Love, ever flowing

Perhaps, it was the grey stillness in the air. Perhaps, it was the constant chronic nerve pain I live with, for which there is no cure or efficacious treatment. Perhaps, it was the feeling of being so different from the rest of the world. But, my heart ached all morning as I asked God to speak to me.

"I am listening." I begged.

Thirty minutes ago, this very evening, Veronica, a neighbor knocked on my door, gently. I had just prepared what was to be my dinner of soda crackers, honey and water. I heard the soft knock. I opened the door, and my sweet elderly neighbor handed me a basket and quickly turned away. All I could see was her shawl swaying in the dusk. Once inside, I opened the basket. It was filled with fried chicken, potatoes, fresh Cole slaw, warm bread. It was exactly the comfort food meal I had dreamed of this Memorial Day weekend. I devoured it. The gift meant all the more in the knowledge of Veronica's limited finances. She lives alone with her cat. They eat their meals together, and for dessert they share spoonfuls of whipped cream.

I cried unabashedly, unreservedly. Then, I felt drawn to the door once again. Someone had left a card on the door frame. I looked at the envelope. My name was handwritten on it. Inside was a card with a prayer for my physical health. A husband and wife who recently moved into the neighborhood signed it, "With Love."

I stood there humbled. I had barely spoken three words to that couple. We were strangers, in every way. How had they known I was not well? I certainly had never mentioned it to them. But, there was the card in my hand, and the nourishing food in my belly.

Oh, my dearest reader, sweet friend, I cried. I had to send this letter to you. I had to write you this very instant and share this story because no one else would believe such a tale. Two hugs from God in the space of thirty minutes?! How could such a series of events be real? But, it is all too true. Of course, I feel unworthy. But, if God can love one such as me, then all the more reason why God should love you who are in the world making a difference.

Knowing you are out there, reading my letters, knowing you care, I love you too. There is violence, chaos, and depth of despair in the outside world. But, here on this page, there is the peace, hope, and infinity of the faith-filled bond between us. Thank you.

Language of Love...

The phone rang. I had just settled down on the chaise lounge, tea in hand, for a visit with my beloved Agatha Christie. But, the phone kept ringing. "The Mirror Crack'd can wait. It might be important." I said aloud.

It was my neighbor, Mareda. "Come over, right away! I have something to tell you." She said excitedly. "I've retired for the evening. I'm in my pyjamas." I said. "It doesn't matter. I'm not really dressed up either. Throw something on and come over!" She said.

As quickly as I could, I dressed in jeans and a sweater. The mug of tea with honey came with me, as I knocked on Mareda's door. I sat in the parlour, not knowing what to expect.

Mareda was animated, her eyes brilliant with light. "I have something to tell you. But, I have to begin by telling you about the past." She was preparing me for a long story. I settled in to the oak chair, and sipped my tea.

"My father was married before he met my mother. His first marriage was not a healthy one. He and his first wife divorced. There was a child, a boy. He was my brother. But due to the war, we were separated. After the war ended, and I returned to the States from Burma, my parents were missionaries, I searched for my brother for years. But, I wasn't able to find him, at least not until the early nineteen-sixties. I found him in the foothills. We met briefly. He had married, and there was a two year old son. I held my nephew in my arms, and fell in love with his cherubic face. Once again, circumstances conspired to separate me from my half-brother. But, I just couldn't erase the image of my darling nephew from my mind. I searched for that child from nineteen-sixty-seven on. But, though I tried my hardest, exhausting all legal avenues, never again was I able to find any trace of my brother or his son. In the end, I resigned myself to the loss."

Mareda cradled her toy poodle in her lap as she continued. "On Saturday, I was sitting in my house of worship, trying to get comfortable, and hoping my hearing aids would allow me to hear the lecturer. I have trouble hearing. Well, a woman I hardly know sat next to me. Her name was Joy. She said the most amazing thing. She told me that she lived next door to a young couple with the same last name as mine. What a coincidence! I asked Joy if she knew their first name. Joy said that she didn't know about the wife, but that the young man was named Norman."

