Kitchen Table

God smiled the day Shelby boldly said, “I can work from anywhere in the lower 48 states. All I need is a kitchen table and wifi.”

The dark years of widowhood had given her a thin sense of invincibility, a silver lining, a super power that came from knowing she’d survived what was once unthinkable. And now, at age 60, she knew it was time—time to take off her wedding ring and begin living again.

And so it began—the adventure, an intentional act of opening her heart to the possibility of finding someone to converse with over coffee or dinner, perhaps see a movie or a play.

Friends from church recommended a dating app designed for the over 50 set, and Shelby gathered a few photos then went to her daughter for a little coaching.

A bit fearful, Shelby asked, “What do I do if some guy sends me a nude photo?”

Her daughter replied with laughter, “Tell him that stuff belongs on SnapChat.”

“Ok, then” Shelby thought, her eyebrows coming together creating creases in her forehead, “Let’s give this a try.”

After Shelby uploaded her photos and completed several questions, the app posted one photo over the prompt “How about we…” and Shelby wrote “… be authentic. Let’s meet for coffee, drinks, dinner (or Saturday morning hot stretchy yoga?) and see where it leads.”

No one showed up for yoga.

In the section called “Details” Shelby clicked boxes: Self-employed. College. 2 children; 0 at home. Christian. Non-smoker. Height 5’10.”

On a whim she did a little digging and discovered that only 3.9% of American adult males are 6’2” or taller. “That explains so much about my adolescence,” she quipped, remembering the awkwardness of being the tallest person in her 7th grade class.

Then, rising to the statistical challenge of weeding out 96.1 percent of men, Shelby set her profile to include guys 6’1” and taller.

She quickly discovered… MEN LIE.

Shelby first posted her profile on January 4th and 8 days later she met guy #1 for coffee. He was 5’7” at best.

On January 22nd she met guy #2 for dinner one weekend and lunch the next. He lived on a houseboat docked on the Mississippi, which promised summer fun, but it was winter. Shelby moved on.

Scrolling the app she challenged Bachelor #3 to a small wager on the Super Bowl, and accepted a lunch invitation from guy #4.

When she had lunch with #4 at a local diner, he was tall, clever, greeted her with a hug, and managed to overcome Shelby’s objection to being walked to her car. Apparently it’s an app thing. The guy walks you to your car, like it’s the front door of your apartment. “Good to know,” thought Shelby as she drove away, then later found herself wondering if he’d expected a kiss.

About the same time, Shelby side-stepped an invitation from a much younger man. “I’m flattered AND it would just be awkward,” Shelby said. “You’re the same age as my daughter.”

Then, on Valentine’s Day there were six messages from age-appropriate men.

Shelby, who didn’t much care for Valentine’s Day, couldn’t help but recall that time back in high school when the Future Homemakers of America had frosted cookies for a bake sale with “Happy VD.”

“That was great” thought Shelby, laughing out loud before listening to the messages and updating her calendar: coffee Wednesday with #4 (he’d walked her to her car), a drink Thursday with Bachelor #3 (he’d lost their Super Bowl bet and owed her a shot of Tequila), AND dinner Friday with #5 (he’d appeared on the app after she’d expanded her search to Minnesota).

As a woman who highly valued monogamy, this 3-night, 3-guy lineup left Shelby feeling stressed. After thinking about it for a bit, Shelby was convince authenticity was the way to go.

On Wednesday #3 didn’t show up for coffee. “Well, that’s authentic,” said Shelby, feeling a little snarky.

On Thursday, the tequila led to a margarita, appetizers and great conversation. When Shelby left the pub, she found herself looking forward to seeing #3—again.

During her drive home that night, #5 texted, and Shelby inwardly groaned. At this point meeting another guy seemed like a waste of time.

