my role model

A few weeks ago, I was asked "Who is your role model? What inspires you about this person?" I was in a bit of a rough place, and feeling let down by a whole lot of people I always thought 'should' be in the position of role modeling. I was set to respond with "It depends on the day" or "I don't have one. I prefer to model myself after attributes rather than people." The truth is, what I wanted to say is that I avoid letting anyone into that position now so they cannot disappoint or hurt me. The question was part of a survey I had to do - it was not optional - and there was no reason to say anything on it that wasn't the absolute truth. But, despite the truth in what I wanted to say, I knew, deep down, that it was temporary; the way that moment in time was shining on me. Or raining on me, I suppose.

I stepped away from my computer and thought about all the people I love, and who love me; my family of the heart, and my kids.Can a role model be a regular person? How could I have forgotten that? How could I have forgotten that the best role models are the ones that are right there, showing themselves - their true selves - in little ways. The people that had hurt me so much hadn't, really. I mean, yes, they did, but in the long run - a year, a decade, even a month down the road - the ways they had disappointed me would be long gone; the hurt healed over into a golden scar, strengthening the once broken parts of my heart. I considered who, really, was a role model to me, and how I could answer the question honestly. Truly honestly. An answer that would hold true in the future (days later, when discussing it, or a decade later, when I reflected on it), as well as the past. Was there anyone? Had I ever really let anyone be a role model? Of course. This is my response:

My dad. He could befriend anyone, in any situation. Along the way, he would find the best in people; everyone was his favorite. And he made that believable. From his example, I have learned that everyone has some gift to share, and I try to remember that, even with unpleasant interactions. His legacy to me is an admiration of the human spirit.

Today is Dad's birthday. Today marks ten years of no Happy Birthday phone calls. No left arm hugs. No coffee in pajamas all morning, until it's time to get dressed so we can have lunch and talk some more. No last glass of wine after lights out. I wish sometimes I had asked him what gift it is that he saw that I had to share. I wish sometimes that I had told him about my hurts, more about my joys, my dreams. I never asked him for real reasons on some things, like why he discouraged me from being a helicopter pilot, or going to the West Coast for college. I know the reasons he told me at the time, but I also know there was more behind it. The truth is, despite all the talking we did, and the love we shared, I didn't want him to know me that well. I was afraid, and I'm only beginning to learn what I was afraid of. The truth is, even as a little girl, I was already broken, and I really didn't want to know, or face, that he was, too, in some way. I didn't want that in common with him. The truth is, he's the reason I stayed. The reason I stayed at home, the reason I stayed in my marriage, the reason I stayed with at least a couple of jobs. I can't (yet) explain how he was, because I don't (yet) have the words. But I now know that to be truth. I love him for it. And I also wish I could talk it out with him, because it only makes so much sense, then it falls off into some realm I don't want to visit alone.

Another one of the questions on that survey was about a desert island:

If you were shipwrecked and stranded on an island without any supplies, fellow humans, etc., what do you do first? Why?
Cry, because I’ve never even considered learning how to build a fire without matches, and I know fire is the best way to protect myself from wild animals, prepare food to eat, and signal for help. Then I would pull myself together and explore. 

At the discussion afterward, we talked about sushi. In another conversation, my therapist said he knew there was something else I would do before I cried, because I am me. He said I would realize and be thankful that I am alive. And it clicked: I'm a survivor. The legacy of admiration for the human spirit is related to being a survivor. Dad taught me to survive. And from that survival, I am learning to thrive.

As I write this, the Morning Doves have returned. Dad used to whistle the Morning Dove's call, and always as a kid, because of the sound, I was convinced they were called Mourning Doves. Hearing them today is a gift from him, from Him. One year they nested in the crook of the tree right outside the window, and the boys and I watched them each day, sitting on eggs and staring at us. I like to think Dad watches over us, but I also hope that's not all he does. I miss him. I love him. And I'm grateful for all he taught me, and even the things he didn't, because they make him all the more real to me. Happy Birthday, Dad. I know you would understand.

a shared space

The purpose of a pilgrimage to the Holy Land is not to visit a place; it is to find a God: the God made visible in His Son Jesus, who walked these lands; and with each step made not only this place, but the whole world holy.
~Fr. Chet Snyder, A Sabbath Shared

Perhaps this is why I still have a hard time knowing what to say when people ask about my trip. There was a priest I spoke with on the roof of Notre Dame, overlooking the Old City of Jerusalem, who told me that he preferred Jerusalem to Rome, not because of the sites and location, but because of the people who visit. He told me the disposition of the heart seemed different: those visiting Rome tended to be visiting the place, while those visiting Israel were looking to know a Man.

Not long ago, my pastor asked where I would go back to, which site, which spot would I choose to go to and stay for a few hours. Without hesitation I replied, "The hotel lobby in Jerusalem." I knew it seemed an odd answer to him, but I had been considering the question since our return (without thinking I'd ever be asked), so I had a ready explanation. Jerusalem was our last hotel, and we stayed there three nights. Each day when we returned to the hotel, I'd go up to the room and drop off packages, freshen up, and go to the lobby. Sometimes alone, sometimes with others, always with a glass of wine or a cup of espresso. And I would unpack the day, the sites, the sounds, the very air. Whether I was engaged in conversation or sitting alone, I truly pondered how everything was fitting together. In that lobby is where we saw the group come in wearing their Purim costumes, heading to a party, so we Googled Purim and wondered at the marvelous timing of our trip. We watched and heard interactions in a language and custom we didn't know or understand. That lobby is where I began to really know some others on the trip; where we shared feelings, doubts, questions, personal histories. But all the while, I was very aware that Christ was in our midst, sitting with us, listening, laughing, sharing.



Reading Fr Snyder's words this morning, I was again sitting in the lobby, only my physical self was in Pennsylvania at our dining room table. Lately, when I think of God, of praying, of finding comfort, I am sitting in an armchair in the Leonardo in Jerusalem. Actually, that was the point of the question from my friend. We were talking about prayer. His advice was to ask Jesus to join me in the lobby for a glass of wine or a cup of espresso, and spend time together unpacking the day: the good and the bad, the challenges for the next day, and the celebrations in my heart. And I do. Not every day, as I probably should, but certainly more often than I had been reviewing, preparing, praying with Him as a Friend. My laptop won't recognize my phone since my return, so the nine hundred or so photos I've taken are in limbo. As I think of sharing them, I email them to myself, or pull from Facebook something I've posted there. I've wondered why this inconvenience doesn't bother me terribly. And I've wondered, too, why I'm not more frustrated by the technology. The thing is, what's most important about going to Israel, being there, is in my heart, not on my phone in digital photographs. Eventually I will manage to get them to my computer and print a few. In the meantime, I have the clearest pictures in my mind, because I'm still there most days, for at least a little while.

water, water, water

Question: ... one highlight of our pilgrimage to the Holy Land? .... The question is, "What influenced you most and how does it help your spiritual life?" or something like that....

