That evening we loaded the kids into the 15 passenger and drove through the rainy streets to her small, modest home. Everyone found a seat somewhere and the youth leader pulled out his guitar and led us in some songs. Conversation followed along with snacks and finally the end of our evening bid us return to the church. Before I left, carefully navigating the forty-foot oxygen line that connected Maxine lungs via her nostrils, I asked her if I could visit her during the week. "Of course, " she replied. "Come for lunch on Tuesday."

I dropped my girls off at Mother's Day Out, took the money for the day, chatted casually with the other mothers, directed a new mom to the correct room, aided in filling out the required papers, and finally loaded the lunches into the refrigerators. Having complete my few errands, I pulled up in front of the mustard-yellow bungalow. The smell of crape myrtle filled the air. As I passed the trees, I reached out and pinched the bloom out of a bud, a habit from my youth.

I knocked once knowing that her physical ailments would prevent her from answering quickly. I could hear a door closing and the shuffling of feet. Her stooped figure appeared and opened the heavy door. I hugged her and entered. The smell of something delicious made me salivate and I realized that I was famished. She told me to follow her into the kitchen where a table was modestly set. She refused my help to carry the dishes laden with food to the table and directed me to sit. I couldn't believe the amount of food she had prepared: spiced meatballs, au gratin potatoes, canned green beans with bacon, a salad, homemade rolls. We prayed and she reached for my plate and began to ladle generous helpings of everything onto it. I saw the plate grow heavier and heavier bending her tiny wrists. I took the plate from her hands and thanked her. We talked easily about life and children and husbands and cooking and gardening and church and the weather and our love of Missouri. The food was the comfort of my body, the conversation the comfort of my soul.

She told me how she and her husband had met, reared three children, having lost one to death while she quite small. Though the child's death occurred forty years previous, she dabbed at her moistened eyes. There was no offer of excuse for her obvious grief, just a silent pause before she continued. We soon found our plates empty and when I returned from the pink-tiled bathroom, she had placed on the table a 12 inch octagonal pie plate filled with coconut cream pie. I was now in a conundrum. Somewhere deep in my memory existed a very bad experience with meringue and gelatinous things. She had already poured a cup of coffee and was slicing and placing a gigantic piece onto my fresh dessert plate. I could never offend this gentle, generous woman and so, sucked up, casting aside my pickiness, and sat. I told her how wonderful the food was, and asked how in the world she thought I could now eat such a big piece of pie. As she walked over to the counter to retrieve the cream and sugar, her back hunched with osteoporosis, navigating the cord of oxygen, and hearing the shuffle of the orthopedic shoe that accommodated her displaced hip, she said, "You're a skinny thing. How much you weigh?" I laughed aloud. This coming from such a fragile creature who couldn't have weighed more than 95 pounds. I told her she was the pot calling the kettle black. She chuckled and agreed. Thus began our friendship and weekly visits.

We didn't always have lunch, only on the days her son, who, at 6'5 and 250 pounds, towered over his wee mother, shadowing her with intense love and protection, stopped by for lunch. Sometimes we just sat and talked while her home-health nurse poked and prodded her, taking all kinds of vitals and scribbling notes. Maxine would make silly faces over the shoulder of the scrub-clad, bleached-blond nurses assistant causing me to stifle giggles. Maxine never complained about anything but filled the air with stories of her youth, a time so far from my own experience that I was truly transported and felt I was bumping along with her in her husband's wagon. They were a poor family, but like so many from her generation, clean and hard-working, cheerful and content.

Once, while talking, she reached into her end table and pulled out a comb and attempted to smooth her hair, keeping it nice until the next shampoo and curl. I saw her struggling to get the back, and through my smile, my eyes became wet. I walked over and taking the comb from her, began to gently arrange her hair.

The third week of May was the last Mother's Day Out and we had a planned trip. I had many things to do to prepare and also wanted to take advantage of the last full-day of refreshment I would have before summer descended. As I passed the street that led to Maxine's home, I had a conviction to pull in and visit her for a few minutes. I justified my limited time, setting an afternoon appointment in my head and drove on.

My day passed more quickly than I anticipated, as it so often does when it is the last of something. I raced into town to pick-up the girls, again thinking I would get into see Maxine the following day. Suffice it to say, I forgot and only remembered as we were driving to St. Louis. Wednesday when I return, I thought. The weekend was filled with various trips to the Zoo and Nature and Science centers and a bit of retail therapy for myself.

