Frayed Strings

No one loves their children more than I do. My youngest is thirteen now, which only goes to prove that all the minutes I spent wishing he could be my baby forever were for naught. But I knew that…

To my credit, I’ve turned those mournful minutes into reasons to be grateful. When he recounts an exchange with another student in school, I pay attention. The day will come when sharing won’t be so easy. When he calls “Mom”, as I walk past his darkened room, I stop and listen before reminding him, again, to go to sleep. When he allows me to take his hand as we walk, I feel it as I hold it. And, when he wraps his arms around my waist, and rests his head against my chest I thank God for the blessing. Every little boy hug, every little boy kiss, could be the last.

He turned thirteen last week, three days before school let out for summer.

“Do you want a party? You could invite your friends from school, the guys from your baseball team, and some of your football friends. We could go to the park. You guys could play baseball, and we could cook-out.”

Shane sat silent, looking through the window to the backyard. Movement in his eyes told me he was considering the offer. He’d attended several birthday parties this year.

Valerie invited him to his first boy/girl, night-time party. There was dancing, which led to sweating, which provoked Shane to stealthily comb the health and beauty aids aisle during our next visit to the grocery store.

Chelsea’s mother went one better and rented a pool-side clubhouse. As we pulled up, the outer walls of the building seemed to vibrate in time with the disco ball sparkling through an upper-floor window. Expecting hesitation from Shane, I turned in my seat to offer words of encouragement from someone who has personally experienced countless disco balls. The backseat was empty, the car door slammed, and by the time I turned around Shane had mounted the walk towards the door without so much as a wave good-bye.

A pattern began to develop, and I saw my mistake.

“Oh…I just realized all the parties you’ve gone to this year were given by girls. Boys your age don’t have birthday parties, do they?”

Relief colored his face.

“Not really…”, he smiled, lowering his head.

“Ok! So what do you want to do? We could go out to dinner. Your choice! Or we could go to the movies. You could take a friend….You tell me. What do you want to do?”

“I want to spend the weekend with Josh.”

Josh is his oldest brother. He married just before Shane’s birthday. He and his wife live in a rural area seventy-five miles away.

Shane left on Friday.

Friday night I had dinner out, and for the first time in a long time, no one offered me a children’s menu. My companion and I enjoyed uninterrupted adult conversation. And when we left, there were no tell-tale crumbs beneath our table.

Saturday I slept in, and woke to a quiet house. I never realized how much noise is generated by the simple act of breathing until mine was the only breath drawn. I took my coffee to the patio and never felt compelled to grab at the table beside my chair in hopes of steadying it. Birdsong fell on my ears without accompaniment. No one asked me any questions.

I spent the rest of the day doing as I pleased. I shopped without uttering the word “no”. I turned my Ipod up as I gardened, never giving a thought to what might be going on inside the house. I gutted the playroom, and in so doing generated quite a pile for the next charity pick-up. He hasn’t touched those toys in years…

I organized his dresser, and added several threadbare t-shirts to the aforementioned pile. The one with the hole in the collar has bothered me for months.

I baked cookies for the neighbors and no one whined, “You always make the good stuff for other people!” I watched tennis on TV without giving advance warning of an imminent takeover of the den. Music wafted from speakers mounted beneath the eaves as we grilled on the patio and no one asked me sardonically, “Why don’t you like rock music anymore?”

As I turned out the lights above the mantle and closed the sunroom door against the night I thought, “So this is what it will be like when he is gone. I can do this…”

The phone rang and I jumped to answer it.

“Hello?!”, I never gave a thought to sounding casual.

“Hey, Mom.”

Those two words began tales of Clydesdale horses, front flips from diving boards, and a dog Shane loved enough to bring home.

“I’m glad you’re having a good time.”

“Ok, Mom. Gotta go.” Male voices parried in the background. I understood the distraction.

“Ok…” Silence in the line told me he had hung up already.

For the first time in thirteen years Shane hung up without saying “I love you.”