Answer (in 126 words): What influenced me most? Perhaps the water. I now realize, scrolling through my pictures, that the water had me completely transfixed. The Dead Sea: captivatingly beautiful, and yet unable to sustain any life. Juxtaposed with the Sea of Galilee, which supplies fresh water to the country of Israel: equally beautiful, yet life-giving. This is quite a metaphor for faith! It’s not what anyone, including me, sees that is evidence of my faith – it’s what is in my heart and what is life-giving in my actions, my prayer, and my words. Susan, my Jewish seatmate on the way to Tel Aviv, asked me “What have Catholics to do with the Dead Sea?” Along with matters of history, I now have an answer of faith to offer her. 

first glimpse of the Mediterranean Sea

I have always felt most at home by the water. Silly, actually, as I grew up inland, and didn't spend any time that I can recall near water until high school. At my first glimpse of the Mediterranean Sea, I was overcome with emotion. Dusk was falling, we'd just spent 10 hours on a plane, and we were now on a bus halfway around the world, so the 'overcome' was over the top, even for me. Still, it is an ocean I'd never seen before -- and never thought I would! After dinner, we walked across the street (no easy feat!) to the beach, and right down to the water of the Sea that also touches Greece, Italy, Turkey, Egypt, Tunisia, France and Spain. Simply amazing. Calmly, the water lapped at our feet. I stood gazing at what we could see of the horizon, soothed by the sound, the breeze, the sand. 

fishermen at sunset
on the Sea of Galilee

So much happened on the Sea of Galilee. Miracles happened when this body of water was involved. Jesus calmed a storm on the Sea of Galilee. It's where he walked on the water, beckoning Peter to join him. And that's just the highlights. We took a boat ride on Saturday afternoon, and as I sat watching the water, listening to the water and some music played for our enjoyment, I thought of Dad. Water, Dad, and the Father often go together for me, and this particular water pulled these two fathers of mine tightly in my heart. Standing at the back of the boat, watching the wake, and marveling at how small this lake really is, I felt Dad's left arm around my shoulders, and God's right hand on the small of my back. I knew I was right where I should be, physically, mentally, spiritually. Tears streamed down my face as all the sounds of the rest of the group faded behind me. For a time, I was alone on the Sea of Galilee with those who love me in ways no one else ever can: as fathers. I could have stayed on that boat for days. Thankfully, we spent many days travelling around this beautiful lake, seeing it from different angles and perspectives, touching the water, walking on the pebbly beaches, feeling the powerful pull of life -- of water. 

the River Jordan

I had heard that the Jordan River was not what we normally think of as a river. Iyad, our guide, told us that it would remind us more of what we would call a creek. Still, I was surprised to see how narrow the Jordan could be. We stopped at a site where people often go to be immersed in its waters. It was the widest part of the river we saw, and really was smaller than the creeks we have kayaked. When asked how near we were to where John would have baptized Jesus, Iyad looked at us and simply said, "Not very." The river runs through the Sea of Galilee, a channel of water of a different density cutting through the lowest freshwater lake on earth. The area around the Yardinet was beautifully developed. In another spot, closer to where John and Jesus did their thing, it was even narrower, overgrown, and mud-colored. The miracles and diversity of life.

the shoreline of the Dead Sea 

 But the body of water that made the biggest impression on me, based partly by the number of pictures I took, was the Dead Sea. The very name scared me when I was a kid -- so much I didn't want to hear any stories about it, or ask any questions about it for fear that I would die if I heard too much. Growing up, I pictured black or purple water, or water-like stuff, looking more like goo than anything else. What I first saw through a bus window amazed and transfixed me. It was truly magnificent! None of the pictures could do it justice. Likely more because of the difference between what it truly was and decades of misconception! The water was as blue as any I've ever seen. The shoreline was once underwater; the water level has been dropping steadily due to damming of the Jordan. By 2050 there will be no Dead Sea if nothing changes. The lack of life around the sea is disconcerting. All that surrounds it are the muddy flats of soil rich in minerals and salts, but in too dense a quantity for anything to grow -- too much of a good thing! And, oh, that mud! Thick and black, mushy, but almost dry to the touch. Someone in our group described it as being the consistency of Crisco, and I can't think of a better analogy. After floating in the water, and smearing the mud on my face, legs and arms, my skin did feel new; although I wrote that day that "after showering twice, I still feel like a roasted, salted pistachio shell tastes." Before I went, I was told there were no words that could prepare me for the Dead Sea. I would agree. 

ghosts of the past

Christmas is such a beautiful holiday, full of meaning and tradition. At least, that's how I picture it. Tonight at dinner, I was asked what traditions I grew up with. Interestingly, I had been thinking about that very question this morning. I answered as truthfully as I could: I don't know that I remember real traditions from my childhood. Instead I told about some of the things we did when the boys were small, but even then I wondered if they really count as traditions.
As a kid, I do remember watching Dad and my brothers putting lights on the pine tree in front of the house - or rather, I remember the year they tried, but it had gotten too tall for the ladder and amount of lights. I remember going with Dad to pick out a tree to cut down, and the time the tree had to wait in the garage for a few days because the stand needed to be rebuilt. And the year we had a Christmas Bush -  a cube of evergreen that overtook the room because it hadn't looked quite so big growing in the back yard.
Every year we had opłatki before dinner, but I didn't know where it came from. I think Grammy brought it. Gramma Katie always supplied a summer sausage. Dad always left a candle burning in the front window to welcome weary or wayward travelers. (If any had ever come to our door, I don't know what we would have done with them!)
What I remember most, though, and was never able to talk about (because who would believe me?) was my feeling that something was missing; that I was missing something. Who would ever believe that in our Christmas celebration, with boxes and paper and bows, something else could ever be needed? I realized this week that what I most wanted - what I still most crave - is time, along with a little knowledge of who I am. As a result, many of my memories of Christmases past are tinged with sadness, or tension. Sort of like a pebble in my soul's shoe. It has slowly and steadily chipped away at my Christmas spirit, until a few days ago when I thought perhaps it was gone form me completely.
Last night before Mass, I asked for the grace to be guided, to start fresh, as a baby myself. I thought of it as the beginning, my beginning. After Mass we ate, laughed, and visited with friends - family, really. Most of today we spent together with some good old-fashioned family time, and tonight we sat in on traditions of more friends who feel like family. The best part about this Christmas? It did not feel like anything at all was missing. There are people we missed, for sure, but the day felt complete.
Beautifully so.
Merry Christmas. Joy to the World! 

