Dipping the Toe

I woke up to thunder and pattering rain on my window. It was Saturday and I had a checklist that I could accomplish in my jammies and most definitely after my coffee. I will be staying this week at my friends’ house keeping company with their dogs and the beautiful country sunsets. It is a vacation for my soul. So, clothes to pack and vitamins to count out. From there I, and my grandson, will head to Indiana for the day and night to stay with Isaac and Clara, kids (and their parents) who fell into my life and ignited an ember that, though 2 hours away now with their move to another adventure, still burn steady and firm. Love remains even when geography separates.

Puttering about done, I looked out the window and saw the rain had stopped. I grabbed my keys and headed to the car. I needed to feel my feet on the ground. I drove to the beautiful cemetery just down the road from my apartment, but not before considering whether or not any serial killers would be loitering in a graveyard on a random Saturday. I need to watch something other than crime documentaries.

The sky painted itself appropriately gloomy but my spirit felt buoyed. Cemeterys are a place that make me “hear’ the choir of voices that have gone before me. Seize the time!, they implore me. I move at a quicker pace when I think about their lives, their stories, the fact that they *were*. They counted for something and to someone even if we don’t know who they were. I stop at an historical sign memorial and read about Brigadier General George Hodge; probably just “George” to those who knew him as a boy, a friend. I smiled at the last line. After an illustrious and honorable military career he moved to Florida and became an orange farmer. Who would have thought? And all of it mattered.

I found a gazebo and had a Sound of Music moment. “I am 16 going on 17….” I stopped and paid homage to the beauty of a fallen tree and stood before a mourning statue. The sky began to swirl with the threat of more rain, the wind began to pick up. I would head home, I thought, until my daughter called and told me about the local book shop in town that had just opened an adjoining cafe. I knew my next stop.

I made my way to The Hidden Chapter Bookstore, all wood floors and tin ceiling and entered into my dream world. The baristas at the counter greeted me as soon as the bell on the door announced me. I walked toward them and said…”So I’m walking in a cemetery and my daughter in Georgia tells me you were here and so here I am and….(turning to one of them) why do I feel like I’ve seen you before??”

YOU’RE THE LADY AT THE PARK I SAW YESTERDAY WITH PURPLE HAIR!! She said this in capital letters. I kept watching you and I was so excited about your hair and I kept telling my friends I loved it and now here you are! I’m a nanny and I had my kids there. WAIT. Now *I* was talking in capital letters. I’M A NANNY TOO!!

Then the other barista spoke up.

“Do you want a job? Because I will hire you on the spot. You have beautiful energy!” I was silenced by the directness, the way that sentence poured over my head and down to my toes. Wow. That’s all I could think of. What a lovely thing to say, I followed with. I looked around. They had a fireplace and couches and chairs that said “sit” and a wardrobe entrance to the bookstore and I just lost myself.

And then in walked the Kellers; two people that are walking light. I’ve seen them around town; he a retired teacher at the school down the street and a writer for a local publication; she a retired insurance employee. They know my daughter from holding court frequently in the coffee shop she used to work in. The chance to talk to them had never materialized….until today. “You’re the Kellers!” I said as if they didn’t know that. I introduced myself as my daughters’ mother and their eyes lit up with recognition. They sat down beside me and for an hour I listened raptly to their story.

Mr. Keller is a cancer survivor, his “war”, as he calls it, begun 9 years ago. He showed me a picture of his Bee Gee hair back in his prime. He wears his bald cap proudly now. It means he made it through something. What advice would you tell me, I asked them, my favorite question lately.

“Always find something to laugh about!” he said.

“Let people help you when they want to. It means love,” she said.

Indeed. The rain began again and we all left at the same time to scurry to our cars. I walked in the door, lit my candle made last week, slid into my slippers and made myself dinner. There’s a quote I love, about solitude. “The soul that sees beauty may sometimes walk alone.’ I did that today. Sometimes walking alone is a season, sometimes it literally, sometimes figurately. If we lean into it, it’s a beautiful healing.