On Friday #5 rolled into town, selected a restaurant, then texted her. Shelby happened to be at a nearby car wash, so when he came through the door, she was standing at the host station wearing a 70s retro shirt, jeans and a pair of clogs with 3” wood heals—just in case he’d lied about his height.

If arriving early or Shelby’s enhanced height caught #5 off guard he didn’t miss a beat, greeting her with a hug. Then a moment later, when he went back out to his car to get something and he left her standing there, she gave him a smidgen of grace.

The something turned out to be chocolates in a red heart-shaped box. “So much for authenticity” she thought accepting the candy with a smile, hiding her true feelings about Valentine’s Day.

3 ½ hours later, when #5 yawned, Shelby realized it was time to call it a night. He paid the check, held the door for her, then walked her across the parking lot. As they reached her car, Shelby opened the back door and tossed the chocolates onto the seat, then watched in horror as the candy skidded to the floor.

“Glad I didn’t open THAT box.” she thought, silently.

A moment later, when #5 took Shelby in his arms and kissed her, she didn’t want the evening to end. But, before she could object, he tucked her into her car and said goodnight.

Sometime later he texted an invitation to breakfast, making it clear it was her turn to pick the restaurant.

The next morning they split an omelet, then spent the day exploring her city. That night they enjoyed a play at the performing arts center, and made plans to attend church on Sunday.

God smiled again when, after church, the pastor in her city reached out to a good friend—the pastor in his, and before #5 arrived home, news of Shelby had already spread.

12 days later she drove to his city and met his daughter. Shelby kicked off her clogs in the entryway, and later discovered the dog had used one for a chew toy. Go figure!

The following evening, on the way to dinner with some of his friends, #5 pulled up in front of a house Shelby wasn’t familiar with and put the car in park. “If it’s ok, I’d like you to meet my mom.”

“Yeah. No.” thought Shelby, her face contorting into a grimace as she got out of the car.

A few minutes later, in the awkward silence, Shelby leaned into authenticity, “Well, this is awkward,” she said. “I haven’t been introduced to a guy’s mother like this since 1985.”

61 days later Shelby relocated.

Her sister uses the word Thunderstruck.

Shelby now works from the kitchen table in a cozy Rambler owned by #5. His house. Their home.

She laughed recently, recalling the words that began this adventure: “I can work from anywhere… all I need is a kitchen table and wifi.”

Then she sat down and began working on a new short story, her first few keystrokes revealing the title: Kitchen Table.

-rjw

Originally shared on 02/04/2026 at the Cultural Centre & Gallery Valentines Waffle Bar

The LORD makes firm the steps of the one who delights in him. Ps 37:23

Apples

“Over the river and through the woods…” the lyrics flitted through Shelby’s mind. Whenever she heard this Christmas melody she couldn’t help but think about her paternal grandparents, especially her grandmother Irene.

Shelby was pretty sure her family didn’t cross a river during the hour-long drive to her dad’s childhood home south of Stetsonville, and she knew for certain she and her siblings had never ridden in a sleigh. Still, the song brought to mind Sunday visits that began with a hearty meat-and-potatoes meal, followed by an afternoon of Sheepshead or Pinochle, and games of Scrabble. Sometime after the sun went down, the visit ended with three generations gathered once more around the sturdy oak table, just before her dad and the uncles went outside to warm up the cars that would carry everyone home.

While the mid-day feast featured fried chicken, roast beef, or baked pork chops, the evening spread was always canned ham, sliced for sandwiches, homemade bread and creamy butter, with oatmeal cookies and canned apples for dessert. The canned apples were served from quart canning jars that Grandma Irene brought up from the cellar.

Each year apples grew and ripened on trees that lined the gravel driveway east of the house. The apples were smaller than the ones sold at the grocery store—each one the color of applesauce and  just a bit larger than a marshmallow. The homegrown apples were canned stem and all in a sugary homemade concoction—the recipe not written down, but kept within Irene’s memory. By the time Shelby was deemed old enough to play Scrabble (5th grade) Irene had been canning apples and garden produce for decades.

