atonement.

Blood for Adam
And for I
Spilling from
His riven side.

Satan doomed.
Sin defeated
As the royal blood depleted.

Soon victorious He'll stand
From his throne the world command.

Bow your knee,
Your heart,
Your head.
Knowing this - he's not long dead.

He'll arise and so will I.
He will meet me in the sky.
Life eternal we will share
As we breathe celestial air.

Well, packed into those words reside all the angst and trouble of the crucifixion, even though one cannot hear the reality anywhere nearly as well as I could hear it in the noonday service. I will continue to attend the Asbury service for as long as it is offered, and to reflect on the reality of the gift offered to us all, reveling in the music of Bach and Schutz, Barber and Billings, Noble and Victoria. I will be drawn into the works of El Greco and Wyeth, Tintoretto and Schipperheyn, Picasso and Delacrois and Cranach, Ruebens and Botticelli. What a fabulous and age spanning perspective on a passionate and essential event in the history of the world.

Maundy Thursday

Peter never had the opportunities we have. After all, he didn't even know that Jesus was going to wash his feet. With no advance warning, he hardly could have made arrangements to have a pedicure first. I mean really.

I understand Peter's reluctance to allow Jesus to wash his feet. It would be tantamount to having the President of the United States show up unexpectedly for dinner, take off his suit coat, bend down and scrub my dirty feet that had been tromping around all day in sandals in dusty fields and gardens. No, if we knew he was coming, we would have done our best spit and polish routine.

But isn't that what we do for Maundy Thursday services? We know well in advance that there will be a foot washing, and we prepare for it. No one is going to touch my dirt. No, I will scrub and polish (letting those who are willing and get paid for such work take care of the bad gunk). Which says :

1) I don't want anyone to know the truth about how needy and dirty I am and
2) I am too independent to accept real help from anyone - I will pay my own way and
3) I am willing to go through the motions but not allow myself to be touched by anything really significant.

Perhaps we have to come to the place where we really can't do for ourselves before we accept any ministry that is meant to heal, to make us part of a community, to allow God to touch us. Like when I have just had a chemo treatment and I can barely lift my head from the pillow. I am extremely grateful when someone brings me a cup of cold water and lifts the glass to my lips, letting the refreshing coolness soothe my parched throat and hydrate my toxic system.

It does something to both of us. I am deeply moved that someone, who owes me nothing, took time to both recognize my situation and to do something about it that was really helpful to me without being asked. They are touched by knowing that they are valuable and have done something of service for another, that their goodness is being brought forth. We form a bond that ties us together. It loosens hard areas in both our hearts.

We miss so much by waiting until we are desperate before coming to God. Wouldn't it be wonderful if we came to God without desperation, for cleansing, yes, for a touch from the Almighty, yes, for fellowship, yes, for allowing ourselves to be part of his family!

If we experienced that, we would say, with Peter, not just my feet but all of me. Touch my entire being and make me into what I ought to be.

Dead Deer in the Middle of the Road

It is dark and raining. Drew and I are heading home after a long day of work and study, class and QiGong movement. Traffic is unusually heavy on Buffalo Road. Ahead, I can see the red flashing lights of some emergency vehicle. The SUV in front of me slows to a crawl. Something is afoot.

As we get closer, I can see a police car, bright lights flashing, parked crosswise in the middle of the road. It must be bad. I see dark forms of people walking beyond the lights. Two trucks are parked along the edge of the other side of the road.

It isn't until after we pass the police car that I see the problem. A deer lies quivering in the center lane, it fur fluffing and floating off like dandelion fuzz. Its head is twisted in an awkward position, obviously the neck has snapped. One glassy eye stares vacantly toward the night sky.

And then we are past. The jarring vision of death fades as we pull back into the lane and speed up, edging toward the lights of the gas station just ahead. It is a difficult stretch of road. Just a half hour earlier, Kiel had come through that same section of Buffalo Road and had seen three deer wandering the fields in the fading daylight.