But he does…

Political Shoes

My parents were political people. My mother worshipped the ground Hubert Humphrey walked on, and felt deep affection for the Johnsons, Lyndon and Ladybird. My father held Richard Nixon in high esteem, which I found incredible for many years, until maturity provided me the eyes to see the man behind the mistakes. Even before I was old enough to cast my own, I understood that my parents’ politics effectively left our family without a vote, as the two usually cancelled each other’s out.

There was one exception. The venerable Senator Sam Nunn held sway with both my parents to the extent that, even today, I tend to hold him in high esteem despite knowing little of his career besides his stint as Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee. Everyone in Georgia loves Sam.

I was a senior in high school, surrounded by friends in a noisy lunchroom, when a group of middle-aged men and women dressed in sensible suits invaded our space. One of them tapped the top of a live microphone several times before explaining they had come to register eighteen-year-olds to vote. The room filled with the sound of chair legs scraping against industrial tile, as a line formed in front of two tables usually reserved for cheerleaders hawking spirit ribbons. A smiling polyester-encased woman handed me a cardboard square on which she’d scrawled my precinct number before I signed my name. I felt so…American.

By the time I registered, Jimmy Carter was already president and his legacy already apparent. He didn’t have “the stuff”. He was too nice, too honest, too moral, to effectively lead the free world. I actually felt sorry for him.

1980 presented me with my first opportunity to cast a ballot and make a choice; Jimmy Carter or Ronald Reagan. And, that really wasn’t a choice at all, was it? Jimmy hadn’t the cojones, and his opponent was little more that a “B” actor with the gift of gab and the physique to fill out a suit. And, hair. No one can say Ronald Reagan didn’t have good hair.

My father oozed Reagan. Not a day passed in which he didn’t sing the praises of “The Gipper”. His orations had the affect of scrunching my mother’s facial features into a mask of complete disgust. She remained loyal to our native son as did I, despite knowing ours was a lost cause. What followed was a number of dispiriting years featuring Reaganomics, walls torn down, and “a thousand points of light”. For me, the high point of this time period was the American invasion of Grenada. There was such power in that. Imagine the audacity of a nation proclaiming “I’m coming for you!”, and enjoying success, despite taking days to actually arrive! That was ballsy! That was American!

Though it took me years to get to this point, I’ll admit now that my passion for Bill Clinton had little to do with politics. He came to Atlanta for a book signing several years ago, and I chose not to attend out of fear of my own inappropriate behavior. Fainting in public is so unattractive. The man was a rock star. I was only too happy to cast a vote for him, and I did so twice, making November 1996 the last time I went to the polls confident in my choice for president.

I won’t belabor the Bush years. Anyone who reads me knows that it was during this time that I effectively closed my eyes and thought of England. My decision to shut down came after hours of arguing with my Republican cohorts, secure in the knowledge that I had just to find the right words, the correct phrasing, the appropriate example, and he or she would see reason. It never happened, and the realization that it never would provided me with as much relief as it did frustration. I stopped participating in political discussions. I resisted the bait, no matter how tempting, when a co-worker threw an inaccurate statistic, or out-of-context quote in my direction. I replaced radio news programs with books-on-tape and newspapers with novels. In the end, I came out relaxed and well-read. How’s that for making lemonade?

Last week I was ambushed. Having hurried through my salad, I headed outside with my book under my arm. I had just twenty pages left to read of “The Help”, and as reticent as I was to let the characters go, I was determined to finish. The sun was warm, and I was sure I could squeeze in a nap. As I approached the door, a coworker held it open for me. I thanked him with a smile and turned towards the lawn.

“Well, I think it’s becoming pretty clear to everyone that Obama isn’t interested in what the people want.”

His opening shot caught me right between the shoulder blades, just as my foot met the grass.

In retrospect, it’s surprising how easily I fell back into old habits. A retort flew from my lips, complete with statistics, as though I’d studied for the debate. I turned to face my aggressor, the book now dangling off of one arm. Mentally, I resigned myself to the fact that I’d probably have to finish it later that night. In an effort to achieve at least one of my goals, I looked to the sky to determine the position of the sun, and adjusted myself in such a way that I might soak up as much vitamin D as possible.