Irene carried a bouquet of lilacs when she and Grandpa Joe had married in the spring of 1931, less than two years after the Wall Street Crash that kicked off the Great Depression. Shelby’s dad, born in 1936, was their second child of seven—three girls and four boys.

As an adult, Shelby would encounter a photograph of the Irene & Joe's children taken near the apple trees and wonder why there were eight children, arranged from tallest to smallest. Grandma Irene explained that the “extra” one, Janice, was the only child of her sister-in-law, whose husband farmed the place a mile down the road. When Shelby asked why Janice was included, Irene shared that Janice and her mom always came by to help with picking and canning the apples—after all, apple canning was a family tradition.

-rjw

The Green Ribbon

Nature. Growth. Renewal. Hope. 

I am living Up North, in the State of Hockey. The sunlight is fleeting. Each night is getting longer; each day growing shorter as December moves us toward Winter Solstice. Honestly, I miss the quickly melting snow of Oakville, Missouri... and the innocent childhood joy of snow days in Cornell, Wisconsin. 

I am feeling... well... a bit blue. 

This morning, over coffee, I typed "Mental Health" into the DuckDuckGo search bar which yielded multiple websites listing illnesses, disorders and symptoms, and referencing the DSM V. Ugh! After a few minutes of frustration, I discovered that "Mental Wellbeing" is the key phraseology.

Here I found concepts to embrace.

"The World Health Organization (2004) defines mental health in the following way: It is a state of wellbeing, in which the individual realizes their abilities, can cope with the normal stresses of life, can work productively and fruitfully, and can contribute to their community." - Positive Psychology 

How do we signal our support for mental health awareness? A green ribbon, which serves as a conversation starter. The color green is also a symbol of nature, growth, renewal and hope. 

In this season of Christmas green and red, with Winter Solstice fast approaching, I'm embracing the green.

Nature. Growth. Renewal. Hope.

R

Blue Jay

A blue jay chirped angrily at me this morning apparently upset that I moved the corn cobs it feasted on yesterday. I looked up and found its white breast in the tree overhead, its blue head jauntily tilted, its piercing eyes looking down on me. I responded, “If you wanted breakfast, you should have gotten up earlier, before I started raking these leaves, after all it’s almost noon.”

Today is Sunday, a stunning autumn day with warm sunshine and a bright blue sky—the kind of day that beckons, Come outside and play. I locate the rake and clear leaves from the curb that lines our street, pulling my quarry up onto the front lawn, adding it to the shallow piles the wind has gathered overnight. 

As I begin to bag the leaves for transport to the community compost site, the blue jay takes flight, perhaps in search of another autumn display of gourds and field corn, a breakfast buffet.

R

Photo by Jeremy Hynes on Unsplash

Grow

 

The earliest memories are of a garden at my parents' home in Medford, Wisconsin, in the backyard, between the house and the huge pine tree-- circa 1967. I don't remember what vegetables my mother planted in her tidy rows. Nor was I old enough to reliably weed and water. My most vivid memory is of the rhubarb, tucked in the far corner of the garden, and the bees that chased me into the house one summer morning, after I'd pulled a stalk of rhubarb from the plant that shaded their underground nest. Ouch!

I got stung several times. Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!

While the incident left me less-than-fond of proximity to bees, my heart remains true to rhubarb. I planted some yesterday, on the southeast corner of the foundation that will become my she-shed. This is my second year gardening in this place-- in the rich loamy soil of Renville County, Minnesota.

My partner, who's lived in this place for most of his life, expanded the garden to a third raised bed this year, and we're attempting to grow red potatoes. Earlier this week, I selected the two Big Beef tomato plants he'd requested ($2.29 each) and left Babe's Blossoms with an additional $89.44 in plants including the aforementioned rhubarb.

