The Love We Share...

Albert, one of the bus drivers of the Whistle Stop Express, gave me the change to board, as I did not have any coins today. I was so overjoyed at his loving generosity that I failed to realize the van was headed in the opposite direction I needed to go. So, Albert paused and calmly told me not to worry. He called the next Whistle Stop van due to arrive and asked them to wait for me, explaining that I had paid my fare. "Here, show this to the next driver." Albert gave me his handwritten note. I thanked him, and made a mental note to ask him for his recipe for egg salad sandwiches, and zucchini bread. The drivers of the Whistle Stop are all so kind and patient, and giving of themselves.

Main Street was bright with sunshine, and a cool breeze kept it comfortable. Having been placed on a strict diet due to health reasons, I have not had a hot dog to eat in months. But, today, I made up my mind to indulge myself. Joan and Judy, who own the tiny food stall, greeted me. "What would you like?" Judy asked. Joan and Judy work hard, six days a week, in the grueling summer heat, and icy winter cold. In their spare time, they feed the homeless, though they are too humble to admit this. But, I have seen them. Strong, tough, hard as rock on the outside, but tender-hearted on the inside. I could not make up my mind what to order. Joan waited patiently by the grill. "Okay, I would like a...hot dog!" I exclaimed. "Wonderful. And, what would you like on that?" Judy asked. "Mustard, ketchup, relish, guacamole, and sour cream!" I practically leaped in the air, I was so excited. Then, I added, "I would like a soda pop, in a glass, filled with ice." Judy told me to find somewhere to sit. "I'll bring it out to you when it's ready." She said.

There were many tourists in our town today. I was delighted to see them of course. The merchants work selflessly on behalf of others. Main Street merchants are deserving of our support. As Main Street goes, so goes the nation.

But, I wanted to eat in a quiet place. I found a nook just by the creek that runs through the center of town. Slender willows, and smooth river rocks surrounded me. I almost fell asleep to the gentle rustling of the leaves, and the sound of the rushing water. "I found you!" Judy smiled. She placed the deep fried hot dog piled high with condiments, guacamole and sour cream. She even remembered how much I enjoy drinking soda pop through a straw. "Here is a straw for you, and some napkins. Enjoy your little hiding place." She said. "No," I corrected her. "It's my healing place." I smiled too.

I enjoyed the meal immensely. Yes, I could taste the love that Joan and Judy put in to the preparation of it, in each bite I took. I thanked them as I walked by their stall. " I loved it!" I said with glee.

Thus fortified with childhood comfort food, I continued my walk down Main Street. I smiled at all the people that walked by. They smiled back. It was a perfectly loving way to begin the week.

My goal was the used book store. One of the Wise Women who owns and runs it had sent me a note last Friday. "I have a gift for you. Come." The note read.

As always, the used book store was packed with books and people. I waited until the faerie-clad Old Wise Woman had a free moment. "You told me to come and see you." I said. "Yes! this is a miniature book from my own private collection. It is for you." She said, and handed me the palm-sized treasure, knowing how much I love miniature books. It was a book on Man and Symbols of the Soul and Psyche. "Thank you, I love it!" I said. And, I meant it, having just finished The Ring of The Nibelung by Wagner. I needed to be reminded of the light once again. Wagner taught me that the object of our desire, whether it be hot dogs or rings of gold, if allowed to become all-consuming addictions can lead to our ultimate self-destruction. We must recognize when it is time to let go, and then have the strength to do it. In releasing the object of desire, we release ourselves from its power over us.

Another Wise Woman, the long dark haired one, began her belly dance, wiggling her hips, waving her arms in the air, stomping the floor with her right foot with such power and force that none of us in the shop could resist her non-verbal command to rise up and dance. We were the belly dancers, men and women, dancing in celebration of life! We ended the belly dance in a communal hug. The long dark haired Wise Woman sang out in gypsy tones, "Huggapalooza! It's a huggapalooza!" And, yes, it was.

The laughter and joy carried out into the street. Oh, dear reader, God is love!

At Portia's Request...