When I picked up the mail from the post office, I sifted through and selected the church newsletter. I left the van running, and sitting in the parking lot, quickly scanned the front and turned to middle section that held the social news of the congregation, weddings, baby announcements, funerals. Funerals. "We extend our deepest sympathies to the Gardner family at the death of Maxine on Thursday last. Her funeral will be held Wednesday..." The words became blurred, and I fell against the steering well, the music of "Performance Today" playing on the radio, the girls talking in the background.

I made it home and settled the children with painting and quickly dialed the number to the church. After getting the specifics from the church secretary- the holder of all pertinent information- I arranged for a sitter. I hung up, glanced at the clock- one hour- and dashed upstairs to change into the appropriate attire. I couldn't keep myself from weeping as I drove the twenty-two miles to the sitters. As I entered the funeral home, I pulled a couple of tissues from the strategically placed box. I took a seat on the back row and listened to the brief eulogy, the few songs, the organ. Not many were in attendance: her family, the pastors, and the aged friends of her youth that were left in this world. I don't recall any of the words. I was lost in thought while I contemplated the silver-haired, hatted women with hands covered in wax paper, still wearing their wedding rings, ornate with silver filigree, triple strands of pearls encasing the swinging flesh of their necks. Who would know that their bodies lit by the fire of true love once moved with agility and swiftness; that they ached with passion; ran after their little ones with eternal energy; snapped beans while sharing the gossip and "prayer concerns"?

After the grave side services, the family went to the church wear more elderly, fragile women had cooked and baked a savory meal, but tasteless to its consumers. I passed through the kitchen once, and overheard them talking about Maxine, sharing memories of rearing their families and organizing church projects. The sipped their syrupy coffee in Styrofoam cups held in shaky grasps, cooled with pursed, wrinkled, red lips.

I found Bruce, Maxine's burly yet gentle son. He hugged me in a suffocating and comforting embrace. I asked what had happened so suddenly. He explained that an infection from boils on her feet, an ailment she had long had, but never mentioned to me, had spread through her circulatory system and significantly weakened her. She was hospitalized that Tuesday that I had ignored her. He told me that she had asked about me, if I had come. "Surely she'll be here, " she had said. And yet I had not come. She died peacefully and in her sleep, he assured me, thinking that my display of tears and shaking shoulders was over her actual death.

I picked up the children, popped a cassette of Beethoven Lives Upstairs to occupy them, to keep their astute little hearts from discerning or noticing my obvious distress and sadness. For weeks I felt depressed. I had let my friend down. And for what? Chinese take-out, a movie, and some extra loads of clean laundry. Selfishness. One night R asked me what was bothering me. I confessed how I had justified not stopping that day; how I had realized later that if I had simply stopped for two minutes, I would have known she was in the hospital, could have rescheduled the St. Louis trip; could have been there for my friend.

R held my hand, then hugged me tightly. After my crying had diminished, he asked me that pulling I felt about going to visit her could have been the Holy Spirit. I acknowledged that I believed it was. He then told me that maybe the reason I was so affected was that perhaps in denying that conviction, I had grieved the Holy Spirit by not being obedient to His prompting. I analyzed for a few minutes, then said that yes, I believed that to be the truth of the matter. Other than missing my friend, I knew I had let her down, and that I hadn't done what I was supposed to do. R encouraged me to pray, to seek forgiveness for not listening to the Small Voice that God has promised to provide me with; the voice that directs my vision beyond the physical world and material concerns and anxieties. So, right then, we kneeled together; R wanting to be supportive of me, his concern and compassion for my contrite heart and disconsolate soul, and I prayed. I knew immediate relief from God. I thanked R for being an honest friend who didn't attempt to pacify me with sugar-coated yet deficient words of "You couldn't have known" or "You were a good friend- think of all the times you did visit her."

The next week, I drove the winding, narrow road through the cemetery and found the marker the to her grave. I stood for a moment and then crying, told her that I was sorry I let her down; that I would miss her sweetness, her humor, her humility, her friendship. I wiped my eyes, got into the station wagon, and drove home, secure that the fences in heaven had been mended.