The morning glories from 2023 left behind enough seeds to propagate 8 tiny green butterfly-shaped plants, more than enough to fill the trellis beneath the picture window. What was a dirt pile covered by weeds on the north side of the deck barely a year ago, is nearly weed free with a 3' volunteer lilac and several clusters of violets-- an interesting combination as lilacs prefer sun and violets grow best in shade.

The containers that in 2023 held the colorful blossoms of annuals, are repurposed to nurture tiny trees, both maples and pines-- an Earth Day gift from a friend.

On social media are photos of my friend's garden harvest in Victoria, Texas, and photos of blossoming honeysuckle in another friend's yard in Oakville, Missouri. Meanwhile, back in the raised beds, the onions sets are thriving. Sprouts of radishes, peas, and green beans are breaking through. 

God also told them, "Look! I have given you every seed-bearing plant that grows

throughout the earth, along with every tree that grows seed-bearing fruit..." 

Genesis 1:29 ISV

Photo by imso gabriel on Unsplash

Winter Dance

Overnight the snow silently shuffled across the patio gently covering the brick pavers with a thin blanket of white, an inch deep at most. High above me in the grey pre-dawn sky, a small dark leaf takes flight, plucked from the branches of a bare tree by a gust of cold wind, then beckoned downward to the snow-covered earth by gravity. The leaf waltzes with the wind, dancing in a perfect circle, before breaking away and twirling free, moving southward toward the fence and disappearing into the shadows.

I stand quietly for a moment, then open the door and step out of the garage. The cold wind greets me and does not invite me to dance. Instead I scurry to complete my task, bringing dry food to fill a dish for the white-and-gray semi-feral cat, one of three cats that roam this small rural community—a cluster of 500 households located 92 miles west of Minneapolis. When we first met in the warmth of summer I had refused to feed this cat, yet in the depth of winter my heart moves toward compassion. The weather has turned bitter cold. Wind chills of 20° below zero are forecast for today and I am reminded of Jordan B. Peterson’s insistence that Mother Nature is a cold-blooded killer, even as she nurtures life on earth.

In past years, six decades of living actually, I’d embraced and asserted that people should not be feeding feral cats as it simply supports unsustainable breeding/birthing rates. Yet on a recent morning as I stood warm and dry looking out the kitchen window watching this one make its way across the snowy landscape, my heart moved toward intervention or perhaps interference—which however well intended often is not a kindness. Am I painfully prolonging misery in the cold shadow of inevitable death Mother Nature brings? Or is my meager offering a welcome and simple kindness?

Rw

image: Olga Deeva on Unsplash [more]

Jordan B. Peterson, psychologist and author [more]

A Breath in Time

"It is widely reported that, a person at rest takes about 16 breaths per minute. This means we breathe about 960 breaths an hour, 23,040 breaths a day, 8,409,600 a year. The person who lives to 80 will take about 672,768,000 breaths in a lifetime." - Randy Clare

This morning with what feels like a giant leap forward in the writing careers for two women in my circle of friends [see The Bible App], I am thinking about breath and breathing and how quickly our time on this earth is passing.

From the modest bookshelf in the corner of the living room I retrieve the first book ever to cross my desk as an editor, Dual Obsessions by Don Jacobson. The note tucked just inside the front cover was written 21 years ago—and in my soul the journey with "Ole" and "Lena" resonates with a freshness that belies the passage of time. Can it really be that over two decades have passed? It feels more like a breath in time, that just yesterday I was sitting at the conference table in Rice Lake, Wisconsin, laboring beside the author and his amazing wife as the book emerged from the manuscript.

Referring to myself as an editor is a rather recent development, with my preferred self-title being assistant to the author—a behind-the-scenes girl Friday—part of the support-and-encouragement sisterhood. For the most part I play a small role in a collaboration of authors, designers, editors, photographers, illustrators, proofreaders, cheerleaders, mentors, friends, and prayer partners. 