At this point, I could sense Mareda was about to share a God moment. I felt goosebumps. There was a window open in the parlour. It had been lightly raining all day. A gentle breeze perfumed the air in the room. I breathed in, and felt refreshed. I was ready to listen.

"Norman is the name of my nephew!" Mareda said gleefully, tears running down her face. "I asked Joy if she would give the young couple my address and phone number, not knowing what would happen. Well, exactly one hour ago, Norman called me on the phone. He asked me my name and to explain how I thought I knew him. I did better than that. I told him I did, for a fact, know him. I told him his full name, and all the names of his immediate family. I told him his father was my half-brother. And, most importantly, I told him how I had held him in my arms when he was just a baby of two. I explained how I had meticulously searched for him since nineteen-sixty-seven. This young man of forty-two years began crying hysterically. I cried hysterically. It is a miracle!"

Dear reader, I could no longer contain myself. I too was crying hysterically! Even now, as I write this letter to you, I cry at the glory and love that unite us all.

Mareda calmed herself, and continued, "The young man kept saying that he couldn't believe he had a family. Apparently, he too had been separated from his father for decades, and had thought himself alone in the world. I assured him he did have a family. He was no longer alone. He was so excited he promised to visit me tomorrow afternoon. Now, he and I will have each other."

I thanked Mareda for sharing her miracle with me. The language of God moments is worth sharing. It is a language that connects us all, and reminds us that what we have in common is infinitely more powerful than any perceived differences.

In Loss, We Pray...

This week, one of our local merchants was the victim of theft. It was alarming and unusual news. Several of us on Main Street dropped in to check on her. Our merchants work hard on our behalf. Their efforts help to create and sustain community. So, when one of our merchants feels pain, we all feel pain.

As I looked in through the shop door, the owner was visibly crestfallen. I told her we would all pray on her behalf. The words fell so effortlessly off my tongue, but was I being fair? As I looked into the merchant's tear stained eyes, I remembered my visit to the hospital this week. Dear kind reader, you may have wondered why my letter to you was so long in coming. Monday, I traded the silent green of the wilderness for the concrete, steel, and noise of the big city. A car service took me on the three hour drive. There are no trains or buses where I live to make the long trip to the nearest specialty hospital.

And, yes, I required specialists. The hospital visit was a challenge. Revisiting the chaos and violence of city life, having to bear bad news regarding the health of my body, it all became too much. There was a moment where I too gave in to the pain. I mourned the loss of the person I used to be, and I mourned the loss of the life I used to lead. In that moment of weakness, I despaired of ever finding light. Like that merchant on Main Street, I bowed my head in utter surrender. But, there is mercy in weakness. As I raised my head, and opened my eyes, I saw light, all around me, in my doctor's smile, and in the warm loving faces of the wheel chair bound, as well as in the serenity of the gurney-ridden along the walls of the emergency room. Despite the fact that all the patients had been brought by crisis to the same emergency room I found myself in, there was light emanating from within each and every person.

We all close our eyes, heads bowed, in those moments of loss. Perhaps, it is precisely in the sweet surrender that we become strong once again. Only, it is strength of a different kind.

After the loss, of whatever it may be, loss of money, livelihood, health, we begin anew. As much as we are affected by the journey, we also add to it. We bring ourselves to the journey as we are, and remaining open, we become one with the light.

Lupine and Poppies...

Today, while my laundry was in the dryer, I volunteered to walk with a senior struggling with Alzheimer's. I had to look in the dictionary to find how to spell it. Alzheimer's. I resisted looking up the word, almost as fervently as perhaps many of us resist our friends or relatives who live with this disease. Those who dedicate their lives to working with Alzheimer's patients are gifted and selfless indeed. I do not possess the gift or the training to work with this special population. I am merely a well meaning amateur at best.

Alice, my neighbor remembers less and less. But, upon seeing me, she asked me to take her for a walk. There was such sadness in her plea. Of course, I said, "Yes." Dearest reader, you would have done the same. You would not be reading these words if it weren't for your caring and loving nature.