My friend called and we talked for an hour. I reminded her of who she is, who God is. Ah, friend……I see hope flooding you. There is an out of the ordinary day coming for you. She cried joy. I hung up and looked out the window. Rain outside, peace inside.

I don’t live in the big house and the wide spaces I used to have years ago. I don’t have all the money I could ever need in the bank. I don’t have status. But these days I live? Fantastical, ordinary days? I start to type these last words and my phone dings….

“Pray for me.” says the message.

I am there for all of it. <3

6 a.m. chimed on my phone and put a stop to the dream I was having With the advent of daylight saving time, I surprise myself with actually sleeping the past several days. I knew what was on the calendar, what was scheduled. I had a plan. But as I always do, I expect for life to interrupt, to surprise me with the micro moments it has to offer. I’m never just “going to the doctor, stopping at the bank, not just teaching, nannying, organizing, tutoring. There’s no such thing as just grabbing a quick cup of coffee or lunch with a friend; new or old. I am waiting for the “one thing”, the “ah, there it is!”, the warm sunshine that spreads over hearts like orange marmalade.

I made my way to the government office appointment; dress on, makeup applied, looking like a sane and clean human being to settle a matter that needed to be taken care of. Government offices always have a “going to visit someone in prison” vibe to them. Security guards, desks behind glass, tired looking people who already seem defeated and a silence that rests over all the waiting bodies. I was grateful for the in person meeting scheduled on my behalf because of complicated phone calls that weren’t getting things done so I brought a potted pink daisy to say “thank you for even being willing to be a government worker!

Next stop was Crooked Stone Road, all twisty turney in the trees surrounding it. I opened the door to the charming home nestled there that I help keep orderly twice a month. I’ve known the young mother of the house since she was a little girl and life has circled us back into each others lives in such a lovely way. They have left for the day and I hum as I work, propping my phone up on whatever I can find in each room as I go, listening to the Marco Polo messages from my friends. It’s like having company that you don’t have to look at while they talk. I sweep, they chat. I’ll answer them later as I drive home.

When I met Bethany she was a young woman, unmarried, no children and on the cusp of beginning a new job as the art teacher at the school I also worked for. Over the three years we worked together, our unlikely friendship developed; me old enough to be her mom, her …..young enough to be my daughter. 🙂 We laughed til we cried some days, cried without laughing others. Eventually she found “the one” and I went to her wedding, happy as a mom would be for her. Then came baby 1, then 2, then 3. She continued to work, never seeing herself as wanting to be a “stay at home mom”. A few months ago, we met for lunch. She was feeling a surprising change in herself. She missed being home. “I’m not sure what to do,” she said. I think you know exactly what you want to do, I replied. Your whole face lights up when you say “home”. Are you ready to jump into the life of “adventurous faith”? This morning, now 3 months later, she sent me a Marco Polo…..from home, where she makes her lasting memories.

When I was in college, I heard about a summer program. I could go be a youth leader anywhere they offered in the world for 3 months. I sent in the application and left the “where to?” line blank. I would leave it up to God. In a few weeks, I packed my bags and headed to Syracuse, New York. I lived with a host family and settled into the middle of a group of teenagers that knew each other from school. By summers’ end we’d created a community; sort of like Breakfast Club, only in church. There were crazy water balloon fights, organized Bible studies and some nights where we ordered pizza and sat in the back yard with a camp fire under the stars and talked about whatever they had questions about. It was the summer I realized I was made to “get in the dirt” with people; to help them in the life gardens’. Wendy was one of the teens. We stayed in touch for a few years after I returned from the summer , I went to her wedding, and then lost touch. Here in recent times, and with social media, we found our way back to each other. She sends Marco Polos about her grand kids and I marvel how teen and youth leader are now on level ground.

I head to the doctor and notice the book on the front seat beside me. Should I take it in with me? I hate waiting with nothing to do. I grab it at the last minute, and head in and approach the counter for the check in. The young lady ushers me back to do the blood pressure, temperature routine.