reaching out

We all need reminders from time to time. Lists for the grocery store, courtesy calls from the doctor's office, alarms set on our phones or email. Sometimes they come in comments made by our children about our own expectations, making us remember what it was like to be their age, needing attention, love, correction, love, guidance, or love. Other times the reminders come in scents or sounds, the feeling of the wind or the sun on your shoulders, or a song. Some reminders are expected, and some come as a surprise. And some come as answers to prayers unsaid.

I've had a particularly stressful time lately. Activities that have brought me peace, have brought frustration. Relationships that should be comforting have been painful. There has been a battle raging in my heart and in my mind, and around me, over my head, invisible to me, but quite nearby.

Last night, I didn't want anything to do with any of it. I didn't want to pray or talk or be anywhere. I wanted to cry, to scream, to play loud music and drive, drive, drive. But I was already tired from a week of late nights, a slight frustration on my own part escalated unnecessarily to anger, hurt and general angst deep in my heart. I sat outside, alone, in the dark, and realized I wanted nothing more than to turn into myself; to tighten my protective shields and hide from the world, my painful memories, and everything I know. So I reached.

Almost immediately, I felt more peace. It was only a text I sent, but in sending it, I admitted to myself that I do need others. I need community--especially when I'm hurting. I told God I did not want to talk to Him; that I did not want to listen. That I just wanted to be. Shortly thereafter, a dear friend showed up in my driveway. We talked and cried some; we hugged a lot. Another dear friend prayed from half a country away. Once again, I was humbled by the comfort of being among others.

This morning, I found flowers in my driveway: a comfort and a reminder. Later, something wonderful happened. God winked at me. A friend I haven't seen in a while, who I had been trying to connect with over the winter, with so many obstacles getting in the way, pulled me aside in a crowded room. Our little talk was made up of very few words, but enough for God to remind me that He is always with me. That each of the people in my life is there for a reason. A reminder that I am--always--His daughter. Even when I want to be alone inside myself.

Thank you all for being in my life, in small ways and in big ways. I am blessed to have this particular community as my help, my net, my family of the heart.

musings

Birthdays make me happy. Doesn't really matter who in my family is celebrating one, they make me happy. From time to time, a friend or acquaintance will tell me that they hate the counting of the passage of time, or that birthdays make them feel bad/sad. I respect that. But birthdays make me happy.

To me, birthdays are great days to look back, to look forward, to live today. My birthdays are about the people in my life. When I look back to grade school, I remember the cupcake days, sharing birthdays with the kids that I spent more time with than with some of my family. Those kids became family to me, in so many ways. I can't think about growing up birthdays without thinking of those classmates. We grew up together, and even now, their presence in my memory continues to shape me.

So many of my birthdays after grade school blur into the regular days of everyday life. There are certain special ones: my first birthday away from home; that year we got engaged; my first as a mom, the first time it fell on Super Bowl weekend. But usually on my birthday I look back at where I've been--or, more specifically, where I've come from. Not just over the past year, but overall. And I look toward where I'm headed, changing direction, dreams, even fears, to a certain extent.

I like best when my birthday falls on a Sunday. I was born on a Sunday, shortly before 9 am. Legend has it that since Dad was lectoring that day at Mass, he sped from the hospital to the church, window down, horn blowing, yelling out the window, "It's a girl!!" Sometimes when he'd tell the story, he'd say that he told everyone in church, too, when he got up to read. Somehow the entire story seemed out of character for him, and yet, I still believe there must be truth. On my birthdays, I also remember and ponder the births of each of our children. Everyone loves to see a new baby, and when that new baby is to be a part of your life for the rest of your life, there is definitely a part of you that wants to scream out about the wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, joy of joys that has just been placed in your arms. Despite the pain in the neck I know I was as a kid, as a teen, I like to remember that my first breath brought that kind of delight.

This birthday has been wonderful. Low key. Nothing super unusual about it. No special presents or cake. Kind of a normal day with an extra little smile in my heart all day long. Just what my soul needed. And when I look back on it, I'll certainly remember how beautiful the day was, how wonderfully warm from my own special joy.

lunchtime

"Mozzarella balls always seem a better idea before I eat them."

"Yeah. It's almost like my memory of them is better than they are. And cheese sticks are just bad when they get cold."

"Exactly.....Pretty much they are bad unless they are burning everything--the plate, your fingers, your tongue. If they are not too hot to taste, they really aren't all that great. Maybe I just don't really like mozzarella, and just never realized it."

"Ha! Maybe. But string cheese is good. Maybe it's the breading that's bad. "

"Yeah. String cheese is good stuff. It's mostly just raw cheese sticks."

Something to think about.

living and dead

A couple of months ago, as our book club discussion started, I was asked why we had to read that particular book anyway. That's pretty much how the question went. Only somewhat apologetically I explained that the title and the cover had caught my eye, the topic was interesting, and, quite frankly, it had been on sale, so I picked it up and added it to the list. Unsatisfied, my fellow bibliophile asked, "But why? What did he want us to get out of it?" Laughing, I replied that he had nothing to do with the book selections; "he" being our pastor. It turns out, though, He may have had His reasons.

That book was The Pope Who Quit (Sweeney), about Peter Morrone, who became Pope Celestine V, and then retired shortly thereafter, and I picked it up on the heels of Pope Emeritus Benedict's resignation. The author made quite a point of mentioning that Celestine V figured in Dante's Inferno, another book I picked up on that sale-rack day, and had already planned on putting on the reading list--eventually. When I saw the connection between the books, I put Inferno on the calendar for the next meeting. The feedback from everyone in the first week or so of reading Inferno was so overwhelmingly positive, despite the difficulty with some translations, that we all agreed that we would continue with Purgatorio and Paradiso before moving on from the Middle Ages.