I determined from that experience that I would never again ignore a prompting to visit someone, to check-in on them, no matter how "inconveniencing" the stop may appear.

« Hide the rest of I met Maxine during an

Rae, I love you......
-sally

Thanks for sharing this...I am truly edified.

Yes, edifying...it's a story of a lovely friendship, but also a reminder to pay attention to those gentle promptings from the Spirit.

You should have posted a warning for those of us at work. Thanks for sharing a wonderful story.

Thank you for blessing me with your memory.

Not only was that a beautiful story, it was very well written. I loved your descriptions. I also loved the way you shared your heart.

diabetic insulin diabetic supplies american diabetes association diabetes diet diabetic diet insulin pumps juvenile diabetes symptoms of diabetes diabetes equipment glucose meter syringes lifescan http://www.diabetic-care-supplies.com

Yesterday, knowing it would be the only day for our family to just be together for some weeks to come, we opted for staying home, sleeping late, making an extremely delicious brunch of homemade waffles with strawberries and whipped cream, sausage, eggs, an assortment of juices, coffee and half-n-half for me. It was wonderful to eat together, laughing, talking, enjoying the company of one another and, of course, the food.

We met later in the living room to talk about what Jesus meant to each of us, sang some hymns, and shared in communion, most of us still in our pajamas.

That afternoon, E and A and I went to on an outing to purchase new towels for their bathroom, along with a shower curtain; towels for C and K's bathroom; a curtain rod for E's new curtains from PB Teen (a gift from her grandmother). We made one last stop at the Ralph Lauren outlet and it was there that I was smugly pleased with myself. Spying a rack of dark-rinse jeans on sale, I grabbed a pair along with a t-shirt to try on while the girls went next door to get some chocolate from the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory (I put in a request for a dark chocolate bar- my hands-down favorite.). In the dressing room listening to a dance mix of the Beatles, I slipped out of my Lucky's and grabbed the size 8 RL jeans. Hah! Too big! I walked out and asked the waifs attending the register if they had a size 6. Yes, indeed they did, and yes, indeed, I bought 'em. And the t-shirt.

We landed home just in-time for the girls to play piano for a special evening service at church.

It was just the relaxation and time together that I needed to forge through the coming week.

Oh, and I am meeting Ith this week for lunch. Mental note to secure the details.

« Hide the rest of Stress Rehearsal

everytime i read about your family being together i get all happy inside! i can't wait to have a family of my own! yesterday at church, the definition of family was asked. nick wispered in my ear "at least three people." oh, the day when we get to have kids!!

Heh. Intesting that he mentioned the number three. I know he meant the two of you and a child, but that is the number that he and I share: mother, himself, and me.

My selfish hope is that I am near enough to visit often. The thought of not being able to hold and smell and play with and spoil and love my neice (poke, poke) would make me feel quite desperate.

Are you playing a tart?

Alas, I didn't get to play a tart. I am just a poor woman, albeit a drunk, poor woman, in that scene, that is. I become a respectable woman for the other scenes.

There's a Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory? Kewl!

See you Wed.!

When a package arrived with the familiar scripty, curly writing of Grandmother, I couldn't contain my excitement. Sometimes her thought expressed itself in a card, a money order enclosed along with the admonition to "Buy Whatever I Wanted." It was tangible proof that somewhere, someone had been thinking of me; the glory of being thought enough of to show recognition. She lived in Washington, D.C., a fact I proudly proclaimed anytime the city was mentioned. The nation's capital held the Smithsonian, the presidential memorials, the President of the United States, and my grandmother. I was convinced further of her importance when I learned that she lived where only the most important people in the country did.

Early in my freshman year of high school, my mother's hushed voice talking on the phone drew me to listen under her door. I heard only the words "mother" and "sick" but I knew that something was dreadfully wrong. We found out it was Colon Cancer that had metastasized to other organs, but she wouldn't fight it. She had known a long time that her body was ravaging itself. Only when she couldn't get out of bed to walk did she ask someone for help. My aunt went to care for her, but as they had too many deeply rooted and unresolved issues, it overwhelmed them both. Finally, that same summer, my mother went to D.C. to bring her mother to home to die. I had by then left my mother's house, our tempers having become far too violent. I had grown big enough to strike back, but only in words and provocation. I could never hit my mother, although she lacked the same inhibition.