Even as we argued point after point, my inner dialogue continued. Silently, I congratulated myself for the quietly measured tones with which I spoke. I’ve been known to rant. Sometimes, I pace. Once I threw a super-sized iced tea to the floor with such force as to splash a person sitting twenty feet away. Some might say that was my intention…

Forty minutes virtually flew by in a flurry of controlled thrusts and parries with an occasional sardonic laugh thrown in for good measure. The time I was wasting began to weigh on me, and I took a departing step.

“What if…”, my opponent wasn’t done. I turned to allow him to finish.

“What if before a person could register to vote he or she had to…”

“I don’t have a problem with that.”, I answered before he could finish.

“With what?”, his eyes narrowed.

“I don’t have a problem with requiring a year’s service. That’s what you were going to say, right? I don’t have a problem with it. I think everyone should serve in some capacity.”

“Ok, but you’re assuming they would serve in something like the Peace Corps, right? And, that’s all well and good. But, suppose they TOLD you it was the Peace Corps, but it was really something else.”

I couldn’t imagine where he was going.

“You know Hitler did the same thing. He required kids to join a group so they could be indoctrinated as Nazis…”

“Wait a minute!” I stopped him. “Wait a minute! Don’t tell me you believe Obama is planning to force people to join groups in order to make Nazis of them. Tell me you don’t believe that!”

His face reddened slightly as his eyebrows rose with his hands, palm up. I stood in silent regard. It was the Hitler reference that got me.

“You know, I’ve been known to use Hitler myself. I used him several times in reference to our last president, and each time I was shushed as though I’d uttered an epithet. I get it. I think your argument completely irrational, and it saddens me to know that a reasonably intelligent person could believe something so ridiculous. At the same time, I get it. I believed the Bush administration capable of anything and none of it good.”

I turned towards the door.

“In the end, it really all comes down to which shoes you are wearing, doesn’t it?” I turned to see he had pocketed his hands. “It’s really all about the shoes.”

He followed me inside without a word.

We Are Not A-Mused

I’ve literally spent hours trying. How many hours, I don’t want to know.

This morning I’m sure I’ve sat here for an hour and a half, hoping for the inspiration to write. I started a couple of things. I opened something I started several days ago, but found I had nothing to add.

I’m not upset about it, although I do feel a tiny bit of concern that I’m not upset. That counts, right?

It wasn’t so long ago that I thought of writing as an obligation. Not a chore, mind you, but an obligation, almost like homework or piano practice. And, I think that feeling of responsibility led to improvements. I feel I’ve found my voice.

Unfortunately, that voice just doesn’t have a lot to say…

Oh, I could share my joy in chicken farming. My four birds are just spectacular. I’m amazed at how much I enjoy caring for them. Given the length of my attention span, I should have lost interest by now, as the electric keyboard in the top of the playroom closet, and the paints and easels stored in the garage will attest. But I haven’t. I love visiting them, feeding them scraps of tasty left-over morsels, and collecting my bounty. I get eggs everyday. I’ve even started giving them away, which has led me to dream…

Suppose instead of giving them away, I sold the flowers and vegetables from my gardens and the eggs from my hens. The idea was originally Shane’s, upon first hearing of my plan to raise chickens. Excitement spewed from the upper register of his little-boy voice as he talked of “having our own business”.

I can conjure a roadside stand; a wooden one, very rustic, with hand-painted lettering. I’d hang flowers in aluminum buckets on either side. There’d be towers of large, red tomatoes, bowls of beans, handfuls of herbs, and cartons of softly-shaded green, pink, and brown eggs. I don’t know…maybe.

I could share the details of the wedding reception I’m holding for my son. But, let’s face it, unless you’re related to the participants or have mistaken this for one of the hundreds of wedding blogs I’ve skimmed over the last several weeks, you probably wouldn’t be interested.

My grandson came to visit. He stayed a week, and stole my heart all over again. He’s coming back for the reception. I can’t wait. And while that’s nice to know, it’s not particularly interesting.