I am grateful that we did not hit the poor little deer. I am sorry another deer has been sacrificed. I suppose it is an inevitable clash between progress and nature. I just wish it didn't have to be this way.

Dejection

This morning all the beautiful daffodils were bent over, faces buried in the dirt. The rain from last night weighed them down so much that they were unable to lift their heads. How sad to see them ostrich-like, their splendor hidden from view, sucking mud.

Spring drives hard this year. All along the Genesee River the frozen banks drown in pools of rainwater slopping across flat balding grassy areas. Water almost overflows the banks, teasing the tree toes and sweeping away debris in its dirty brown embrace. Still the icy rain pounds down in unrelenting persistence. No wonder the Genesee slices New York State in half, snaking its way clear into Pennsylvania, gouging out a ragged fault line.

These gorgeous daffodils reflect everyone's attitude. We long for the warmth of summer sun, a chance to take a deep cleansing breath and step out of the gale force winds of life. Who hasn't longed to bury their head in the sand and escape at least for a moment?

We shouldn't be expecting summer this early, really. After all, it is still April and showers are part of April. But winter was long and constant, snowing nearly everyday until it makes you yell "Uncle!" Enough! Stop! I can't imagine living in Alaska . . .

I will be watching my little daffodils. I have every hope that they will unbury their faces soon, lifting them heavenward once again, shake off the dirt, smile the sky blue and the day cheerful.

Dejection, like all things earthly, lasts but a season and then moves on.

Cheerful Spring

Today I am tired. I am sure it was all the extra activity between Palm Sunday and the student dinner (clean up kept on even after I left at 9:30 pm). And I am touchy grumpy. Every little thing irritates me. This is the real me, the one I constantly think has gone away never to return. I am sure that I will bite the head off the first person I see.

I open on Mondays, and today I arrive at 7:30 am, grab the paper from the mailbox outside, fussing about the deep ditch and the mud I have to climb over to retrieve it. Mental note: have Grounds take a look at that and do something about it.

I flop the paper down at the Circ Desk and am disgusted at how cluttered the area is. I toss liberally - empty cups and water bottles, abandoned klediments that should be placed in lost and found, papers, scraps, glue sticks, staple removers all out of their normal places. Mental note: have the morning student clean this mess up.

I climb the steps to the second floor to turn on display cases and lights. Books are strewn about, the copier room crammed with papers and garbage, the glass table tops in the group study rooms are a mess, the bulletin boards cluttered with outdated fliers. Mental note: assign a student to remove all the fliers.

Grump, grump, grump, grouse, grouse grouse. I have repeatedly requested the Sunday closers to look around and police the area before they leave. I hate starting a fresh new week with leftover crud from a long weekend. I know if I see any staff right now I will likely lower the boom. I am in a dangerous place.

And then I see it. The bouquet of spring flowers from last night's banquet. So cheerful. So innocent. So fresh and clean. I drink in their beauty, caress their colors with my eyes, feed my soul. And relax. These little irritations are easily addressed. Nothing worth getting all het up over.

I bend down and smell the fragrant spring display of wonder and recall all the wonderful events punctuated with such flowers as these. Good memories. Great days. I am adjusted now. My spirit relaxes and breathes. I am happy again.

Perhaps this is a role I should emulate. Just being a breath of fresh air in a stale world so that others can remember to relax. Well, on to other things.

Snow Kidding

I woke early to pray for Palm Sunday service. Today we are doing Lessons and Hymns about Holy Week. We have many excellent hymns in our hymnal that we seldom sing, and I wanted to remind people of their excellent words, their meaningful portrayal of the events of Jesus' Passion. I love Ah, Holy Jesus; Go To Dark Gethsemane; O Sacred Head Now Wounded - all the events of that week poured out in stanza and refrain.

As I was praying for the musicians and pastor, I glanced out my bedroom window. In the early morning light, a deer munched the new green grass right at the edge of the woods. I smiled, then gasped. The heavens opened and poured down a deluge of white snow! The air became opaque with whiteness and the poor deer stepped back under the shelter of the leafless trees.