Next week, right smack dab in the middle of November, we will meet to discus our impressions of Purgatory. The profundity of reading this book over the feasts of All Saints and All Souls is not lost on me--although I did need a tap on the shoulder. Upon his entrance to Purgatory, an angel carves seven P's on Dante's forehead, representing the sins atoned for on each of the seven terraces. I heard a similar (though quite unrelated) reference in one of the readings over the last week or so, and that's when the connection really hit me. Ever since, I have been even more deeply moved by the poetry, the imagery, and the story.

As in the Inferno, where the punishments fit the crimes so precisely, those in Purgatory are circling the mountain making up for their mistakes and missteps. As I read about the weight of each of the penitents' sins, and their requests for prayers from the living to shorten their time, I keep thinking about those I know that have died. We cannot know what others are suffering, or what is in their hearts, what things might keep them from real rest. On Saturday morning, we heard a bit about lamentation, and the beauty of allowing ourselves to feel, express, and even embrace the sorrow and pain that can come with memories of our loved ones who have died--even years after they are gone.

The result is that as I read, in this month of remembering and honoring the dead, I find myself occasionally flooded with memories of people I love, but cannot see or call. And I let the memories come, noting how the memory might relate to the Canto I am reading, while coming to the understanding and acceptance that passage through each of the terraces is probably a given. The book is fascinating, and the fact that God put a half price book in my sights to get me to read Purgatory in November is the most amazing and unexpected blessing.

When reading Inferno, I struggled through Longfellow's translation--the most widely recognized and used in scholarly environs. I understood about half of what I read, but enjoyed the imagery nonetheless, even when I had no idea what it meant. I was also in a rather deserted place in my soul at the time, so I may not have absorbed much anyway. For the next two books in the Commedia, I am using the Penguin Classic: The Portable Dante, edited by Mark Musa. I highly recommend it!

closed doors, open hearts

The door and Dad's ladder

The porch project was started a year or so ago, and is, as of today, just about finished. But the biggest part of it was even older than that. Some time ago, we moved a door and a window, flip-flopping their positions to make more room in our kitchen, and also on the porch. It took a while to get all the trim reapplied, and there was  a bit that didn't quite fit right after the move. At this point, I should probably clarify that when I say "we moved," I really mean that Guy, Dad and a good friend took a sledgehammer and a saw to the side of our house, while I took the kids to a park to play; and that the trim was finally applied with my sister's help. But it was Dad who often said that he would rework the trim sometime, and then paint. Something else always came up, or the weather just didn't co-operate, and the tidying up was put off again and again. The last time Dad was here, he mentioned it, saying that if he felt better, he would tackle it.

I painted it yesterday.

Some days I miss him more than others, and often the timing is inexplicable. This weekend I miss him, and it is completely and totally explicable. I've been having discussions of faith that have caused me to really dig deep into what I know, what I've learned, and what I know I am able to share. There was a time when I would have followed up the discussions with a "debriefing" with Dad. Of course, that time was long, long before the door thing, but the discussions still serve as a reminder that I won't hear his voice at the end of the day. Painting the rafters on the porch--the aim of this weekend's project--also involved using Dad's ladder, which bordered on rickety when he left it here for us, and has certainly not gotten any better! (As far as I can tell, it's no worse than it was, but we should probably get a new one one of these days.) Pulling the ladder out to work on a project always gets me thinking of him, and about the fact that usually I disregard his #1 rule about using a ladder: ALWAYS have one of your kids hold the other side. I never knew if it was for safety or for company, but I loved when I was the kid holding the wrong side of this ladder.

The door is broken. We can't use it to get in the house, although we could use it to escape in an emergency. Dad hoped to fix that, too.

As anyone who has suffered a profound loss knows, there is no recovery. The pain ebbs and flows, and you (hopefully) learn to surround yourself with people who can allow you to ride the tide. Painting the door frame was a big thing. But only to me, I'd wager. I still need to scrape the paint off the transom, which won't take long, but will probably remind me that yesterday I took a 1" sash brush loaded with paint and covered up his penciled note "facing out." The real reason I hadn't painted the trim before. Yesterday, with the first coat of paint, that hurt far less than the second coat today, but I started in that corner today, whereas I had finished there yesterday. The reminder at the beginning today gave me time to remember, to think, to ponder, to pray.

I remembered going with him to help build the playground at church; a parallel to the project Guy was helping with today at church, where I later joined him.

I thought about the limbs we were going to remove at Mom's even later today, and how that was a project Dad would have done. Then I came to the really difficult realization that he would not have done it. I remember him as he was, which is a blessing. Today was the first time I really thought about the fact that he, too, would have aged. Even if he was here today, we still would need to get those limbs, in all likelihood. That's a hard pill to swallow. And that's when I really felt broken. I figure he was holding the other side of the ladder, and that he's the one who knocked the brush bucket off a couple of times, trying to get my attention. It worked. I got the message.

The door is still broken, and probably will be for a while. Dad was our handyman, and our teacher for tinkering. One of these days, we'll have someone fix it up, but in the meantime, it's just a wall anyway, so it's no big deal. The trim on the outside looks good, even if it doesn't fit right. Next, I'll paint the threshold (which could get tricky, and could take another year!), but that has no special significance to me.

My heart is broken, too. But the thing I've found is that if I let it, the broken part becomes an open part. When I feel that hurt, when I miss him, I've learned--at least on days like today--to allow the goodness of his example to flow into that space and fill it with the joy of his being. This morning we left church with Ode to Joy in our ears. Dad loved that one, and would dance his way out of church after it. Ode to Joy was the recessional at our wedding, and Dad danced his way to the receiving line. That joy, that silly dance that he couldn't NOT do--that's what filled the open part today.

notebooks

When I was a teenager, Dad frequently gave me blank journals and diaries. He said it might be good for me to write things down, to work things out; that writing in them might help me to better understand myself. Occasionally, I would start writing on the blank pages--mostly about boy troubles--but only about ten of those pages remain. Most of them were torn out and burned in the woodstove within weeks of being written. There was a part of me that suspected that Dad really wanted me to write in journals so he could better understand me. Every time I wrote the kinds of things that I thought diaries were for, I was quite concerned that someone else might read them. There was quite a chorus of "if no one should know...." in my head when I was a teen.

This past week, I was reminded of those journal gifts when I pulled out my notebook as part of my routine when reading. I've kept notebooks for years--lines from books that touch my heart, notes on lectures, thoughts on what I've read, heard or seen. And the fact that this blog is, as Anna Nalick says, "my diary screaming out loud," is not lost on me. I had forgotten about all those journals, though.