“What book are you reading?” It took me off guard. I hadn’t even had time to open it.

“It’s called Poet Priest by Andy Squyers. It’s by a guy who is a Christian musician but he isn’t “churchy”. Do you know what I mean?

“Yes! I know who that is, I think! Are you a Christian?”

“I am! Are you??”

“Yes! For some reason I knew I was supposed to ask you about your book.”

“Well, that’s interesting because I almost didn’t bring it in. Tell me, what do you want to do with your life?”

“You know what…I’m not sure. I am enrolled in med school but I don’t feel at peace about it. I’m not sure it’s what I should be doing. What I really want is to work in holistic medicine and help people that way.Well then, she needed to meet my holistic doctor and massage therapist and she took down their names and we just looked at one another. This was supposed to happen, we both agreed. She doesn’t even normally work in this location but today she was assigned here. I like to write, I told her and I am already writing about this in my head. May I take your picture to remember this day and use it in my blog? And so the camera snapped and I walked away whispering to God how amazed I am at Him.

I walked out to the car to my final stop. When I realized I had extra time I knew just where to go next. Nancy has been my friend for over 30 years. The first time I met her, I had come to pick her grand kids up and take them to a kids camp for church with my kids. She came out in white pants and a hot pink top and bubbled over in personality and I thought…I wanna be like her when I grow up! She lived her entire life serving people. She and her husband flew to Nigeria twice to help with a church there, she took people into her home who needed a place to heal, sang songs and made crafts with every child she had the joy of meeting. And PRAY? This woman was a warrior in the prayer room!

During one of my darkest times, when it felt like the nightmare in my own life wasn’t going to stop, I came to her house each night, falling onto her couch from working all day and pretending like everything was ok when it absolutely wasn’t. I couldn’t speak, I was so drained. She had my strong, unsweetened iced tea and grilled cheese sandwich just like I liked it…burned on purpose. As I laid in a pile, she would sit beside me and smooth my hair and speak calming words to me and remind me “Jesus loves me, this I know”. Today, her memory is beginning to fade,and she lives in a safe place where she is cared for. I walked through the hallways towards her small apartment within the facility and found her in the cafeteria. Her face lit up with recognition as she saw me walk into where she was and I was relieved. She still knew me.

We sat for two hours. “There’s nowhere else I want to be right now, Nancy. I love you.” She loves me too, she said, and her eyes filled with tears. She told me what it feels like to be there. It’s like you’re not needed anymore. What would you tell me, for the years I have left in my own life?

“Keep helping people until you can’t.”

I told her about my grandfather who has been gone many years now. I knew that he prayed for me every single day of my life. “When he left, I missed knowing that. Would you pray for me every day?” Yes, I will, she responded and bowed her head immediately. It was a simple prayer, almost childlike; not the exhortative ones she used to pray years ago. But she prayed.

I sit at my kitchen counter, wrapped in joy.

I can’t wait for tomorrow, God. <3

I mean…..maybe not but….doesn’t life feel like the biggest lion you’ve ever seen right up in your face some days? Everything’s going along fine and then out of nowhere your well laid plans get blown up and the sound feels deafening, the plan is dead in the water and there is no solution that feels achievable; or, at best, acceptable….to your way of thinking.

Over 15 years ago now, I needed a place to live. My marriage was done, my days of being a staying at home mother limited my income choices and thus the outlook for a sunny forecast seemed remote. Our mediator made sure the provision for my contribution as a wife was somewhat fairly divided up and I found a place to rent that was way lovelier than I expected to find. Although on a busy street, it had an old charm to it, a gas fireplace, lots of windows and plenty of space for my kids. I was grateful, except when the ambulance sirens ripped by and we had to stop talking until they had passed because we couldn’t hear each other. I went from a low paying job at Panera Bread to a “chance” walk-in to a private airport where they hired me on the spot. I would be making enough to support myself for the first time in my life.