Later, after church, I was working on cooking a turkey for the formal dinner we always do for our graduating student workers (there's that formal china again!), and looked out the kitchen window dismayed to see big sloppy snowflakes swirling and dancing like someone had shaken a snow globe.

All during our dinner the snow filled the air outside the Fireside Reading Room. Not collecting on the ground. Just washing the sky. Good thing we had turned on the fireplace - we were downright cozy. Even the students mentioned how the picturesque snow clothed the evening with a brush of romance.

When at last the snow ceased, the blush of sunset was spectacular, as if the chill of the snow had reddened the sky's cheeks and turned the air brilliant with yellow, red and orange. And in the end, a bright full moon nodded graciously over the clean landscape as I drove home, weary but happy.

Crazy Busy

I pulled Saturday reference duty for six weeks in a row because I avoided the weekend surrounding my recital. That's fine. It's usually fairly quiet on Saturday afternoons. You get one or two students doing in depth research, often graduate students who know exactly what they want and need some direction in how to connect.

This Saturday, as it has been all week long, it was non stop questions the whole afternoon. And serious stuff. I love being able to help people connect with the information they want. It stretches me in all kinds of directions in subject areas where my comfort level is not as high as my music subject understanding.

Time just flew by. Before I realized it, the library closing announcement was echoing through the atrium and people stepped up their activity levels to gather what they needed before the doors shut. A whirlwind of activity that left me breathless and somewhat amazed. I wandered home and just sat quietly for a bit before preparing supper. Nice. Good day. Now on to things Palm Sunday.

RIT Day

So, Drew signed up for another round at RIT. This time, he will talk with the departments he is interested in. Find out about careers, coursework, co-op possibilities. Today, rather than just Drew and I and one or two families, there are 500 students and their families on campus.

We are greeted in the parking lot, on the steps of the building where orientation will take place, at the doors of the building by smiling admissions counselors, student tour guides, faculty. Orange and black balloons are everywhere. There is no waiting at the registration table. Plenty of tables with plenty of people to help. They give good instructions.

We step into the arena and discover a huge spread of breakfast foods and drinks and little tables with real cloth table cloths. The energy is high, the excitement heady and without anxiety. We are seated in the section where other students have the same interests as Drew. Down front, one of their faculty who designed a music improvisation software is playing trumpet and interacting with his program. He is excellent.

The huge screen projects all kinds of information including many things I did not know about RIT. Then the two top Admissions executive greet us, encouraging us, suggesting ways of researching college that will be helpful whether we will attend RIT or not. It is very well done and high tech. I can barely tear myself away. I have to leave Drew to his discovery day and get to work.

After work, I pick him up and have to ply him with questions to see what all he has done. He gets animated talking about the graphic imaging building. I think he is leaning more and more toward this college. They have given him a coupon so he can attend a summer workshop there and explore the major he is interested in. He will sleep in the dorms, work with the professors, hang with other people interested in his interests. A nice change from soccer camp.

The more I interact with this place, the more impressed I am with their engagement with the world, with people, with collaboration to address real world issues. I hope he does go here.

Lock Down

I didn't get the call until after the excitement ended. Maybe that's a good thing. Not that there was anything I could have done but pray.

I mean, what do you do when your Evening Supervisor calls you and leaves a message that the campus is on lock down because there is a domestic disturbance nearby. Someone with a gun. Police on the scene. Stay in whatever building you are in and don't risk going out, possibly getting caught in the cross fire if shots are exchanged.

Who would have thought that this sleepy little quiet peaceful campus, far from the dangers of downtown, would need to think about such an event? But there is no limitation on human angst, no end to the suffering of those around us. So the Evening Supervisor had to post students at the door and advise people to stay inside. Some listened, others chose to leave regardless of the warning. Can you imagine being so belligerent?