The partnership with my friend and most prolific author is a 25-book journey that began in 2011 with Touch Stone. Though a Facebook page still exists, the website for my sole proprietorship Renew Collaborative was taken down when I realized that the proofreading and editing work that has blessed me with more than a dozen delightful authors has come by referral—personal and professional.

So, today I am grateful—for a breath in time, for the work that is on my desk, for those who've worked beside me, and for God's undeniable blessing on our lives. Go God!

Rw

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
    your works are wonderful,
    I know that full well.  Psalm 139:14 NIV

 

WidowSpeak: Surrender

This morning I opened my blog to find what I wrote seven months ago -- "God brings clarity to chaos and peace to our frail and hurting humanity" -- has come to pass.

As I sit on the deck I am surrounded by bird song so delightful it rivals any music created by humanity. As darkness ends and the sun gently rises in the east, the birds take flight or grow quiet. The morning is infused with a now familiar symphony within my heart: surrender.

WidowSpeak: Surrender is a story being cherished within my heart, a story that began in the early days of January when I surrendered control, ever-so-slightly opening the door to whatever God would bring in the new year. Though the story is the third (and likely final) installment the WidowSpeak series, it will not be written or published. 

God gently and purposefully blessed me with a new and unexpected life partner 133 days ago, and in a moment of surrender, I agreed to his sincere request: No book. 

We laugh now as I playfully suggest he write the book and I will take the role of editor, but as today opens with bird song in the gentle morning sun there is no need for another book. God will do what God does beyond all we hope or imagine. 

We can make our plans, but the Lord determines our steps.  

Proverbs 16:9

O Come Immanuel

It is Sunday, the first Sunday of Advent. The topic is PEACE and it is my turn to give the message, to stand in front and share insights with our church—friends really, all of them, to varying degrees. I am being apprenticed by our pastor and I am new at this "preaching" thing. 

Truth be told, I struggle with the idea of preaching, being a preacher or pastor, preferring instead shepherd, better yet exhorter or encourager. But I digress. My point is that in this time and place I see and experience myself as more of a messenger, checking my unhealthy need for control throughout my preparation and presentation—attempting on so many levels to stay out of the way of the Holy Spirit, trusting that God will do what God does. God brings clarity to chaos and peace to our frail and hurting humanity.

Our Advent will unfold weekly: peace, hope, joy, love. My preparation time for PEACE prior to this particular Sunday morning has been about 10 days and there was a night when I dozed off in the living room only to find my mind working with the scriptures much like human hands kneading bread. At this point what I'd gathered included: Isaiah 7:14 and 9:6, Mary's Psalm (Luke 1:46-55), Elizabeth's blessing (Luke 1:39-45) truncated to end with “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb!” (Luke 1:42). 

At some point leading up to this Sunday morning I added Isaiah 55:13 (that's the cypress and myrtle reference) in which I now hear a hint of Living Water. Yet, the focus remained on Mary's Psalm, her response to Elizabeth's greeting. Mary sings of the future, when, finally, God's justice will come. She reflects the deep and abiding hope of the people of Israel, that God's salvation will bring justice to the land, wholeness, and peace.

I am in awe of Mary's faith in that moment when God's plan (the birth of Jesus) is revealed. I am both humbled and inspired by her ability to be so at PEACE in the promises of God that when Elizabeth acknowledges the miracle, Mary bursts into song. 

I conclude that perhaps her peace is the place for us to begin believing we too are forever blessed.

As the thoughts I'd gathered come to an end I invite the people to pick up a scroll of sorts, a collection of scriptures on PEACE printed on plain paper then rolled and secured with a blue or purple band. 

My next stop is the closing prayer. I did not prepare anything in advance, trusting that whatever is on my heart in the moment will manifest in my words spoken aloud. I begin:

Lord, Thank you for this time together this morning...