There have been many things for which I have resented my mother, but when I saw her do this, when I saw her tenderly and patiently care for the withering body of my grandmother, saw her demand that others treat her with respect and dignity, it profoundly touched me. It showed me the capacity that she could somehow muster and it gave me both relief and hope.

I was still a teenager, self-absorbed as any, and so when my birthday had come and passed, and I had received nothing from Grandmother, I asked her about it on one of our few telephone calls. Several days later a note arrived with a twenty dollar bill folded inside. I could hardly read the decrepitly scratched words. I was torn between planning how I could spend the money and the obvious wasting away of my lovely Grandmother.

She would die mid-August, a phone call telling me so. My mother who had never really known me, again, misjudged me and wouldn't allow me to attend to the funeral, withholding the opportunity for me to grieve with others who knew and loved her. It was a lonely and bitter grieving as the only words that I heard were the jejune and general from those who didn't know her from any other old woman.

I found out later, while helping my mother pack to move, that Grandmother was cremated. Behind some LP's that mother directed me to throw to the floor, was an urn. I knew immediately what it was, who it contained. I paused and reached across the shelf. My fingers graced the edge; I couldn't reach it. The irony and my anger overwhelmed me. Mother has never been patient with those she loved and nagged for me to continue. One last effort on my toes, and my hand grasped my Grandmother's remains. I turned and handed it to my mother. She immediately began to justify, "I thought it would weird you out." Like so many times before, my mother demonstrated how much she didn't know me and ,again, had underestimated. "It was Grandmother's wish. She had wanted to have her ashes scattered over the hometown of her youth." I only recalled my mother always wanting to be cremated. It didn't really matter. I found myself, at 18, feeling like a small child who's hand had slipped from her mother's in a crowded market.

It was known, understood among her daughters, that Grandmother was going to die. She had refused treatment and was beyond it anyway. I imagine that when people choose this route- to pretend they aren't desperately ill- that while riding the subway, the bus, or navigating the maze of office cubicles, that someone must hear the body screaming, begging for relief; maybe they just don't know from where it is coming. The same aunt who had gone to care for her told me that she had wanted to die, had always wanted to die. She spent years being depressed. It was a confusing thing to hear. As a diagnosis told a patient in medical terminology: I required more simple definition. I was growing old enough for the women in my family to begin to share with me my Grandmother as a fragile human, tired, disappointed, debaucherous, embarrassing. I couldn't handle it. I wasn't yet ready to pull her from the sweet aspic of my memory.

Mother once tried to tell me about the mother of her childhood but I refused to hear. Later, when she ventured there again, I didn't rebuff. By then I had been a mother three times over and knew the requirements to be a good one were draining. I knew that listening was the key to knowing the ingredients that were the making of my own mother. It was hard. When she finished, tears had salted my mouth and stained my face. I placed my hand on my mother's and told her that I wish I could been her mommy. I would have loved the little brown-eyed girl with her father's smile. I would have worked my ass off to make sure she never doubted the love of her mother. Mother didn't recoil, but neither did she respond. Though it was obvious she wasn't ungrateful, it was awkward for her. Sensing it, I threw out something to make her laugh instead. She rose, assuaged, resolute for a quick withdrawal, and announced it was time to leave for dinner.

It was French and we both had dessert and coffee, and returned home to our books in bed; different women but inhabited by the blood of the same woman who by we were so affected. My light was off before hers, but sleep came to relieve my watch far into the night. I would wonder how my mothering was going to mold my own daughters. Would they walk away from my arms secure in themselves, in knowledge of who I really am, who they really are, and be able to live a life fraught with love and balance? It remains to be seen but, for once in several generations, I believe the odds are in their favor.

« Hide the rest of My grandmother, my mother's mother,

I've often wondered what kind of mother I would be if I had kids. The fact that I cannot say with certainty that I would be better than my own is one of the biggest reasons I never had children with my first husband.

Oh Rae, that just pains to read. I marvel at the mother you are every time you share one of these deep hurts.

Rae, Rae, Rae,

That blog made me want to call my mom and tell her how much I love her! I love reading your writing!

Hannah- hey lady :D Thanks for commenting. And yes, please call your mom; I know it would be such a sweet thing for her to treasure hearing your praise for her.