The Emergency Response Team will be investigating, following up to see how we did, whether we need to make any changes. It shakes you up a bit, reminds you that every moment you live is a gift from God. Don't waste them. And remember to thank God that this incident was resolved without anyone being hurt.

Birthday Blessings

Wow! You should see the top of my entertainment center! It is filled with cards of all flavors wishing me a blessed birthday. I am amazed at how many people sent me a card. It makes me all warm and glowey.

Not to mention the many electronic cards and texts I received, and the gifts from kids, friends and the church mice! I did not expect such an outpouring of love. It is a relief to reach another birthday. I wear birthdays with pride. They indicate that I beat the odds and am still kicking - how great is that!

Even Drew got into the act and baked cranberry orange muffins. After I got home from working the late shift at the library, I plopped down in a chair, tired. Suddenly the lights went out. "Hey - turn the lights back on," I started to say when he came waltzing in with a ton of candles crammed into a muffin. Kiel and Andrea joined in the song.

I couldn't help grinning from ear to ear. I had no idea they had been conniving and conspiring to pull off a little celebration. Sweet. I munch my muffin and enjoy my cards and thank my lucky stars. Altogether a great day.

Ladies Night Out

We missed our ladies night out last month. Too much sickness and crazy activity. So we scheduled for this week, but now one of us is dealing with the loss of a mother in law. I worry that this is too soon for her to be out chatting and moving on. She says she is OK though.

I pull into the driveway right behind my friend and together we head up the little stone sidewalk to where our hostess is holding open the door for us to enter her home. She has rearranged since last I was there, and I like the new setup. Her youngest son is now off to college, and with the passing of her husband's Mom, they are in the process of breaking down her household. A bittersweet task that brings more stuff into her house for sorting and managing.

We sit in the living room and unwind from work, chewing through some things that we are dealing with while the dinner rolls bake. The tantalizing aroma is most mouth watering. We move to the dining room where the table is set with the company-good china. I feel pampered. I seldom sit on the guest side of things!

Entertaining is an joyous activity I have long moved beyond. I have no time, space, or room to entertain. My home is for eating and sleeping of family for the most part. I gave up good china years ago which I thought just as well since I have no formal dining room - or any dining room for that matter.

Ah, those were the days though. As a young girl, I remember setting the table for company. First the tablecloth (I don't even own a table cloth anymore), then getting the good china from the cabinet, and the real silverware. How the room took on sparkle and shine! We knew something special was afoot and couldn't wait to gather with our guests for conversation and a delectable repast - something far batter than the usual hot dogs/hamburgs fare.

I dreamed of entertaining in my own home some day. Like most girls of my era, I began a hope chest, collecting items that would someday grace my own house. I spent hours looking at china patterns, deciding what my table ought to look like. Since I had done cleaning for a number of homes along the silk stocking avenues, I had seen many different patterns and combinations.

Then I discovered that the Main Street furniture store offered a set of Wedgewood Blue Willow china. I fell in love with the extraordinary china set decorated with quaint blue pictures. There were birds flying, boats sailing, willow trees gracefully bending, little houses that looked like Chinese pagodas, tons of intricate border work flowing with Fleur de lis and bricking and all kinds of shapes. I could well envision setting a company table with such wonderful elegant dishes, complete with the matching tablecloth and napkins (real cloth, of course). I decided to collect a complete set. So I began.

I babysat, scrubbed kitchens and bathrooms, vacuumed, washed windows, ran errands, ironed everything imaginable (yes, boxes shorts, handkerchiefs, shirts, pillow cases and sheets were all fair game) and any other task someone would hire a teenage girl to do. At fifty cents an hour, it took awhile to gather enough money for my first plate. I was so thrilled to walk into that store, head held high, clutching my money. I stood gazing at the model set, deciding how to proceed. First I would get a dozen dinner plates. Then I would work on the teacups and saucers, followed by the salad plates, then bowls. Two sizes. And of course, the serving dishes - platters, bowls, the whole works.