Alice pointed to the hill across the road, and thus began our walk. Sky, flowers, plants, trees, colors became meaningless words to be replaced by the sheer joy of the moment. And that is how long, in terms of memory, our walk lasted, moment by moment. Shards of present tense.

We searched for squirrels and blue birds. We did not find any. But, we heard chirping in the pine trees. The sky was a deep grey haze. "No white clouds!" Alice said. I nodded my head in agreement. "No, white clouds." I answered.

Lupine and poppies are said to always grow side by side in the wild. Folklore, or fact, I do not know. But, always, where ever Alice and I walked, the blue lupine grew alongside the turmeric yellow of poppy. Maybe, that is the way it is supposed to work out for all of us? We may be different in shape, size, ability. But, we are meant to compliment one another as we grow in God's garden. Was this my lesson of the day? Is this what I was meant to learn and apply?

What do you say, my good and faithful friend? Do the flowers in the wild speak in prophetic messages of love?

Alice and I circled the hill and made our way back in time for the beeping of the dryer. I folded my clothes as Alice watched. "They're white!" Alice exclaimed.

"They are white." I answered cheerfully.

A Cobbler's Gift...

My one pair of sandals needed to be re-soled. I wear my sandals almost every day, except in harshest winter. So, having the sandals repaired, I decided, was a necessity. Off I went! The cobbler's shop is built into the rock of a hill. There was a thin plume of white smoke rising from the chimney. Inside, the cobbler was hard at work amidst piles of shoes. The piles were so high they seemed to engulf the humble cobbler. But, he was in there. I couldn't see him, but I could hear him. Eventually, my eyes were able to discern his form from that of the shoes. "Hello. Would it be possible to repair my sandals?" I asked. "Yes." He said. "Come back next Wednesday." And, that was all he said. He immediately went back to work.

I stepped outside and felt the cold. It had just snowed last night, in May! The snow had melted by early morning. But, the cold remained. When I awoke at daybreak, I heard God's Voice. He promised he would send a visitor today. I believed that Voice. I believed a visitor would indeed come, though I knew not when or in what form. Outside the cobbler's, a man from my house of worship greeted me. This was not just any man. He was a well-to-do, well-respected, well-established pillar of the community.

I remember the day this man and I had first met. For some reason, people confide in me. Perhaps, they feel safe in speaking to a stranger? He told me about his son who had died under tragic circumstances. I listened to him outside the post office as he shared his father's grief. I had lost my father, in a very real sense. So, at that moment, I assumed God had brought this man and I together. Perhaps, he and I would be family, I thought at the time. But, that was not to be. Mutual misunderstandings, feelings of anger and pride got in the way. This man and I never spoke in the same way again for almost nine years.

Dearest reader, you can imagine my surprise then, when outside a cobbler's shop, this man and I should meet again! We'll call this man, Adronicus. I've always admired the sound and strength of that name. Adronicus surprised me all the more when he told me he had had a debilitating stroke. He had been in the hospital, and was now in physical therapy. His arm and hand no longer had the same mobility. I stood there ashamed! God used this moment as a spiritual lesson. I had held on to anger at this man. Yes, I confess this to you. I was at fault. A very wise old woman once told me that when we hold on to anger, it is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die from it. My anger only hurt me. Adronicus had forgotten any past misunderstandings long ago. And, for the last two years, he had been living in the painful aftermath of his stroke. My anger had kept me from being a true friend. Adronicus forgave me. In fact, he said, "I had never been angry at you. How could anyone not like you? I can't imagine such a thing because you are so gentle." He said this to me?! I asked him to forgive me once again. I forgave him for past perceived hurts.

He and I walked to his home together arm in arm. I thought nothing of holding his arm. I felt only love for Adronicus. It felt natural to hold his arm, after all, he was recovering from a severe stroke. But, Adronicus didn't really need my support. He was in better physical shape than I! Adronicus was strong and muscular, and had already walked two miles! Perhaps, he was humoring me by allowing me to support his arm? He was allowing me the gift of feeling useful. There may have been a few people who snickered at the sight of two adult men walking arm in arm. But, I felt no shame in my public display of affection. If God had come to visit you, no matter the guise, would you not have offered your arm? And, more importantly, after receiving the gift of Mercy and Love, would you not have allowed God to escort you safely home?