Awww, thank you, too.

Oh my friend. I have heard this story, and yet it still brings tears to my eyes. And I feel the emphathy that you had for your mother, for you, and wish I could have been your mother and could have provided the nurturing that every child needs to feel from at least one parent. You are an amazing woman. You are like a beautiful phoenix that was reborn out of the ashes of your childhood.

PS... Thanks for your encouragement and support today.

The little information that I had gathered about the faith was from movies, some fiction, and the Saturday Night Live episodes that I would lay in my bedroom doorway and listen to while my parents watched. If the particular scene seemed especially funny, I would risk wrath for a slow trip to the bathroom just to get a look at Father Guido Sarducci.

My first real introduction to the Catholic faith came from R's family. His grandfather, a first generation American whose parents were German, had reared his family of five girls and one boy in the Catholic faith. They attended Catholic schools their entire life. Not all of them remained in the faith, some opted for Protestantism and some for a more eclectic version of Catholicism that better fitted whom they had become. R's grandfather wasn't an educated man, but he loved his family, loved his God, and loved his church. When he retired from his blue-collar employment proud that he had risen through the ranks to foreman, he attended mass daily at the parish at the end of his block.

What I saw was nothing like the propaganda I had been fed in the basements of buildings where emotion was employed to garner the commitments of the sweaty youths that sat on the floor. I saw a man who believed exactly what I did, albeit a different method, a more organized and systematic style of worshiping the exact same God, through exactly the same Jesus Christ.

Once, when his wife was out for the evening, R and I took a meal over to eat with him and to pass his time. I had taken careful note of the way she had served certain things to him, things that the eccentricities of his age required for his comfort and the organization of his mind. He talked about that for years afterwards. Where he came from, what you did mattered far more than what you said.

His death seven years into our marriage, brought on by the terrible, emotionally depleting and physically exhausting disease of Alzheimer's, brought the typical dichotomy of feelings this disease extracts from the relatives of its victims: relief and grief. The funeral was, however, magical. I had never attended a Catholic funeral or wedding, though I had heard that they were a lot more fun than the fundamentalist ceremonies that I had previously attended.

At the burial sight, after the prayers were said, and the crowd of friends began to break away from the family, R's aunt, knowing us to be unfamiliar with the practices of Catholicism, asked if we would like to sprinkle holy water over the coffin. I awkwardly acquiesced more out of politeness than belief of the power of water blessed by a priest. Afterward, I stood holding one of our three daughters and watched as each family member participated in one of the last rituals of his faith for their father. Through this mix of personal notes and observation, I discarded the unfounded notion that these people weren't "real" Christians; that mine was correct and theirs lacking or purposefully misleading.

Years later, while visiting my mother in her newly purchased condo, I saw a small statue of the Virgin Mary, complete with a place for a candle and some rosary beads placed over the top next to her bed. Completely surprised at my heathen mother's choice of decoration, which I presumed it to be, I asked her about it. She told me that she placed it there on purpose. I asked her why. She told me that if she ever again chose "organized religion" she would become Catholic. In response to my question of her preference, she replied, "Because I love ritual and find peace in it." It was a strange thing to hear coming out of that woman I thought I knew. I am sure my surprise and bewilderment was evident on my face. My confusion was mistaken for judgment as I saw her move the small icon away from her bedside and onto an out-of-the-way bookshelf against the wall, protected from my misperceived doubt.

The older I get, the more I understand her desire for comfort the ceremonial brings, though I have grown-up outside the traditional Protestant faiths that utilize liturgy, and once secretly wagged my tongue at it. The past three years, I have used The Westminster Shorter Catechism in teaching my girls the theology of our faith. I have seen so many adults who have belief but have no way to bring words, or accurately define, nor astutely and logically defend or present their beliefs. I must say that while it doesn't ensure a continuing faith (and I don't think there is a system of teaching that does so), that the rigor of the religious Catholic catechism does secure a very specific knowledge of the faith. I have found that in times of questioning the existence of God, His power, or the actuality of my own faith, it is the erudition to which I cling.