I know what the problem is. Over the course of the last couple of weeks, it’s become blatantly apparent. I’m afraid I’ve succumbed to the same malady that killed Paula Cole’s singing career. Paula sang at full volume, and I sang along, “Where have all the cowboys gone?…ah woooo”. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Yeah! I remember that song! Whatever happened to that girl?”

I’ll tell you what happened to that girl. That girl got happy. Ok, she also “found” God. But, mostly, she just got happy. Finding God is not such an accomplishment. After all, God’s usually not the one who’s lost. Getting happy, is a whole other thing, especially for women like Paula and me.

Getting happy takes you outside yourself. Getting happy demands participation and encourages activity. Getting happy turns the dimmer switch up a notch or two, brightening even the dark recesses where muses tend to nest.

My desk sits opposite a bank of windows that look out on my front yard. The view is never more beautiful than it is this time of year. The greens are greener. The trees are taller, flowers bloom, bushes burgeon, and wild things scamper from one growing thing to another.

It is through these windows that I sometimes see what’s on my mind. Once, when it snowed, I found a poem. The cherry tree on the corner of my lot sparked a short story. Sometimes I see through the scenery and find feelings.

Lately, as I watch birdhouses for signs of inhabitants, I notice the way sunlight hits the tops of tree leaves, artfully spreading shadow beneath. For now, there is no angst hiding in those shadows. For now, the road in front of my house isn’t a way to get away, but rather the way I came in. And, I’m happy to stay.

It’s good to be home.

On My Own

Her hair was young.

Her face was not.

Her eyes, behind glasses, were quick.

Her hips were wide.

Her smile was not.

Her hand, on your collar, familiar.

I watch as you see her;

the tousled hair, and past the glass, the eyes,

which though focused on mine, fill yours with a light I barely remember.

And I know what I might never have guessed…

on my own.

Ugly Americans

By now, everyone must have heard, or heard of, Pat Robertson’s ignorant appraisal of the horror wrought upon the tiny island of Haiti by a massive earthquake. As I am neither a CBN viewer nor a fan of television news, word came to me second-hand. I wasn’t surprised to hear that Pat Robertson had said something I might find distasteful. I almost always disagree with Mr. Robertson’s point of view. But, upon witnessing the magnitude of my friend’s disgust, I turned to my go-to source for all things surreal and/or distasteful. I went to youtube.

As Mr. Robertson haltingly explained the way in which we might perceive the tragedy as a blessing, I understood why people were offended, but I felt something else. I felt I was listening to a doddering old man. Watching him reminded me of visiting my ex-husband’s elderly uncle, who had apparently left something more than shoe leather on the beaches at Normandy. I was warned, ahead of time, that he “wasn’t quite right”, which is a southern phrase often substituted for the colloquialism “touched”, so it didn’t surprise me when he described people by race rather than name or relationship. He was old, he was southern, and he was touched. I think the same can be said of Mr. Robertson.

What did surprise me was the response of Pat Robertson’s co-host in the second segment of the video, in which he told the tale of the Haitians’ pact with the devil. The woman standing beside him appeared neither old, southern, or touched, and yet she nodded her complicity as Mr. Robertson told his sordid tale. Occasionally she murmured “yes” or “uh-huh”, as though sitting in a pew on a Sunday morning.

What went through her mind? Did his words shock her? Did she struggle in her response? As he stumbled through his mythology lesson, did she worry about her job?
I can’t begin to answer. I only know that she, and her response, offended me much more than Mr. Robertson’s unfortunate fairy-tales. He’s old, he’s southern, and he’s touched. Just as though he were an elderly uncle, she should have nodded her head, patted his hand, and diverted his attention by asking him about his collection of World War II airplane models.

More offensive to me than Story Time at the 700 Club was an email I received later that day. I’ve known the sender since we were in elementary school. I know her to be good, kind, intelligent, and giving.