I look out to meet the eyes of the people gathered and see a cloud (or is it a constellation) of pink and silver stars, an orb large enough to fill the theater, floating mid-air, above the people. In the seeing I understand that each star or point of light represents a life changed by passing through this place, generations of people changed by the Holy Spirit working within this community called Fellowship. 

I am overwhelmed by this magnificent manifestation—the Holy Spirit revealing God's glory. Tears of joy push up from my heart and I cannot speak. There is a pause, a silence, a waiting. I remember the price Jesus paid, how God prepared then freely gave this Divine Gift. When the tears subside and my words return, the prayer continues:

... thank you for giving Jesus Your Son, thank you for Christmas, for the Resurrection, the beauty of a Church in unity. We ask your continued blessing in Jesus' name. Amen

 

Photo Credit: Sergey Nivens

I Slumbered Too Long

I am guilty. I have been intentionally fasting from media, staying withdrawn from society. This had felt restorative in recent years as I healed from the death of my husband and the emotional trauma of being suddenly un-coupled. 

I awoke today, June 24, only to find I'd slumbered too long, that America as I'd known her had violently changed course. And, a tide of self-righteousness had eroded a freedom I'd known all my life: choice. 

Tears, then anger, then the memory of standing silent, voiceless, at the statue of St. Agnes* on display at the United Nations Headquarters. The history reads: "The damaged statue of St. Agnes found in the ruins of a Roman Catholic Cathedral in Nagasaki, Japan in 1945. The Cathedral was completely destroyed when the atomic bomb exploded about half a kilometre away. The charring and mottling are the result of the intense heat and radiation." 

The charring and mottling are so severe that her back is without form, the sculptor's detail erased by the blast. I weep in the presence of the statue. I weep as she comes to mind today. 

Disgust grows within me at the continued rancid quest for domination, the inhumanity of humanity. The St. Agnes before me in memory is reminiscent of the Scourging at the Pillar or the brutality unleashed on human beings by American slave-owners and profiteers.

My memory now leaps to the 1993 when Michael Griffin shouted, “Don’t kill any more babies!” before shooting Dr. David Gunn three times in the back. Following the protest organized by Rescue America at Pensacola Women's Medical Services clinic, the  organizers' response sickens me: “While Gunn’s death is unfortunate, it’s also true that quite a number of babies’ lives will be saved,” said national director Don Treshman. [more] We were living near Minneapolis at the time. In a Letter to the Editor, I wrote of using our resources toward caring for the children and parents already here, instead of spending it on this pro-choice/pro-life war. The hate mail arrived in droves from those identifying themselves as pro-life.

Years later when my children were teenagers, demonstrators gathered along Hastings Way holding posters of aborted fetuses, grotesquely enlarged to six feet in height for maximum impact. There were families with much younger children in the cars around us. Had the pro-life contingent gone mad?

Today I ask, has the pro-life contingent made a plan? Are the pro-life voters prepared to welcome the 625,346** infants this coming year? Ready and willing to provide the $14,800*** per child for a typical two-child household? Is there a commitment to cover this $9.2 billion in the first year of life? 

Will someone who is celebrating a victory, please share with me the plan for this parenthood?

I remember a Women of Faith conference at the Xcel Energy Center when the speaker asked us to stand if we'd miscarried, suffered the death of a child, or had an abortion. Women stood together -- nearly all of us -- united by the sorrow, not giving voice to individual stories, simply standing there for a moment, acknowledging the pain and loss of so many.

I believe: life begins at conception and that every life is precious.

I believe: choice is the free will God offers to all humanity.

I believe: we cannot legislate and enforce morality, and in using shame-based tactics we do more harm than good.

On March 13th, 2009, I launched this blog as "a woman ... tentatively exploring the Creator who intelligently and divinely grants her the dignity of free will while laying out a plan for every breath of her life before she was a heartbeat in a living womb."  

As I look into the faces of my granddaughters and grandson my eyes brim with tears. My heart longs for peace, if not for me, then please, Lord, for them. 