I feel that Patrick, more than anyone, has been able to accurately explain Catholic theology to me. Because of his compelling thoughts, I began to examine things from a different perspective. While discussing with a Catholic aquaintance the history curricula I use, I realized that it is distinctly from a Protestant perspective. I had never thought of the reign of Queen Mary Tudor from a Catholic perspective, and really only recalled it being taught to me from a Protestant one in my world history studies in high school. Perhaps this is part of growing up; being cognizant of the fact that maybe the history you believe is only one vista and maybe the other side should at least be examined.

Patrick has posted some interesting and unique thoughts, as well as a distinctive photo (shown below), of Karol Józef Wojtyla, universally known as Pope John Paul II since the beginning of his papacy in October of 1978. I appreciate more than any other Patrick's thoughts because I believe them to be lacking the trite, though well-intentioned, expression of other writers.

« Hide the rest of Dona Nobis Pacem

Good post. I grew up Prot, too, but since I have Catholic relatives on my mom's side was more sensitive and exposed to the Catholic ways of practicing faith. Protestants have many misconcieved notions of Catholicism, like that they believe you have to "work your way to heaven". That is what was taught me about Catholics in my Prot. tradition and it is just plain untrue. I have found (from attending many masses, Cathedrals, the Pope's museum in D.C. and talking with priests, and such) that the title Catholic has a broad scope as does Christian. There are many who claim the name "Christian" without really knowing what that means. There are many Catholics who are true believers and many "Christians" who are not. My two cents.

What an excellent post. I think you may have a better understanding of our faith than some theologians do.

Many called Pope John Paul II a religious conservative and couldn't get past that label to see what a simple and holy man he truly was and by being such he lived the Gospel as Jesus wanted us to.

Thanks.

I grew up Catholic and attended Catholic schools and I was taught to be suspicious of a religion in which people could sin and then talk to God on their own for repentance, loudly and boisterously worship on a Sunday morning and run around converting people.

Sadly, that was my view of Protestanism.

I belong to a Spirit-filled Protestant church that has changed not only my views of Protestants but my life as well.

I regret that I waited 10 years to join because of my prejudices.

Interesting your comments about history curricula. I am also a homeschool mom and early on was interested in joining a Catholic homeschool group. I was shocked at the diatribe on some of their websites against popular homeschool curricula such as Abeka because of its "Protestant bias".

Maybe there is some truth there that I could not see.

It's amazing on one hand we were taught that christians were to love their fellow man ... but on the other - just as long as they think exactly like we do. Some people never get past it.

Robert-I am surprised that you are amazed. Even in scripture we see people misunderstanding what the Lord is teaching us. Such is our sin nature. That is why when we look at the individual people in any church body we see imperfection. Sinners we are and we will misunderstand. While I saw first hand my Grandpa's faith, and believe in my heart that the Lord saved him, I also believe that the teachings of his church have some basics that are shaped more by tradition rather than the word of the Lord.

What a wonderful post! I grew up Southern Baptist, learning in ways both literal and implied that we had to pray for the poor Jews and Catholics, because both were going to Hell in a handbasket.

In 1972 I accompanied a school friend to a Catholic mass, and that was it for me. I felt Christ's presence there like nowhere else, and converted immediately. The sense of peace was overwhelming, and shocking. :)

My friends and family were very surprised, but my heart was set and I've never regretted the decision.

Rae, you always eke more of me out than I'd thought I was willing to give. What a gift you have! LOL!

Joyella, your two cents are so valuable to me :D

Thanks, Randy.

Victoria, your comment prompted me to adjust my grammar :D Also, Abeka is specifically Protestant, but I have no problem using it because I am a Protestant. I do ask my girls to think about things from every angle, though, as I think this prompts true analytical thinking, and better conclusions.

Robert, I visited your site last night and saw that I am on your blogroll. Thank you for the link. I understand what you are saying. I think it alright to maintain that your belief is the correct way to believe (what would be the point in believing if not ;) ), but to do so with a haughty and smug attitude is rather repelling and not what I would call exemplary. However, as my wonderful R points out, we are all human, all fallible and more likely than not to make mistakes. There simply isn't a perfect person. There are less than perfect people striving toward bettering themselves, their families, their communities through their faith.

Awww, Pam :D Thank you.

Rae, as you know, I was raised Protestant and converted to Catholism in my 20's. Luckily I was never taught anything negative about Catholicism, we just didn't know any in the deep south.
Studying the history of the Church is what brought about my interest. I wanted to see how it all began and how we became so divided.
I too love the ritual, the incense, the prayers, and the authority of the Church.
I will always be grateful for my Protestant upbringing though, for it was there that I first met Christ.