She began her note by explaining her relationship to the subject of an article she had attached. Her friend had begun the process of adopting a young Haitian boy. She was weeks away from bringing him home when the earthquake struck, and though she had received the news that he was alive and well, she was anxious to bring her son out of the horrific aftermath. My friend ended with these words:

“Please take the time to write or call your senator or congressman to request help in getting all the children who are in the process of being adopted from Haiti out of the country.”

I actually held my breath as I reread the sentence.

I have to believe that love for her friend blinded her to the selfishness of her request. I have to believe that. She’s my friend. She can’t have meant that children who have piqued the interest of American benefactors are more valuable than the hundreds of others who haven’t the same fortune…could she?

As so often is the case, human experience sparks a literary memory. My mother didn’t allow the use of Cliff Notes. I didn’t really mind until I noticed all the cool kids, even the really smart ones, brazenly carried Cliff Notes into literature class.

Today I am grateful. Today I can recall the look on Hester Prine’s face as she turned one shoulder inward in an effort to hide the scarlet letter. I remember the horror suggested by Dorian Gray’s ruined visage, and Caesar’s pain upon learning his most trusted friend had betrayed him. And I remember, vividly and with great sadness, “The Ugly American”.

The reminders are everywhere…

Vic and Me

Melissa Selby burst into my life in a flurry of orange polyester and purple cowboy boots. Within months, my booted toe kept time beside hers as we shared a raised platform in the hospital cafeteria. She strummed and I harmonized through “Blue Christmas”. The talent show had no winners. It wasn’t a competition. I already had my prize…

Over the next several months, Melissa insisted I keep singing, and soon there was a separate space in my closet for “stage clothes”. I favored blacks and brocades and even bought a new pair of boots.

Saturday afternoons were reserved for “practice”; a completely unorganized gathering of uninvited and enthusiastically welcomed musicians who appeared to happen by on their way to somewhere else. I preferred to arrive early, just as the morning sun began to glint off the fronts of a collection of guitars occupying one wall of Melissa’s tiny living room. She tuned as I curled up in the corner of a well-worn sofa on the opposite wall. I often sat there for hours as musicians came and went; sometimes stopping to play for a while on their way to the kitchen, or just long enough to comment on a particularly well-crafted chord. Melissa handled her instruments familiarly, knowing what to expect from each one of them. Her friends, though, showed her guitars reverence, tentatively touching as though asking permission of the strings before strumming.

Often, Saturday afternoon practice bled into Saturday night, and the ever-ready pile of logs in Melissa’s backyard. The flow of people in and through the house grew as I traded the couch for an out-of-the-way spot close to the fire. I talked with people whose names I never knew, accepted bottles of beer from faceless hands, and listened. Impromptu notes followed wisps of smoke to tops of trees.

I felt him before I saw him. More accurately, I felt the energy evoked by his presence before I saw his frayed, knitted, skull cap or the bend of his back against the vinyl of his wheelchair. A dark figure steered the vagabond into our circle before handing down his guitar. Forever bent fingers found their place among the strings, punctuating his speech as he greeted those around him while laughing with those who called on him to share a story. I found myself wishing someone would say his name…

A disembodied voice sang a song he knew and he played along. His voice rose, a distinctive whine through a crooked smile of camaraderie, washed down with a beer provided by the figure behind his chair. From the moment he arrived he became the focal point of our gathering. I experienced this phenomenon every time I was in the presence of Vic Chesnutt.

Before Melissa left us for the wilds of Colorado, she held one final show at The Shoebox, a tiny club with an unmarked entrance on a downtown Athens side street. I can’t remember which songs I sang, but I remember being grateful for the temporary blindness afforded by the stage lights and wondering if my jacket fit too tight. All of Melissa’s friends joined us that night, but none on them evoked the hush that amplified the squeaking wheels of Vic’s wheelchair as a burly man in a black t-shirt placed him stage-left. It seemed he never changed his clothes, though I’m sure he did. The knit cap was still in place along with the tattered corduroy coat he wore to bonfires. The next time I saw him was at the movies…

While watching his memorable cameo performance in the movie “Slingblade”, I nudged my companion. “I know him! That’s Vic Chesnutt! I shared a stage with him!”