Rw

* Statue of St. Agnes images from Wiki Commons

**CDC figure annual abortions

*** US News & World Report

What If

This is me, the image captured in 1978, on a classic family trip to California... a visit to Sea World, a day at Disneyland, enjoying the beaches of Los Angeles... three sisters in the back seat, mom and dad in the front.

Though many might observe that I was a clueless innocent, the landmark decision Roe v. Wade was one I supported and agreed with, even then. I already had a heart that championed women, having experienced betrayal years earlier, in fifth grade, when I realized that the faith community into which I had been born was not interested in me serving at mass unless I was a boy. 

And just a few months after this photo was taken, I experience sexual harassment during an after-class conversation with one of my high school teachers, doubly toxic because the teacher was also a friend of my father's and included in summer outings to Lake Holcombe and the Mississippi River. 

Now, decades later, I believe that my hunger to advocate on behalf of women was present within me at my birth or conception, divinely woven by God, perhaps since the beginning of Creation as described in the poetry that opens the Book of Genesis.

Today, the photographs of demonstrations surrounding Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization broke through my self-imposed fast from media. Alongside a disturbing and toxic patriarchal bias revealed in a book I am reading on faith models that embrace local and organic expression, the photos brought out the warrior-advocate within me. Even as I drive the handful of miles from the house where I am pet-sitting into the city where my church is located, I find myself pulling together words of protest and plans for active advocacy on behalf of women.

Despite my anger and pain, I arrive safely, find a seat and breathe deeply, exhaling the anger, then join in the worship and listen to the teaching. Somewhere within the hour spent here within the community of people following (admittedly imperfectly) the teachings of Jesus Christ, I find my heart searching for goodness and blessing.

Every viewpoint is a view from a point. --Richard Rohr, Center for Action and Contemplation 

What if...

... we are on the cusp of a new life-affirming season?

... the decades impacted by Roe v. Wade are coming to a close?

... another path lies ahead, a time when abortions will decline in number?

... more and more men (and women) embrace condoms, celibacy, monogamy, and parental responsibility?

... more and more women (and men) put down the weapons of seduction and manipulation?

What if the time has come when we will look at one-another and see the glory of our humanity (women and men) created in God's image?

Then God said, “And now we will make human beings; they will be like us and resemble us. They will have power over the fish, the birds, and all animals, domestic and wild, large and small.”  

So God created human beings, making them to be like himself. He created them male and female, blessed them, and said, “Have many children, so that your descendants will live all over the earth and bring it under their control. I am putting you in charge of the fish, the birds, and all the wild animals.”

"I have provided all kinds of grain and all kinds of fruit for you to eat; but for all the wild animals and for all the birds I have provided grass and leafy plants for food”—and it was done.  

God looked at everything he had made, and he was very pleased. Evening passed and morning came—that was the sixth day.

Genesis 26:31 GNT

Rw

Waiting for Sunrise

I softly awaken in the familiar house—the grandchildren and their parents having arrived home from Wisconsin last night. I use the restroom, and without turning on any lights, go to the kitchen to retrieve my water bottle. I discover hot coffee. My son, one of the parents, kept it on warm when he left for work this morning. I am thankful.

I pour it into a teal-colored mug before filling the carafe with cool water and dispensing it into the coffee maker's reservoir. I swing out the small door than conceals a damp filter filled with grounds, remove it and add a new filter and two scoops of rich, brown coffee. I press large brew button that lights up to confirm that the process has begun. 

I take my mug into the dark living room and snuggle back into the comforter. The sky outside the sliding glass doors is darkest gray; the bare trees that adjoin the river are barely visible in the faint moonlight. I think of the year I lived here, the days and nights spent pondering the river, my sadness so heavy that it held me captive. I think of my friend, a man I met when I first attended grief group. He was active in the Elks Club and I enjoyed the black-light bingo events with him and other friends who gathered there. The celebration of his life was this past weekend. He is reunited, now in heaven, with the woman he loved most—his wife. 