1. DQ, you have seen me dance. Don't you remember that adult dance class that you taught all of us? Recall all the laughing we did? At me? I am not a spacial person (although R says I am. Har, har, har.). Yesterday, our first time on stage in the gorgeous Randall Jones Theatre, the dance instructor wanted to change a few things. Fine. Then she wanted to change more. I felt my stomach begin to twist. It is enough for me to sing, count, dance, and remain in character without looking like I am having a seizure. It's not that I can't dance (although you, DQ, and my other Dancing Friend whom we all miss in the 'sphere could earn extra money, lots of it, dancing either professionally or, ummm, in a dance style not quite recognized as "professional"), it's that I just need time to watch it being done, not, "Oh, change this to this, and add this, turning here, and then let's switch the partners that you've all had for the last five weeks, mmmkay? Good." I actually am giving a gift to two gals who convinced the choreographer to not change the partners. Acting I can do. Acting I love. Now, when I watch a musical, I am looking at all the ensemble members busting their arses behind the stars, 'cause I know that that's who fills out the picture with character and color.

2. Practice from 6-10 (which really means 6:50 to 10:20) every night, and now including the last two Saturdays, is a bit challenging. Not only am I teaching school, carting children during the day to swim team (although I am greatly blessed that new neighbor has placed her children on the team and generously shares the car pooling duties), piano lessons, doctor appointments, library trips, all included with the daily rush home to get some sort of dinner thrown together, leaving the other three home to either wait for R to return from work or to consume it themselves, alone, because they have something that they have also got to be at that evening, takes its toll.

3. I am having a terrific time. When we are there, and working, especially now on stage, with the props, and getting the lighting down, and soon with dress rehearsals coming, it is absolute fun. I love seeing it coming all together. The director is so very creative and really in touch with the essence that is Oliver!

4. I also love watching E. She has been a bit more self-conscious this year in her acting. But I have heard that is typical of her age, that questioning self-awareness that comes with adolescence and permeates everything, even that in which they typically excel. She is gorgeous; her voice so lovely, and she is learning a lot about production, which is important, too.

5. You know me, DQ. As much as I complain, I am sure, that when the opportunity presents again next spring, I will be third in line, ready to sign up for an audition. :D

« Hide the rest of Some Questions Answered

Well, I feel alot better. By the way, I do remember your dancing ability and you were very graceful and had beautiful long lines. You also had lots of rhythm so lighten up on yourself and have fun!! Wish I could come see the show.

But it's hilarious that the dancing instructor gets carried away & acts like she's dealing with Broadway pros. "Change this, change that!" like you've been doing this for a living for years & can turn on a dime

Oh, Jeff, really, she is quite pleasant. Actually, this is being put on by the University and I think that of the adults there are only two of us who are community members, so the college students are mostly (if not all) theatre majors and dancers. This is easy for them. If she forgets anythings, it's that I am 35 and not a theatre major.

DQ- you, my dear, are too kind. But, I do thank you, and there is still time to pack the children into the van and take a quick trip across the US to come see us :D

I hold her head, cupped in my hands one last time, put my lips to hers, inhale the last of her warm, damp breath, her beautiful hair between my fingers soft and fine, the muscles and tendons connecting her head to her neck softly limp, her chest no longer rising, and as I loose my hold on the vessel of the most passionate, searing, inviting and challenging flame to illuminate the space between the reality of else and the place we call our own, the last, regretful beckoning sigh departs her mouth, pillowcase wrinkling, crinkling under her unpressured weight, and I walk my fingertips across her yellowed cheeks, pressing the color back to normal for a moment, kiss her eyelids, the side of her nose, her parted lips still moist but breathless once more and again, touch her swollen ankles, rub the inside of her thigh just above her left knee, clasp her hand and pull myself close against her. She is still warm. And soft. And gone. And I tell her that I have loved her forever.

She never said goodbye.

Found here.

« Hide the rest of Updated: Please comment. There is

Wonderful, heartwarming words Rae. Thank you so much. I look forward to "seeing" you and many others tomorrow.

I posted about it again Greg, hopefully my moron readers can follow simple directions and leave a comment.