Terri Gross interviewed Vic on NPR’s Fresh Air last month. A friend alerted me, and I listened on my way into work. The voice was the same. Irony still echoed in his laughter. He spoke with characteristic frankness of what was for him a daily struggle to survive life, and his failed attempts at giving up. He concurred with Terri’s description of his latest CD as an admission that there was still joy to be had in living, despite the threat of lawsuits due to unpaid medical bills. Paraplegia at age eighteen left Vic uninsurable, and his kidneys were failing…

Now he is dead. Vic Chesnutt was a sweet soul who, though dealt a bum hand, played it until he couldn’t anymore. I am better for having experienced him. Sleep well, Vic…

“someone should call his family a sister or a brother
they’ll come to take him back home on a bus
and he’ll always be a problem for his poor mother
and he’ll always be another one of us”

from Snowblind by Vic Chesnutt

By Hook or by Cook

Long before the advent of “The Food Network”, foodies were relegated to grainy public broadcasting channels to get their gourmet fix. My mother watched Natalie Dupree, Justin Wilson, and of course, Julia Child. I watched, too. Well, because it was all that was on. There was only one television in the house. Julia became a sort of lead-in to “American Bandstand”.

As far as I can tell, my mother never actually took anything away from her hours of observation. She never grew her fingernails outrageously long like Natalie Dupree or surreptitiously doused our dinner with several extra shots of hot sauce like Justin Wilson…I gar-on-teeeee! And, the only sauces she served were made from packets she purchased at the grocery store. Despite Julia’s efforts to the contrary, my mother retained the title “Queen of Convenience”.

Given this background, I was delighted to see the first trailers for “Julie & Julia”, and couldn’t wait to see the movie. Unfortunately, my go-to companion for chick-flicks went without me, so wait I did. Until yesterday…

We made a deal, my son and me. I would watch “Up” with him if he would watch “Julie & Julia” with me. We each snuggled under a blanket in our favorite chair and settled in for an afternoon of movies. “Up” was delightful. We both enjoyed it very much. And after a short break during which we broke out a tin of Christmas cookies, we re-tucked our blankets for “Julie & Julia”.

No one ever told me this was a movie about a girl with a blog. No one. I find this incredible since everyone knows I am a girl with a blog. It seems at some point it might have come up in a discussion of the film. But, it didn’t. We even blog on the same site, Julie and I, and still no one made the connection. This irony occupied several frames of film. I’m sure I missed something…

As Julie crafted her first post, I found myself silently critiquing the writing. It was far too familiar, folksy, and awkwardly constructed. Within minutes she had sixty-five hits on a single post! I don’t have a meter on my blog. The idea seems somewhat narcissistic and desperate; as though the purpose of writing is to generate hits. But, I feel certain that I’ve never enjoyed that kind of traffic. And, to date, I’ve never made the Top 10 on Salon.com.

If you’ve seen the film, then you know that Julie’s blog goes on to open other doors, resulting in a book/film deal. And, all the while, I’m doing the math. As disappointing as it is to admit, envy stymied my enjoyment of the film.

I could do a food blog. I’ve considered it several times. I love food, and I’m a good cook. According to the film, matching these talents with my writing skills should produce a one-way ticket to fame.

But there are so many food blogs, and just one Julie Powell. Albeit unwittingly, what Julie had was a hook. Naturally this got me to thinking…

A friend and fellow blogger admonishes “Be a storyteller, not a storyseller”. I hope to find a way to do both.

Godsmack

When I was young, my mother deposited my sisters and me on the sidewalk in front of the Methodist Church every Sunday morning. It only made sense to go inside. Especially in winter, since Sunday was the one day a week we were forced to wear dresses. Vicious winter winds whipped the hems of our skirts, pushing us towards the double doors leading to the sanctuary.

Before long, it became achingly apparent that those double doors actually led to a sort of sanctified catwalk and, as soon as the Richway opened on the opposite corner, my entry into the sanctuary was little more than a detour.