I was afraid to calculate what this set of dishes would cost me overall, especially purchasing it piece by piece from a furniture store, sans the benefit of any sales or promotions. But it was a start. Faithfully every week, I entered the store, found the woman who was helping me, and watched while she wrapped the precious plate in tissue paper. I would carry it home tenderly and wrap it in a towel, one waiting for me to embroider my married initial on it, and pack it lovingly in my hope chest, a huge trunk with a metal embossed covering that I spray painted silver (egad, it must have been unbelievably gaudy).

Over time, I did complete 12 place settings with all the various pieces, and was able to get a teapot and 2 serving bowls before I ran out of time and the store stopped carrying my pattern. I held onto that set forever, carefully tucked safely in my hope chest.

After I was married, it remained packed away because we were too poor to entertain for a long time. Then when the children came along, I was afraid to use it for fear it would get broken. All my dreams of being the perfect hostess with the gorgeous table of blue faded into the background of diapers and peanut butter sandwiches. I would never be that lady of leisure, that smiling hostess of the well appointed table.

One day, something inside me snapped. What was I waiting for? Who was more special to me than my own family? I got out my china, washed it thoroughly, and spread the most unusual table of blue for a meal of hot dogs. I giggled as I lit the candle in the middle of the table and called the boys to dinner.

They came bounding to the kitchen (still no dining room) and stopped short, their jaws dropped wide open. No one moved for the longest time. Then they took their places like little gentlemen. Had I known blue dishes created manners, I would have used the china years ago. It was, to say the least, an extraordinary meal.

After that, I discovered that I could pick up all kinds of pretty china at garage sales. I had a pink set, a plain set, a gold edged set, and a cranberry Wedgewood set. I swapped them out on a regular basis, no longer waiting for that special evening. I have even purchase a set or two of Pfaltzgraff dishes at the factory outlet store by Mom's in Lake George.

Now that I have moved so often, I have long since let go of my china sets, including my blue willow set that I had grown tired of. But seeing my friend's beautifully appointed table sparks my interest once again. Perhaps it is time to do a little garage saling and see whether I can find something I like. My plain glass and my blue dishes are fine, but they lack a certain refinement. I'll have to give that some thought.

Daffsplosion

I step from the front porch, Sugar tugging at the leash, anxious to dart around the corner and see if there are any of her dog friends out and about. As I scurry forward, I glance down, and there, nodding non chalantly in the the morning breeze are a dozen beautiful white daffodils with bright orange and yellow centers!

How gorgeous their welcome cheerfulness after such a long and cold winter. A whole cluster of spring is much more encouraging than just two little snowdrops sagging toward the dirt. These beauties lift their faces to the sun and stand tall and energetic, expectant, young, flexing their stems, eager for life.

I can almost picture the Easter bunny tucking a brightly colored egg beneath their crisp greenery. I have no time to linger. Sugar tugs impatiently. I round the corner and am amazed to find the whole east side of the building decorated with nodding daffodils of all sizes, interspersed with tulip plants pregnant with promise of riotous color soon to appear.

But Sugar commands me to move on already. I will return when she is less wound up to check out each little face and welcome them personally.

When Is a Cough Not a Cough?

For days I have been clearing my throat and coughing. It feels like there is something stuck in there that just won't clear. It has become an irritation. And a nuisance. I decide to keep my "just in case" appointment with the ear, nose and throat doctor. It was a follow up to my not being able to sing well, to the buzzing rattle of my vocal cords.

That has cleared up nicely. When I open my mouth to sing, clear sound comes out, no silence, no frogginess. Most of my range has returned. I thought about cancelling the appointment, but I also want him to look at the mouth sore, just to be sure.

He looks me over thoroughly, asks me some questions. Surprising that the symptoms he mentions fit my experience perfectly. He spends extra time looking at my mouth sore.