When the memory caught me, I was (am still) in the midst of pondering a question posed to me. Pieces had been falling into place, slowly--as they do, and probably should, but the picture was still unclear. Many times when I'm feeling particularly befuddled, I think of Dad. At times, he comes to me, with that feeling of an arm over my shoulders, a glimpse of his thoughtful eyes, and once his clear voice speaking in my head. More often, though, there is something much more subtle: I come across something he'd given me, whether concrete or abstract. Pulling out the notebook brought him to mind, which, of course made me wonder why. As I opened my book to read, I found my answer--another piece to my current puzzle. Possibly the most important piece so far--and, interestingly, a lesson I now know Dad had been trying to teach me since those days when he gave me the journals.

One of my goals is to get my notebooks in order, and consolidate where I can, to make a cohesive order. My notebooks are all over the place, and sometimes even consist of loose sheets of paper stuffed into books that may or may not bear any reference to the notes. It'll be quite an undertaking, but worth the lessons about me I will learn. Ordering the notes will not necessarily order my mind, but that is quite all right. If nothing else, the consolidating will unclutter my heart.

Anxiety is fatal to recollection because recollection depends ultimately on faith, and anxiety eats into the heart of faith. Anxiety usually comes from strain, and strain is caused by too complete a dependence on ourselves, on our own devices, our own plans, our own idea of what we are able to do.

~Thomas Merton, No Man Is an Island, p. 224.

hold my hand

Lately, I've been thinking about hands. On Father's Day, as I held hands with my husband and one of our sons, I realized how different those hands felt. And I also remembered how Dad's hand felt when he held mine.

Ever since, hands have become a part of many of my days. Most of all, I have become more acutely aware of the hand on my shoulder. When I feel it, I picture Dad, or my Uncle, but I know that is only because I loved their hands.

Dad's hands were slightly calloused, warm, and always very clean. He would hold my hand often, even when I'd grown, and always there was a stronger squeeze before he let go. I learned from him the importance of that particular physical connection to another person. I'm a hugger, but I also deeply appreciate the simple helpfulness of a hand to hold.

My uncle drew a pair of folded hands. He talked about the effort he put in, the frustration he felt trying to make them look right. Soon after, in an art class, the teacher said that hands are only perfectly formed by God. Recreating them is especially difficult for any artist and takes extra effort. I remember picturing his drawing, and hearing his very similar sentiments. 

I'm comforted and comfortable with the hand on my shoulder,  the hands in my mind's eye. They are so real, so tangible. Clearly not something I've tried to create myself.

For years, as Christmas presents, we would paint the boys' hands and craft something for Mom and Dad and the boys' godparents: an angel, a Christmas tree, Rudolph. The hand prints were intended to help chronicle their growth to loved ones who didn't get to see them often enough. Hands to hold from far away.

I'm looking forward to where these hands will lead me. I'm open to the possibilities they offer. And I'm enjoying the memories they are stirring.  

dream state

Last night, I dreamt of finding a room in my house. Although it was a house I knew well, it was a house I've never seen in my waking life. And it was also distinctly "mine," as opposed to "our" house.

This was one of those dreams that is simultaneously real and an active exercise of imagination. I knew I was in a dream, and actively participated.

We had discovered some ants on a shelf. It seems every year (much like my real life house), we'd been dealing with the ants, and we had been waiting for the to show up. This time, our goal was to find where they were going, since stopping them from coming in had never done much good. So we followed their progress and discovered tjat the back of the shelf was actually a stone. Removing it, we discovered a fireplace, and beyond that, a beautiful--if dusty and empty--room with wood floors.

Funny that the rest of the room mattered little. All I could take in was the wide open space, the wide plank wood floors, and the dust. And I was as perplexed as I was contended at finally finding another secret room.

When I was a kid, and even into my 20's, I had a recurrent dream about a secret room in Grammy and Grampy's house. At the top of the stairs was a ledge that we would sometimes sit on when we were feeling brave and sure we would not get caught. I was terrified to stand or walk on it, figuring the wall behind me could never offer me enough support or balance.

In my dream, I would walk confidently to the end of the ledge and open the door that was only there in my dreams. On the other side was a beautifully appointed bedroom, fit for a queen. Too nice for me to touch much of anything, but a great place to sit by the window and read.

When we first moved to Pennsylvania, I dreamt of the house I thought we should buy and live in. To this day I can remember how excited I was when I first discovered the secret room in that house! It was almost another house, with a garden patio and French doors.

While in my dream last night, I wondered what I should be learning. I took in what came to me as important: wood floors, space, light, a fireplace, dust. And then I noticed that I was looking down into this room, and realized that had been true of the last secret room, although the room of my childhood was on my own level.

I awoke, as I always have after such dreams, happy and curious. Poised and at peace, but ready to get busy. Thoroughly confused, yet quite comforted. I hope it comes again.

thanks a bunch

Thanks, Dad, for being an example to me. Twice today I was reminded that being true to myself pays off on the end. And that often we have no idea what the impact of honesty will be.

Recently, in idle conversation at work (waiting for a process to run), I referred to you, and shortly thereafter, this near stranger asked a question directly related to you. My surprise was in the fact that he picked up on the connection I still feel with you. And that I had never considered the possibility of folowing in your work footsteps.

The truth is, what I most wanted to follow in were your values. I don't always measure up, but my yardstick is also skewed because you're gone. And because I miss you.

You live on in the boys for me. Both because they have bits of you in their looks, some expressions, and in their memories, and because I sometimes hear your heart in what they paraphrase back to me. You always had a way of making people feel real and important. And I'm pretty sure that's because everyone was.

The example you set for love of neighbor was one that I truly did not appreciate until now. We in your family were all your favorites--you said so all the time. I still feel it--your favorite daughter in Pennsylvania, your favorite Stephania. But it was more than just talk. You had a gift for seeing individuals; for finding (and quickly!) that unique thing that made each person stand out.

What I'm realizing is that you did that simply out of being you, not as some effort you'd learned was important or useful. You were you. And no one else.

Your you is very different from me, as it should be. But the way you made me feel lives on, and I do my best to pass it on by being me. The me I do best.

Among my blessings each night, I count you. I love you, and I miss you.

face, embrace, release

I stained a door today. More precisely, I stained half a door today. We bought the door (a bi-fold) a few months ago (before Easter) to replace the closet door in our bathroom. Since we brought it home, it has stood in our dining room, where I (we, and anyone else who came in the house!) could see it. I knew that if we put it out of sight, it would never get stained. Never get installed. Then swim team practice started up again, and I had nearly given up hope of ever getting it done.