Mother's Day...

Who is Mrs. C? And why am I writing about her today, of all days? Dear reader, you may recall that I had written about Mrs. C before. She and I first met on the old highway. We were both alone, and found ourselves on the same path. We shared stories of our journey with each other.

Mrs. C, though in her sixties, worked three jobs, and sent all her earnings to her family in her country of origin. She picked apples in a commercial orchard. She cleaned houses. And she worked in a restaurant, back of house, cleaning ovens, scrubbing floors, washing dishes, prepping food, clearing tables. Seven days a week she worked to pay for her husband's health care, and for the education of her two daughters. Mrs. C also paid an attendant to care for her two elderly parents. Mrs. C slept on a couch, in a small corner of an apartment. She ate scraps from the restaurant. At each of her jobs, she was paid less than minimum wage, no health benefits, no worker's compensation, no security. Mrs. C had lived and worked this way for ten years. She never complained about her sacrifice. "My family depends on my efforts." She confided in me. "I am the only one who can be here to work, to help."

I looked into her brown eyes and told her she was a saint. "A saint! No, not me. Don't even say such things! I am not holy." Mrs. C cried as she spoke. She often cried, as she sat next to me on the bench. "A saint is not some mythical creature with wings and a halo!" I exclaimed. "A saint is a real live human being, who perspires, bleeds, and feels physical hunger and thirst! A saint is someone who makes supreme sacrifices for others, enduring patiently, never counting the cost. You, Mrs. C are a true saint!" I was vehement.

With deep, gut-wrenching sobs, she cried. We walked together for ten years. But, in the end, I had to remind Mrs. C that life was not all about suffering. "God loves you! He wants you to be happy. What good is all this money you are sending your family if you arrive home in a box! In all this world, there is only one you. And, your family needs you more than they will ever need little pieces of green paper." Mrs. C looked down, "Money is necessary in this world." She said the words sadly, softly.

I told her how in my childhood, my family had been so poor we were only able to afford one or two plantains to share among six people. "It is better to eat boiled plantains in an atmosphere of love, than to eat meat in misery!" I pressed the point. "Mrs. C, I love you and I will miss you more than you will ever know. You have been my only family here in the wilderness. You see good in me even when no one else does. If you leave, I may be all alone. But, I would rather be alone than see you constantly in pain. Yes! I see the pain in your eyes. I hear the loneliness in your voice. It is time for you to go back home to your family who loves you. You, who are so loving to others, deserve to be showered by your family's affection. Please, Mrs. C, I am begging you, leave this place, leave this life of suffering, and go back home to your loving family."

"But, what will we do for money?" She asked. "I have faith that the God who has watched over you all these years, will continue to provide for you no matter the circumstances or location." I answered. With raised eyebrows, she said, "But, you are asking me to make a great leap of faith. It is quite a risk."

Arm in arm, we sat there on the bench. "Yes, it is a risk. But, your human life is worth more than any money you could earn here. Your human life has value! God wants you to be happy, of this I have faith. God doesn't want you suffering like a mule. The sacrifice that you have made for your family is admirable, but now maybe it is your turn to be cared for by your family." I spoke these words, and prayed.

Mrs. C bought her bus ticket. She remains with me in these letters that I write.

Mrs. C is a mother. What is a mother? A mother, I have learned, is a special kind of human being. A mother is someone who will sacrifice all for the good of her family. A mother is someone who loves, and loves, and keeps on loving.

A mother, all mothers, are deserving of our love and gratitude. Thank you all for raising us, and helping us grow strong. Happy Mother's Day!

Pax, Shalom, Namaste

The news is bleak. Violence, anger, attempted acts of cruelty seem all too pervasive. So what to do? We can't shut the world out, so what do we do?