Turns out he agrees with the dentist about the mouth sore being gum disease resulting from the cancer treatment. In fact, he told me that some patients have to have all their teeth pulled because the risk of infection from just this scenario is too high to risk. He is happy to do a biopsy should the dental treatment not work, but he assures me that he is also very sure it is not cancer.

That leaves the other issue, which is also a result of the treatment and partially caused by the lack of saliva, but also from the ongoing chemo. I am having some reflux - not necessarily gastric acid - that has irritated my throat. So yes, there is some swelling that feels like there is something stuck in there.

No amount of clearing my throat or coughing will help, but he writes me a prescription and tells me more foods to avoid, and to not eat before going to bed and to sleep with my head elevated.

Controllable. In 4 to 6 weeks the symptoms should clear if I am diligent. Sigh. More things out of my diet, but at least this is not a big deal. I will pick up the scrip tomorrow. And see him again in a few weeks.

A Matter of Perspective

I pulled my winter coat about me against the chill of the wind and trudged from my car in the Library parking lot up the ramp towards the front door for my afternoon shift. Bounding around the corner of the building, a tall young man in shorts and a tee shirt headed for his car.

He looked at me. I looked at him.

My first thought was - its not summer yet. have you ever heard of a coat?

But the words out of his mouth were "Still trying to stay warm?"

I nodded as we passed each other. I grinned, realizing that he thought I was as crazy as I thought he was!

I know when you are younger you're more likely to be physically active and with the blood running fast you stay warm. So he is acting perfectly appropriately for his situation. As am I.

It's all in how you look at it.

Fog

Skies are gray, the air heavy as I drive to work. Traffic is unusually light. I zip along Buffalo Road, listening to a Bach cantata. Suddenly, the view is muffled with a white haze.

I drive into it like a fire truck into smoke. I can see almost no distance ahead, and I slow, wondering why the fog is heavy here. Ahead I spot the bright orange flashing turn signal of a car I cannot see, and I slow further.

The car turns, I advance, and as quickly as I was into the fog, I withdrew from it. Skies once again leaden and gray. This fog is nothing like Carl Sandberg's famous poem - perhaps I am the cat today!:

FOG

The fog comes

on little cat feet.

It sits looking

over harbor and city

on silent haunches

and then moves on.

Canker Sore

Question: When is a canker sore not a canker sore?

Answer: When it is chemo/radiation induced gum disease.

I thought it peculiar that this canker sore just didn't seem to heal and go away. But it didn't really hurt, so I ignored it. Then I took a look at it in the mirror after brushing my teeth, and my stomach flipped. I can see the root of my tooth exposed. Yuck. And scary.

My first thought, of course, was fear that I have developed mouth cancer. I panic. The clinic where I have been going for my dental needs will not be equipped to handle that kind of problem. Where to go? Who has that kind of expertise and is taking new patients, especially ones with problems of this magnitude? I pray about it. I need guidance.

I am praying about it on the way to work, and notice for the first time that there is a dentist's office in a blue house just around the corner from my apartment. It looks kind of ritzy. But something inside (can it be the Holy Spirit?) urges me to stop and ask.

Inside, the building is inviting, cozy, well appointed. I approach the receptionist and quietly explain my situation, my angst. She hears my desperation, and sets me up for a consultation that afternoon. I find myself seated in an examination room, butterflies swirling in my stomach, my head screaming panic. I fight the thoughts. No crossing bridges until we come to them.

He is a kind and thoughtful person, taking the time to hear my story, comment on what I have undergone. He takes digital pictures of my mouth sore to send to an oncologist dental expert in San Diego. But he does not keep me dangling. Though he says that of course they will not be able to say for certain unless a biopsy is done, he is 99.99% sure this is not cancer. Rather it is a common side effect of the treatment I have had.

Seems that the bone shrinks, creating gaps between tooth and gum, and no matter how hard I brush, stuff gets stuck in there, and because of the dry mouth caused by the Bexxar, I have little of the natural bacteria fighting stuff that normal saliva provides, so infections develop - like the one I have - and voila! Gum disease.