Weeks ago, I had gone to get the stain and other materials needed, intending to--or rather, determined to--get the staining portion done while my husband was out of town college visiting with our son. Something got in the way--likely weather, possibly time, probably something else entirely--and here the door stood, waiting. Last week, texting with a dear friend, I finally came to the bottom of my hesitation. Her husband is the ultimate Mr. Fixit-DoItHimselfer. She told me that every family needs someone like him, and I told her, "That was my dad."

That's what it came down to: Dad would have had it done in no time, and I would have been amazed and impressed. After seeing how quickly I finished what I did today, even with the drying time between coats, I can see why he was always so modest about that kind of stuff. After I finished the second coat on the first side of the door, I found myself thinking, "Well, that was easy enough!"

Truth be told, I was hoping I wouldn't be the one staining the door. I took Mom this morning to meet up with my sister, who then took Mom up to her house for the weekend. Guy had swim team and lessons. Both of us were scheduled to be back home at nearly the same time this afternoon. The deal was, whoever got home first would work on the door. It wasn't until I pulled in the driveway that I realized that taking my lunch to go at Subway was my mistake! I had no choice but to get changed, and get started. Why it all seemed so daunting is difficult to explain; mostly because the reasons are not what most people see in me. I had read the directions again and again--at least four times in the store alone! And this was not even the first time I'd stained something. Grammy and Grampy's kitchen table and chairs had come out pretty well, but that had been about fifteen years ago. And somewhere in the intervening years, I had been reintroduced to some serious feelings of inadequacy and sadness. That's what I realized in the conversation with my friend: I needed to face those feelings once and for all.

Last summer, on a particularly bad day, I asked another friend a question about dealing with a problem. He told me to Face it, Embrace it, and Let It Go. I will never forget that. It was a real turning point for me, and has become quite a motto in almost everything I do. It'll take more than just a door to expel the demons from my past, but one small step is all it takes to begin a journey--or to continue on. In the Faith Matters group at church, we've been working through a personal retreat on Consoling the Heart of Jesus, and talking quite a bit about Mercy, and Love. I've learned that loving others is not enough; I need to face and embrace everything about myself, too; the good, the bad, and everything in between. The stuff from my adult life, I've been able to look at (fairly) clearly. It's the stuff from long ago that sometimes bubbles up, and then gets pressed back down by the parts of me that have not been ready to face them. Nothing is major, really, in the grand scheme of things, but I'm positive that at least some of it would help the boys tremendously if I could reveal it to myself enough to share with them.

Tomorrow I will finish staining the door, and hopefully by Monday night, we'll have a beautiful new door for the bathroom closet. And I will have vanquished at least one of the dark shadows in my mind.

still no pen

Last night I dreamt I was writing. I would be told a topic, and I would turn and go to a room and write. The feeling the writing gave me was neither positive nor negative; it's just what I had to do. Yet I was delighted. I knew writing was what I needed to do.

The funny thing is, I had a keen awareness that I was not writing on my piece of blank paper. I knew that my paper was still somewhere. And that was, interestingly, a comforting, rather than a nagging, feeling. Over the course of the past week, including some short exchanges, some reading, some pondering, and even some ignoring, I've come to see, and begin to appreciate, the subtle tweak in attitude. My blank paper is blank because it's meant to be--for the moment.

Anyway, I know that most dreams are forgotten rather quickly after waking. The fact that this one is staying with me until almost bedtime again was not my first clue that there was something there for me to know. No, the first clue was when I woke, and saw paper, and knew instinctively that answers come in small pieces, like Gramma Katie's winter jigsaws. Funny how over twenty years later, I'm learning so many lessons from her! Each winter, Gramma Katie set up a card table in her front parlor, and dumped a puzzle out onto its surface. I always wondered how she managed to find such hard puzzles, because they took all winter to put together. (At home, I would put puzzles together to have another something in common with her, and they never took nearly as long to finish.) I remember asking her about this, but I don't remember any answer past the smile she always had (open mouthed,and with laughing eyes) and shared generously.

Now when I think about my special situation, I see her putting her puzzles together, piece by piece; savoring each 'fit.' This is what the joy in life is: seeing each small piece for what it is--which is not always something more than a small part of the whole, but is oftentimes more important in the long run than we'd imagined. In my pondering, I'm coming across memories I'd nearly let slip off the edge that seem to be turning out to be those all important frame pieces. Or the hard to place, but equally important filler pieces.
Like the answer to a discussion question in on of my classes: a non-profit or not-for-profit. At the time, as with a few other things I've blurted out lately, I thought, "Where did that come from?" And yet (which I find myself saying often these days!) I knew exactly where in my heart; I just didn't know that I knew. I remember that was the strangest part. At some point, another question will move to the forefront of my thinking, and that may or may not coincide with having an answer to the current one. But contemplating has become an inspiring pastime, and has changed my outlook. (Okay, to be perfectly honest, change is slow in coming, but I can see the edges of it, and, since I like what I see, I'm inviting it, embracing it.)

Still no pen.

tongues of fire

Pentecost was one of Dad's favorite days of the Liturgical year. Normally, he would be the last one ready to leave. I can still smell the scent of his shaving cream mingled with the steam of his shower in the downstairs bathroom while I sat, or more likely stood, in the kitchen, dressed and ready to go. But on Pentecost Sunday, he would glide down the stairs smoothing his hair one last time, wearing something red, and he would be humming. Try as I might now, I can't catch the tune, but I'm sure it was a hymn about the Holy Spirit.

I asked him once why he loved Pentecost so much. He told me then about his own Confirmation, and that Pentecost was a day to remember Confirmation and Baptismal promises; to renew and refresh faith. He told me vividly about the tongues of flame on the heads of the apostles, and their vocation to preach publicly. He told me about choosing his Confirmation name, and then using it daily for the rest of his life, and he told me about the saint he had chosen to name himself for.

All my life, I'd known I was named after Dad. His name was John. It was the running joke: She's named after her father, followed by a quizzical and confused look. Dad chose Stephen as his saint: the first martyr, stoned for following and preaching about Christ, with a feast day right after Christmas (Dad said that was because he was the first martyr). Baptised without a middle name, Dad included the initial S in his signature for the rest of his life. I've always worn my name proudly for the two men after whom I was named.