As a teenager, summer Sundays found me in a tiny, white, clapboard church, chiefly populated by elderly Baptists. Attendance was requisite to spending the weekend at Mrs. Wise’s magical, heart-of-pine farmhouse. I liken the experience to being a visitor in a strange country. Few of their traditions were familiar to me. But, we were allowed to wear pants, and the friendly parishioners seemed uninterested in where you had bought them or how much they cost. Everyone appeared truly happy to be there, and even happier to see a new, young face.

I toyed with the idea of converting, until I learned that Southern Baptists disallow a plethora of enjoyable activities; among them, dancing. I am not a frequent dancer, and when I do dance, I don’t do it particularly well. But, I value the freedom to do so when the spirit moves me…

As a mother, I returned to the Methodist church. And, not just to make a deposit. I actually attended along with my children. By this time, a few avant-garde women were wearing pants, but I stuck to my skirts. As a stay-at-home Mom, I embraced any opportunity to wear make-up and pantyhose.

We attended for several years. My children joined youth groups and were baptized on video. Several years ago, while cleaning the attic, I found the VHS tape in a box filled with books. I gave it to my daughter who watches it with her brothers, on occasion. It reminds them of a pleasant time.

While my children were being sprinkled, however, florid men in Sunday suits were arguing the benefit/cost ratio of a lottery in Georgia. The argument spilled over into the church. Political fire-storm soon superseded religious education, and it became apparent that, while this congregation didn’t stand in judgment of one’s fashion sense, it made no bones about dictating a political stance.

I didn’t attend church in search of a political science lesson. I attended church in search of religious education, for me and for my children. As the level of negativity within the congregation grew, I once again beat a retreat, with one yearly exception.

Every Christmas Eve, we happily interrupted the preparations and festivities for an opportunity to touch God. Inside the sanctuary, the lighting was ambient, the music inspired, and the presence of God more tangible than at any other time in my experience. I always left the church better than when I went in, grateful for the peace and hope He had placed within my heart.

Of course, I see God everyday. What more perfect evidence is there of God’s presence than a bird? These marvelous creatures, who carry everything necessary for life in a tiny feathered bundle that defies gravity, effortlessly. What better proof could there be of the Divine?

And I feel Him working in my life, especially when I have dropped the ball. He usually lets me have my head long enough to realize I’ve lost sight of the finish line, before pulling back on the reins hard enough to unseat me. And, often, it’s not until I’ve regained my composure enough to brush myself off that I realize I’ve just enjoyed a Holy Smack-Down. This realization usually prompts the first smile I’ve allowed myself for days.

You have to smile. It’s just like being a kid; a kid who does something she knows she shouldn’t. And Dad comes in with that look on his face that tells you he knows. He knows and he isn’t happy about it. The only relief for the anxiety inspired by that face is retribution. And, you secretly smile. After Dad leaves the room, you smile. And, for a while you behave, content in the knowledge that when you don’t, when humanity rears its ugly head again, He’ll be there to jerk the reins.

Goodbye

I won’t say “Goodbye”.

You can’t make me.

The word is too strong,

it’s meaning too clear,

the emptiness implicit in it’s utterance too near.

I won’t say “Goodbye”.

I don’t want to.

I’ve done this before.

I know that it feels

like a door has been slammed on the wake of my heels.

I won’t say “Goodbye”.

But, you can.

I’ll hear what you say

as I walk away,

and you’ll hear my silence as a promise to stay.

Faith

I am struck by the bravery of birds.

A black crow caws from the topmost spire of a supple pine; the branch we might trim to allow placement of a star. Storm winds challenge the tree, and the bird sways while surveying his domain, never considering the precariousness of his perch.

Home is a pinestraw bowl nestled artfully in the arms of another tree, decorated by bits of string, tiny shreds of paper, and cotton batting remnants of a discarded dog toy. Here a mother-to-be sits in anticipation of her progeny, never allowing rain or wind or hunger to unseat her. She has a destiny to fulfill.

And they fly.

They spread their wings on capricious currents, and they do so without benefit of GPS, maps, or weather reports. They know where they are going and trust that they will get there;
never questioning,
never second-guessing,
gliding and swooping in faith.