But there is treatment. He sets me up for the full regimen. A thorough cleaning including cleaning the tooth roots (sounds painful), then fitted for special night time tooth guards that are coated with the appropriate anti bacterial substances to do the work that my saliva would have done. And of course, if that doesn't work, there are other options.

Whew! While I am not thrilled to have gum disease, I am relieved - SO RELIEVED - that this is not the start of another outbreak of cancer. Don't even think about what that would have meant. OK. I can resume breathing.

Field Trips

Can it be possible the Drew is dragging me on college admissions trips? Yes! Already! My baby is definitely moving down the "off-to-college" road - and happy about it to boot. Yesterday we visited RIT - Rochester Institute of Technology, right nearby. This school offers a tuition exchange with Roberts, but offers a number of programs that interest Drew. We were fortunate to speak with a knowlegeable admissions counselor who asked a number of questions, and based on Drew's answers, was able to suggest several programs that would fit his interests.

I saw the lights come on in his eyes over topics that make my eyes glaze over. As we walked through the various buildings, he drooled over labs and gear and potentials that I could only guess at. Digital cinema? 3D Graphics? All foreign to me but of deep interest to this person whom I once knew so much about and who now seems to have wandered into fields far from anything I know.

I am impressed that RIT seems to have such a strong sense of the student pulse. They work very hard to see that a student's needs are all met so that s/he can focus on their studies. Laundry, cable, internet, phone - all included in the price of the room. Not to mention the personal trainers and full health club facilities, pool, cardio, weight, racket ball, basketball, track etal available 24/7. Transportation circles every 5 minutes, plus numerous buses to the mall and downtown. A 12 to 1 student teacher ratio. Sweet.

And tons of collaboration between disciplines all working to find solutions to the world's needs. Very hands on. Lots of companies pounding down the doors to hire grads. Even before they grad.

Today we drove 2 hours to Cornell University to look at their School of Architecture. Who knew Drew had such varied interests. We took an almost 2 hour walking tour on their very hilly older campus. A beautiful campus overlooking a gorgeous area of lake and hill.

While the buildings are mostly older, the scope is grander, more upscale. You can tell there is old money here, not so much corporate new mint like RIT. Not so progressive, yet not behind the times either. Much potential, overseas study, and a touch of elegance. They are not so hard ball as many Ivies, but it does take moolah to be there.

Of course, since I make far below their standard, if Drew actually got in, he would pretty much get a free ride for their $42K annual tuition. He can see himself fitting into either setting. But his dream place is MIT. We have to schedule a time to go when I have the cash to cover the trip. He is pretty sure he won't get in there, but is willing to put his hat in the ring on the off chance that a miracle might happen.

Really, it will be a struggle for him to get into any of these places. I am praying that somehow he manages it. I would love to see him do study what interests him rather than getting stuck somewhere by default. At least he is looking now while he is a junior. It is a wake up call.

If he intends to actually get accepted, he has a lot of work ahead of him. No more resting on laurels and squeaking through with the bare essentials. Too bad he didn't catch this bug a few years ago!

2 Snow Drops

Just outside the front door are two slim green stalks that droop in the chill of morning. For the last few days they have had small white blobs at the tips of their green stalks. Today, those white tips blossomed! Now, dangling from the tiny green stems are two star shaped white flowers, faces tilted shyly towards the ground, as if they are timid Geisha girls smiling into the fans of their feathery green stems.

I want to stop and admire them, but between Sugar's impatience and the biting cold wind, I resist the tempatation. They are the first signs of spring to fully open, to unreservedly admit that spring is here.

The mere sight of such encouragement makes my heart soar. Soon it will be warm. Soon it will be green. Soon the birds that are singing will not sound jarring against the gray skies and naked branches.

Just 2 little blossoms. And a world of hope.

Farewell to Priscilla

I never met her, my friend's mother-in-law. I had heard about her, especially recently as she moved into a nursing facility and was learning to adjust to the myriad changes when one leaves the home of many years for a newly built single suite in a larger facility.