Living the expectation that goes with the name has been more of a challenge. Dad was one of the best Christian examples I'd known, yet I didn't realize that while he was here. Recently, in conversation, I've seen how deep his example sent my roots in faith, regardless of where my branches were blowing. I've come back to my roots, and pruned some dragging branches. Now my challenge is remembering who I am.

over the river

Once upon a time, my husband asked what I wanted for Mother's Day. As long as I could remember, the only thing I ever wanted to be (after a brief time when I wanted to be a nurse) was a momma, but my response was swift: A weekend home alone. Being at home with babies and a dog, in a place where I knew few people, and even fewer places to go could make for some rough days. I loved being the mom, and I even enjoyed the chores around the house that go along with being a stay at home mom. The idea of being the only one in the house, with no schedule whatsoever, for two days sounded so luxurious! For years, that was my one and only present from Guy and the boys. On Friday after work, they would head off to my parents' house to celebrate Mother's Day with my mom. (A wonderful byproduct of these excursions: Guy and Dad became the best of friends, sharing time, house and yard work, and heart to heart conversations that I never even knew about until recently. They shared a deep and special connection.) Back home, I would eat what I liked, when I liked; stay up late reading, sew or putter all day (no chores!!); soak in the tub....anything at all. I didn't even need to walk the dog, because he would go with the menfolk.

Mother's Day was two days ago. We took Mom to breakfast, and then took the scenic route to Church (not the cynic route--that's another story!), where we mothers were encouraged to "demand respect" for the rest of the day. I'd already decided that what I really wanted to do was finish my reading for Faith Matters, do some research for book club, and do some writing, but every time I sat down to read, someone needed some important answer. At first, I patiently closed my book, and tried to offer my attention to whichever mancub needed me. Before long, I gave up on trying to feign patience, packed up my stuff, and moved upstairs to our bedroom. Next thing I knew, I was annoyed that I frequently feel as though I'm driven away from the common areas of our home. I found myself praying for some peace in my swirling mind.

Suddenly, I realized what was happening. Clearly I was not meant to be reading at that moment, not meant to be by myself, or in my own world. I'd missed the chance to play a game with our youngest, but there was still time to make it to a movie. So my Mother's Day this year was not what I had planned, but in the end, I did get my reading done, we enjoyed a film together, and our oldest told us how proud he is of us. And two of their friends surprised me and touched my heart with an unexpected text, and even more unexpected flowers.

I am blessed to be able to live my dream, and that the boys all know what a blessing each of them is to me. And I'm especially blessed to have an angel by my side to balance me. Long before we knew each other, we each chose as Confirmation saints parents: Anne and Joseph. Long before we met each other, we each knew that right here is where we wanted and needed to be. And these boys are the light of our lives.

head shots

Last weekend, at the Grace Uncorked event at church, our table was discussing various things we had just heard from the presenter, as well as some recent--and not-so-recent--things we had learned about ourselves. Along with my husband and myself, there were two other people at the table, neither of whom I'd talked to before that night. At one point, after referencing my parents in some way three or four times in about fifteen minutes' time, one of the women remarked that I clearly had a deep foundation in my faith, regardless of where I felt I am on my faith journey. Taken aback, I commented that I felt as though my faith, for most of my adult life at any rate, was pretty shallow. I tucked this away as something to ponder.

Things happened, conversations occurred, days rolled on as they always do, and all the while, without my even purposely thinking about it, something was developing. At Mass on Ascension Thursday, I found myself slightly distracted; something I noticed because lately I've managed to stay fairly focused at church. The distractions started early, primarily because I got frustrated with the boys' inability or refusal to choose a pew to sit in, even though they were in the front of our familial procession, so as I chose, I sent Mom in first, thereby putting all of us on her blind side, which made me feel as though I had isolated her from the rest of us. [Normally, she sits smack dab in the middle of our crew.] Preoccupied, I found myself thinking about the people I had seen so many times before, but now know the names that go with the faces; people who have become much more than fellow parishioners or acquaintances, people who have become friends.

Many of these new friends happen to be converts from other faiths, and I found myself musing that their desire to learn more about our faith is one of the sparks that keeps me going. Suddenly I realized how much I had taken my faith for granted. And how little I realized the profound effect Mom and Dad had on that faith. They were my first teachers, my first examples of goodness and kindness, forgiveness and mercy, and of imperfection. Dad kept a note I wrote to God in second grade. I had forgotten all about it--and the response that God had written to me. Reading it all these years later, with my life experience and children of my own, I can see the depth of God's love the note meant to convey, and I am amazed, impressed, and truly humbled. We said Grace before dinner together every evening, were expected to behave well at church every week, went to Parochial school, and learned evening prayers. All fairly usual stuff.

But there was more that made an impact on me. Periodically, we would see a candle burning on the kitchen shelf. Mom and Dad would pray for engaged couples attending marriage preparation, and as a reminder to keep them in mind. I did the same thing when each of my parents had chemo treatments, and I've lit candles at home to remind me of other special intentions. Like my parents, I try to mention to the boys why the candle is burning. Dad prayed for each of his children and grandchildren with every rosary, at least every time he mowed the lawn. Part of the reason I say the rosary daily is related to his Marian devotion. Mom and I attend Faith Matters at church every week, and have begun talking like we did when I was a kid--about what we see, what we wonder about, what amazes us, impresses us, and stumps us about our faith. We laugh sometimes about things that seem incongruous with life today, but impress us about life in Bible times.

I thought and thought about how to bring all these thoughts together. I also started coming to the conclusion when I first got to church this morning, that once again, I've been asking for the wrong things. In my prayer, I often ask God to be more direct in answering my questions, to please just hit me over the head. [Yesterday, I read about someone who asked the same, and was literally hit by falling objects three times in one evening before someone pointed out to her she kept getting hit in the head and she realized her prayer was being answered. I'll admit I found myself weirdly jealous.] This morning, I realized, once again, that Someone knows better than I do: I learn better when my realizations are evolutionary, or at least less violent. And in their own way, my revelations are pretty sudden--like these realizations about the foundations of my faith.

So I had come to a synthesis for this blog post: where my faith came from, and where I'm going with it. Then, sudden affirmation: at the end of today's homily, two questions were presented, and I rejoiced with laughter inside. "What influences has the Lord put in your life to make his prayer for you a reality? How are you responding to him so that you can be a godly influence for someone else?" The very questions I had determined I needed to address.