Today, I was not able to achieve world peace, but I was able to help unload groceries. Today, I was not able to save the coast from oil spills, but I was able to take my neighbors' trash to the nearby dump. Today, I was not able to stop crime in the big cities, but, I was able to wave at members of my town's local government body as they rode their bicycles by me on the hiking trail during the lunch hour. The sight of them riding bikes in helmets and ties made me smile. And, when I smiled, it made them smile too. Such civility!

The world news disturbed me so that I walked as quickly as I could on the trail. I walked past the four turkeys roaming wild. I speed-walked through the open forest, trying my best to push thoughts of the outside world away, but the poppies spoke. They said, "Hello, kind stranger. Please pause a while. Admire us in all our yellow-orange beauty!" What else could I do but obey? Poppies are not to be ignored. They remember things. They sing songs of childhood, songs of joy. Poppies sing of peace. Only humans dare speak of war. We have much to learn from the flowers of the forest.

Today, I could not run for public office, but I was able to converse with the person next to me on the bus. The person sitting next to me was not a stranger. Her name is Miranda, our very own octogenarian painter and writer. She has won many awards for her art. Miranda spoke to me of her years in Mexico, where she and her late husband made their living making jewelry for tourists. She spoke to me of her active lifestyle in the tennis club, and hiking club. She spoke to me of the hardship of having to choose between food and prescription medicine.

Today, I was not able to move to the miniature tower in the lake country that so captures my imagination. But, I was able to come home to my little apartment to heat up stewed beans and rice.

Today, I was not able to become an adopted member of the Walton's family. But, I was able to write this letter to you, dear reader. Can you ever know how much I love you?

Today, I saw my doctor and his wife strolling down Main Street, arm in arm. My doctor kissed Beatrice, his wife, with such gentle affection. I stood there as he told me how proud he is of his son. "He works for George Lucas!" My doctor's eyes beamed as he mentioned the name of the cinema tycoon. I smiled, and felt the warmth in my doctor's heart.

This is my peace piece. In our community, small things matter. Civility prevails. Fathers love their sons. Neighbors hug one another. And, the Sacred is to be found in the every day.

bluebirds...

Today's sunshine is all the more glorious given that for two days this area was pummeled and pelted with severe winter-like hailstorms. The hail took many of us by surprise. I was outside, headed home, when the pebble-sized hail began its assault. A little bluebird lay on its back on the ground. My heart broke. I wanted to reach down and touch the exposed belly, and bring that bird back to life. Had it been overcome by the storm? Life is such a precious gift.

How do we as human beings respond to the unexpected? Do we welcome change? Do we fear it? Are we overcome when bad things happen? Does part of us die when assaulted by seemingly insurmountable circumstances?

Today is a beautiful day. The sun is shining. People are walking about. Edith and I bumped into each other. She is one of my neighbors, though we had not seen each other in months. Both of us are transplanted East-Coasters. This feisty eighty year old raged against the dying of the light. I walked with her to the bench. We sat. She ate her milky-way bar and vented. I wanted to kiss her on the cheek and speak of heaven. Instead, I listened. After all, who am I that I should dare speak of lofty matters? Maybe it is enough to remain silent, but present?

Storms come and go.

Edith told me about a trip she was going to take next week to the coast. She said she wanted to see it one last time before her operation. "What do you mean?" I asked. "I am going blind." She said. Her response humbled me. She asked if she should even bother making the trip. 'Oh, yes," I answered, "make the trip. You deserve a vacation, and the coast is beautiful." We both sat on the bench and watched the people walk by. I thought of the time in my life when I had lived on the coast, and the hours I had spent sitting by the ocean. I never imagined those water-rich days would ever come to an end. I had been so spoiled at the time. Maturity is the most priceless of gems.

I looked into Edith's eyes. I didn't see a time-worn face. I saw only beauty. Edith was a little child on her way home. Maybe, she and I had met after school? Perhaps we bought bubble gum, and exchanged stories of our father?

Ironically, Edith had not always thought of me as friend. But, maybe when we remain true to our path, it is possible for people to find their way back to us, as we continue the journey together through all of life's storms. And, if we endure patiently, we might even enjoy a milky-way bar on a park bench, in the sunshine, at rainbow's end.