8 months in, my father unexpectedly inherited an historic house from a friendship he had begun with an elderly man who didn’t know how much he needed a friend. He passed away, leaving his beautiful home to my father as a thank you without ever having told him beforehand. My father was stunned and I was more stunned when he came to me and handed me the keys. “I want you to live there,” he said. And so we packed our belongings in Kroger paper grocery bags, 5 at a time ,and shoved what we could of the furniture into the trunk and made the 15 minute trip back and forth across town for two weeks. Friends helped with the couch and the beds and we spent the first night on the porch swing marveling that this would be our home. We found a picture in the local museum of our house and the American author, Mark Twain, sitting under our big tree. My son and I, both writers at heart ,were thrilled to follow in his footsteps.

Years went along, life happened, some good, some not at all good. I began helping an elderly couple with things their bodies wouldn’t allow them to anymore; grocery shopping (before delivery was a thing), laundry, organizing the pantry, etc.) and realized, not only how much I enjoyed it but that it was lucrative. After several more people got wind of what I was doing and asked for my help, I left my airport job and began my own business. It was a bit of a risky leap but worth what it felt like to feel the wind beneath my proverbial wings.

I’d already told God that I felt like the home we were in would be a “temporary” thing and to please give me a nudge when it was time to leave. 12 years went by and I began to “hear”…now is the time. Okay, God but….How? When? Where will I go next? One day soon after I began to sense the winds of change, my daughter was tying her shoes, looked up at me and said “I think we should sell our house.” I was surprised but then, why should I be? This is what I’d asked God for 12 years ago. So, my friends’ brother, who is a realtor came alongside. “I want to help you.” I made the house ready and he pounded the “for sale” sign in the yard and two days later COVID shut the world down.

GREAT, God. Great timing. I’ll just settle in here for the long haul. One week later we got an offer for exactly what we expected to get. God is good, indeed, I said! And then the next day they got cold feet and withdrew the offer to a much lower number because COVID and all it wreaked was scaring people. I had just been reading through the Old Testament, all those battles and numbers and journeys through deserts. I noticed a thing. God doesn’t always make sense. Why does a kid fight a giant and win? Why does the smaller army slaughter the bigger one? My realtor called me to discuss the offer. I know it’s disappointing, he said, but I still think you should consider it. It’s completely up to you. And then I heard myself say, with no hesitation…”God always uses the smaller number.” Within 30 days I handed over the keys and picked up the check. Oh, and where did I go? To an apartment my realtor owned and let us stay in rent-free while he rehabbed the building. God, is indeed, still good.

I’ve moved since then to a place with the bigger kitchen I wanted and all the windows I could ask for. I love where I live. I’ve continued to wrestle lions some days, and felt like I’ve lost. Other days I am astonished at the plans I would have never dreamed of making, landing on my doorstep. I’ve learned something else, too.

I have a friend. Almost 3 years ago, she was 2 years into the happiest marriage she could have dreamed of after a devastating first one. She was beautiful, vibrant, 43 years old and the mother of 5 children. She wasn’t feeling “great” one day and went to the doctor. Let’s do a couple of tests, he suggested. The evening of their 2nd anniversary they were driving to dinner and her cell phone rang. They pulled over to hear the news. Cancer. 7 weeks to live. That hadn’t been the plan. Not at all. Treatment for more time became treatment for comfort and they realized she really wasn’t going to make it. In the 7 weeks she had, she communicated everything she wanted her children to remember, changed the lives of many hospital workers and woke up from sleeping, apologizing that the agony was “taking so long.” Am I dying well? That was her question between waking and sleeping.

Plans are made. Some happen beyond our wildest dreams. Some disappoint our expectations of a “fair” life. But my friend, whose plans took a heart stopping turn? Her constant mantra before and after diagnosis was “run to the hard.” Run, don’t walk, towards the hard with an open hand. If the lion faces you, stare him down, even if you die staring. This is your one life, my one life. The risk of living is a risk worth dying for.

And no matter the odds, God always works with the smallest number. <3