She was doing well, really. Though she took little interest in living a full life and taking care of all the details (even simple things like lunch and bathing), she liked her new digs and found herself at ease. What's not to like in a beautiful manor like St John's surrounded by other folk and given lots of independence?

Then one morning she couldn't move her legs. Uh-oh. A trip to the ER and somehow along the way, given her osteoporosis, a broken vertebrae. And pain. Overwhelming pain. Uncontrollable pain consuming her strength, depleting her will. She did not fight. Gently, having seen her children, she left this world for the next.

The service was simple and significant. As I heard the story of her life, I wished I had gotten to know her and to have had the honor of spending time with her. What a delightful person she must have been, and how obvious that her joie de vivre touched many lives. She traveled, took an interest in people - all people who came across her path - and developed hobbies and interests that were fascinating.

Not to mention raising three children as a single parent while working. And a degree from Cornell to boot. I am impressed and inspired by her life's story, by her ability to connect, to mentor, to encourage the best in others. By how much her daughter-in-law loved her and will miss her.

I decide to renew my efforts to reach out to my own daughters-in-law, to my grandchildren, to those around me. Surely I need to pull my head from the sand and enjoy people, celebrate them, see the skills they have, encourage them.

Thanks, Priscilla. Thank you for being you, the wonderful you that God created you to be, even to the end. Thank you for setting a stellar example of how to love despite the broken places of life. Thank you for loving and connecting with my friend and being such a large part of her world for so many years.

And for encouraging those of us who struggle against enormous odds to not just persevere, but embrace life, even those of us who did not know you directly.

After a Rosetti Poem

Recently I decided to read Christian Rosetti's poetry again. I have never read her comprehensively, and was curious if the few poems I have been exposed to are representative or unique. While on the whole I find her writing less than I had hoped, there are poems here and there that I discovered which are wonderfully sculpted. The title of one of her poems stuck with me, and here is my own feeble attempt to work it out. Somewhere or other there surely must be A wonderful companion and lover for me. A perfect match, the yin to my yang, Completing my emptiness, filling my cup, Always supportive, lifting me up. How have we missed each other? I wonder. Where have you been? Was it my blunder That kept us apart? Did I miss our meeting? Can I go back and try again? Have another chance? Make amends? Ah, but there's no help for it now. Having already put hand to plow. What's done is over. You can't go back. From here on out, you can only move on And hope that your last chance is not really gone.

The Perfect Pair

Two geese glide effortlessly over the open field on Elm Grove Road. They wheel and turn in tandem, every move exactly identical betwixt them. How do they know when to turn, where to slightly lift the edge of the wing?

Are they mind readers? Do they give off little signals that I am unaware of? Have they flown together for so long that they have memorized this delicate dance? It is seamless and beautiful.

I pull into a parking lot to watch. For long minutes their silent aerial ballet continues, no other bird in sight. Their sleek dark form swims through the bright blue sky with significance and strong intention.

Perhaps this is a mating ritual, or a nesting preparatory activity. Perhaps they are just reveling in God's good earth, in the coming of spring, in the potential of what is soon to be. My spirit soars with them, dancing across the sky in joyful abandon, painting every inch of canvas with delight.

Unlike them, I am not one of two. I am one of many many of God's children who rejoice in His creation, who take a moment to revel in what God has provided and to enjoy to the max the blessings we are showered with. Join the dance, won't you?

Lenten Gleanings 2011: Compline or the Great Silence

Come Sweet Rest

Night.

I do not fight it.

What good to light a thousand candles

To shiver against the inevitable, the necessary.

Time has come.

Be sensible.

Go to your rest.

Now I lay me down to sleep,

Down to intimacy with You.

Tucked secure beneath Your sheltering wings

Rocked gently by angels, serenaded by Spirit.

Ferry me safe through my journey of darkness.

Refresh. Renew. Recreate.

Birth me only in Your presence,

Safe in the hollow of Your hands.