On Main Street, right next to a gallery of paintings of light, there is a kind-hearted woman who owns a small doll orphanage. There are dolls from floor to ceiling. Little boy and girl dolls in varied dress. Each doll is unique. Their eyes stare out at you with such emotion, almost as if saying, "Please, choose me." I looked at the dolls for a long time before the right one found me. He has a full head of hair, and a knowing look, but no smile. "Does he know a secret?" I wondered. "Perhaps he is sad because he is alone?" I thought to myself.

The orphanage is well-maintained. I could see that the dolls are loved, and treated with care, but the little fellow who called out to me was in need of family. I decided to adopt him. I told the shopkeeper that he would need new clothes, as he was wearing hand-me-downs. I purchased blue shorts, a white short sleeved shirt, and a striped school tie. On the adoption certificate I wrote his name, Paolo Alessandro. His father had been an Italian diplomat stationed in Shanghai. His mother had been a Chinese national. But, due to tragic events, Paolo was left utterly alone, that is until the apron attired shopkeeper saved him. "Promise me you will love him." She said. "I promise." I answered. "He is vanilla scented to help you bond with him."

I thanked her, and walked out of the doll orphanage, holding Paolo Alessandro close to me. He was slightly smaller than the other boy dolls. His clothes were two sizes too large. Perhaps that was the reason my heart went out to him. "He is so small." I thought. "He needs extra large doses of love to help him grow."

A letter came in the post today, from a beloved friend on the East Coast. In the letter, my friend asked me to consider signing a petition to create a September 11th National Holiday. Just the thought of that day is enough to make me cry. Is there anyone in our beloved country, perhaps even the world, who does not remember where they were on that day?! I wrote my friend back, and asked her to read a beautifully written book titled, The Day The World Came To Town by Jim Defede. It is the story of the kindness of strangers during hellish circumstances. In a time of fear, and hate, the citizens of Gander, Newfoundland responded with ineffable love to stranded Americans at the airport.

"The quality of Mercy is not strained." Shakespeare wrote. Meaning, we should be generous with mercy, allowing it to flow from ourselves freely. But, this is easy to say, or do during times of comfort and ease. Can we as fallible human beings rise to the call for Mercy during times of strife, and overwhelming suffering? Perhaps, it does indeed take a very special kind of Human Being to give and give and not count the cost?

How much physical strength does it take to forgive? How strong does one actually have to be to let go of past hurts. To what extent must Time pass before we can remember past pain without the sting?

I'm not sure I have any answers to these questions. I simply held the vanilla-scented doll in my arms, and breathed in, as I walked up the hill, headed for home.

The Visitor...

Yesterday, late afternoon, there was a knock on my door. I had just walked home from voting, and had changed into sweatpants. But, the knock on the door was different than any knock I had heard before. It got my attention. I opened the door.

There he was, the same man I had met on the road to the cobbler's shop just last week. He had come to see me. I asked him to wait a moment outside while I changed into proper outerwear. I met him in the communal outdoor area. He and I sat facing each other on picnic tables. He told me he had just had another surgery last week. That made a total of three surgeries in a twelve month period. He had had a stroke, then internal bleeding, and most recently a hernia. I sat there facing him. He told me he was seventy years old. "Seventy?" I asked incredulously. In his tank top tee-shirt, shorts, bronzed muscular arms and legs, he looked to be no older than forty-seven. "Many other men might not have survived one of your health issues and surgeries, let alone three." I said. "You are very blessed. Many people have been praying for you this past year." I added. "How do you know?" He asked as if testing me. "Your house of worship has a bulletin. I've seen your name in it under special intentions. And, I do believe in the palpable power of prayer. I call it, P.O. P. for short." I smiled.

"P.O.P.?" He smiled too. As he sat there sharing his journey with me, I wondered what had possessed him to make the long walk from his home to mine, especially since he was still in the process of recovering from his hernia surgery. "Is it safe for you to walk?" I asked. "My wife is worried about it. But, my doctor said it is okay to go for short walks. This is my outing, my visit to you." He said. Half his body was still partially paralyzed from the stroke. His arm was in a cast of some sort, to keep his hand and fingers from curling inward. His speech was slurred. He spoke slowly, deliberately.