I am truly blessed to have so many influences in my life guiding me toward my True Self--my parents, teachers and others who gave me roots, and friends, family, and even my children, who both fertilize and prune to help me grow. As for the second question, I've opened my heart, my mind, and my being to the possibilities around me. Discerning what I should do, versus what I want to do is still difficult for me, but I'm working on it. And with His help, a cooperative effort, I will learn to be the blessing I am meant to be.

Fully.

merci

My story:

While researching the life and time of St. Therese for a book club discussion of The Story of a Soul, I came across a novena. All my life, I had heard of novenas, but it wasn't until recently that I knew what a novena is.* At the bottom of the page, the instructions said to say the novena, and after nine days, St Therese "will present you with a rose!" By now, I not only realize the metaphorical nature of answered prayers, I've come to embrace it, although at times I still miss the subtleties. Knowing that with prayer, there is nothing to lose, and wondering just what the rose could possibly be, I jumped in. Or, rather, planned when to begin.

The last thing I wanted to do was lose count, so I decided to start on a Monday, and to make the prayer my usual morning offering, at my desk, at work. I tucked the prayer into my bag. On the selected Monday, I pulled the paper out, started the prayer (which is below), and stopped short when I got to the part where I was to add my special intention. I had completely forgotten I would need to pray the novena for something! After some quick thinking, I determined that my offering would be for a couple I had been asked to pray for. I was just about finished with St Therese's little book, and didn't feel as though there was anything I needed for myself, or for my family. She spent a lifetime praying for others she had never seen or met. I was so inspired.

Each morning, I would say the prayer, read my minute meditation, and continue with my day. I remembered to take the paper home with me for the weekend, and only almost forgot to say the prayer on Saturday. Tuesday was the last day, but I said the prayer one last time on Wednesday, just in case. And I felt such peace. I hoped that the people for whom I'd been praying could feel blessings, warmth, love. There was also a very distinct feeling that perhaps just having finished, and feeling refreshed by the exercise was itself the rose.

Then it happened.

Thursday was our son's birthday. I woke happy with memories of his life with us, and especially of the day he was born: a beautiful, perfect spring day. We spent the morning with friends, enjoying the weather, their son and daughter playing with our two sons, and then going out to an early lunch so the kids could nap. I napped, too, and woke with a tightness I'd never felt before. The family we'd spent the morning with had long before agreed to keep our boys when the baby was born, so we called, and headed back over. In the hospital, the doctor told us how happy he was that the baby was polite enough to wait until he'd taught his son to ride a bike before making his appearance. (He is still very polite!) Although I think of that family often, we haven't seen them in years--the kids went to different schools, they had different interests, time and life got in the way.

Similarly, my godparents, with whom I have always felt close, have always lived far away from me. My godmother's sister, however, attends the same church that we do, and I have been seeing her fairly often in the past few months. When she went to visit her sister, I sent her with a note and some pictures, as a surprise. My godmother and I used to be prolific pen pals--she guiding me more than she'll ever know through the bumps and switchbacks of growing up. Life, travel, small children (my own and her grandchildren), and all kinds of other little things got in the way of sharing the long, newsy pages we used to share. I miss it. She sends cards, without fail, for each of the boys' birthdays (including the 'big boy!').

Back to the birthday on Thursday. The card in the mailbox also contained a rose-petal pink envelope, with the most lovely note, addressed to me. I wept as I read it; both for the words it contained, and for the memories wrapped in love and joy brought back as I recognized her wit and turn of phrase. I bloomed, and agreed with all those who say that the world has lost something in the quick send/receive of email and text communication. Yet, in typical Stephanie fashion, I did not recognize the rose in my hand. (Hit me over the head, Lord! is my usual prayer!)

After dinner, instead of cake, we went to the fro-yo cafe we like. As I started to explain to Mom how it all worked (a salad bar of sundae toppings, basically), I happened to look up and see.......the woman who had cared for our boys while our birthday boy was born. She may have been surprised at the hug I gave her without even thinking about the years since the last one, but I knew immediately that she was, in fact, my rose. The first thing she said to me was that she thinks of us from time to time, and I was so excited to tell her that I had been thinking about her that very day--most of the day, in fact--and that we were celebrating that very same day, 15 years ago. We chatted--me forgetting that the boys' fro-yo would be melting--and parted ways both feeling lighthearted. As I topped my coconut and dutch chocolate with yumminess, I thanked St Therese, and said another little prayer for my special couple.

How could I be so sure, immediately, of my rose when I hadn't even realized about the note? (as soon as we walked back in the house that night, I put together those pieces) Because the church that family attended way back when was St Theresa of the Infant Jesus--the Little Flower herself. God must have told her to hit me over the head.

O Little Therese of the Child Jesus,
Please pick a rose for me
From the heavenly gardens
And send it to me
As a message of love.
O little flower of Jesus,
Ask God today to grant the favors
I now place with confidence
In your hands.
(Mention your specific requests)
St. Therese,
help me to always believe,
As you did,
In God's great love for me,
So that I might imitate your
"Little Way" each day. Amen


*A novena, according to The free dictionary, is a recitation of prayers and devotions for a special purpose during nine consecutive days.There is also a Flying Novena, which Mother Theresa used in emergencies. Another story, another time.

simple words

The words of a stranger this evening; a spur of the moment urge to share a thought, an idea.

"You have a beautiful smile."

With those words, and the slight gesture to get my attention, came an instantaneous flood of memories; flashes of moments in time. My father, my husband, two of my brothers, a dear friend who has moved away, in-loves.....all variations on the theme. And at that moment in the present, I was taken by surprise. Later, while talking to my husband about it, he said that my smile was what attracted me to him in the first place. Again taken by surprise, the simple truth, "It has to be something."

I blushed.

There is no way to know how our words will affect another. I have no idea what moved the stranger to speak to me, although in the environment, there is a possibility that he did not consider me a stranger, and may not have considered his words as particularly surprising. But he could never have known the internal reaction I had.

So much to say in simple words.

I thanked him, for the compliment, ostensibly, but more for the flood of warmth that accompanied the pictures in my mind, and in my heart. For the love that I was once again reminded of. And the spirit -- and smile -- I inherited; the vibrant energy shared among my dear ones.

He touched me.

And made my heart sing.

Lesson learned: One of my favorite songs says it best, "Say what you need to say." I've always thought of those instructions as being related to the Big Things to the people you share the most energy, time, or love with. Tonight I was reminded that there are times when what we need to say is to the strangers we come across in unexpected moments.

Thank you.