Had God inspired this man to seek me out? If so, why? Who am I? Dearest reader, you should know that I am the town fool, an object of scorn and ridicule. But, this man, who sat opposite me, is a man of importance, wealth, power, prestige, and position. As I sat there listening, I thought of a little boy who lives far away. He lives with autism. His mother writes to me about his journey in life. That little boy quickly became one of my heroes. He told his mother that sometimes he hates living with autism. She held him as he cried. Maybe, that's what life is about, taking turns comforting one another? That little boy taught me a very grown-up lesson in empathy. So, maybe that was what this man sitting opposite me was seeking, shared empathy?

Rabbi Harold S. Kushner is spiritually correct when he writes that sometimes bad things happen to good people. It is how we choose to respond to the changed circumstances in our bodies and in our lives that can help us move forward into the light, or keep us stuck in pain-filled darkness.

Of course, we mourn the loss of who we once were. And the mourning process is often re-visited throughout our changed lives. There may be things we simply will no longer be able to do. But, then there are things we can do.

This seventy year old man was a champion wind-surfer just three years ago. He lamented the loss of his wind-surfing days. I told him that he was still a champion, just a different kind of champion.

I walked him half-way back to his house high on the hill. Even post-stroke, he was still in better physical shape than I. He had barely worked up a sweat, while I was doubled over, out of breath!

A big dog came up to my neighbor. The dog smiled and nuzzled him. "Do you know this dog?" I asked, amazed at their bond. 'No, we're just good friends. We meet every so often by the side of the road."

God is love.

Sunshine on Main Street

The Farmer's Market was alive with flowers, produce, live fiddle music, and people. Love was in the air, as neighbors hugged one another, all smiles and laughter. Everything was beautiful this June morning, as I walked over the cross bridge to the town center. The merchants were just opening their shops. "Hello!" They greeted me as I passed. "Are you on your way to the market?" They asked. "Yes, I had better hurry, but I'll come back on the way home. I promise." Skipping was easier than walking. Singing came more naturally than talking. Love was indeed in the air, and this morning's Main Street became a stage-theater musical.

By the time I arrived at the market, the farmers had their white canopies up to protect them from the summer heat. Grand Pa was in his seat as usual sharing stories. Grand Pa is every one's grand father, beloved by all. Adults, from near and far, eagerly listen by his feet. Grand Pa sells trees and plants that he grows in his home nursery. Mama Carol and Papa Glenn, in the next door stall, sell vegetable-plants, and flowers. Yes, Carol is loving mother, and Glenn is doting father to all men, women, and children. In fact, the entire Farmer's Market feels like holiday homecoming, every Saturday morning!

After a half hour's visit, I hugged the hard working farmers tightly. "Good-bye!" I waved. "Good-bye, little one!" They waved back.

True to my promise, I made my way back by way of Main Street. Merchants came out to greet me, as I walked by. "Don't forget to eat something!" They smiled. "What should I eat?" I asked, suddenly realizing that I was hungry. "Go see Joan and Judy! They will fix you something good."

I listened to their suggestion. Joan and Judy had been watching and listening as I walked up the sidewalk. By the time, I arrived at their food stall, they were ready for me with a big plate of shredded beef roast on a bed of cool crisp lettuce and fresh sour cream. As I sat by the fountain, listening to the cascading water, Judy brought me an old-fashioned soda in a glass of crushed ice. I could taste the love in each bite of the food they had prepared, so much so, I asked for seconds!

Newly fortified, I sought the used bookstore for a brief respite from the midday sun. The stacks of books provided shade and inspiration. All the lovely books called out, "Read me!" The Wise Women of the bookstore asked me for books on tea. "Yes, I have many such books. I shall bring some in next time I visit." I answered.

Now, it was time to climb the gently sloping hill home. Two tourists were lost as I crossed the street. I offered directions. They stared at me for a moment, perplexed. I understood their confusion, so I explained, "This is a village. We're all related, and we help each other."

"Do you live here?" The husband and wife asked. I smiled, and replied, "Yes."

The creek giggled with glee, ever so slightly, as I walked over the cross bridge. Destination; home.

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.