My thoughts move to my husband—an image of he and our grandson decorating the Christmas tree at the Blue House years ago. I leave the nested sofa and walk down the hall to check in on our grandson who is sleeping peacefully. Tears fall. 

In the time it takes me to gather my computer and begin to write, an unimpressive clouded day begins without the fanfare of sunrise. A storm is coming, my daughter-in-law observed last night, when I complained about the lack of whole milk and fresh chicken—empty shelves—at the local store. 

The winter gray sky confirms her words. A storm is coming. The day begins.

Welcome, welcome Christmas day

Early on this Christmas morning the world is dark when I drag the comforter from my bedroom into the living room, pull the wicker rocker close to the fireplace and snuggle in to enjoy the lights of the tree—yellow, blue, purple, red and green.

Slowly, the windowed darkness fades to soft gray and the branches of the sentinel—the oak tree on the lawn—take form in silhouette against the night.

The delicate and alluring beauty of the unfolding dawn echoes an ancient promise, "Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." Matthew 11:28

My mind wanders among the memories of Christmas past... the green velvet dress our daughter wore as a toddler; the first time we cut our own Christmas tree; meals of potato soup with crusty warm bread; the smell of baking hamballs and the messy sweetness of children decorating sugar cookies; gifts of ice skates, rollerblades, a bicycle, an MP3 player and snow skis; the arrival of the piano and the big red bow that adorned it, the elementary nativities with shepherds and angels; the high school Christmas concerts and madrigal singers; the wing-themed ornaments given to college students in our soon-to-be-empty nest; the sound of toddler delight with the arrival of the grandchildren; the undercurrent of silent sadness after my husband's death; the love that resuscitates our hearts as life unfolds in each new year.

Welcome, welcome Christmas day.

Rw

Barcodes, Coffee and Grief

It took my breath away.  

Walking into Caribou Coffee and seeing the man sitting next to the fireplace at the high-top table for two took my breath away. The shape of his shoulders, the style and texture of his shirt, the color and cut of his hair... this man, with his back to me, could have been my husband. 

It took my breath away because my husband died 5 years, 6 months and 5 days ago. This man, who looks so much like him, is a stranger.

In the early years of my grief journey many encounters stole my ability to breathe... the moments of pain came close together like the lines of a barcode. Honestly its been awhile since something like this has happened. The white spaces between the thin black lines of pain have broadened. 

In the beginning I held that there was no hope of the grief that accompanied my every waking moment ever fading. And, in this moment, I realize that the pain has faded into the background while the desire to be with my husband remains constant, deeply buried and ready to be unearthed.

Grief is odd that way, unexpected. And, if grief is what remains when the person we love moves on, grief is both unique to the love once shared and universal in the human experience.

"There are three things that amaze me—
    no, four things that I don’t understand:   

    how an eagle glides through the sky,
    how a snake slithers on a rock,
    how a ship navigates the ocean,
    how a man loves a woman." 

                —Proverbs 30:18-19 NLT [more]

Rw

 

Grief: Does Time Really Heal All Wounds? [more]

Caribou Coffee original logo [more]

Whitecaps and Penny Whistles

 

Cold. 

 

I can't help but feel the cold as I drive across the familiar bridge and take in the rolling whitecaps on the lake. 

 

I pull off the road and drive down to the shore. 

 

As I open the car door the strong wind greets me with an unexpected musical sound. It is playing the masts of the nearby sailboats as though the sturdy tall masts were mere penny whistles. 

 

I pause to listen then walk closer to the water to capture an image of the whitecaps. The water will soon grow quiet. The ice will form, calming these churning waters with a thick blanket of stillness. 

 

I return to my car and embrace the luxury of the heater, grateful for the warmth.

Rw

Time 4 Everything

 

Despite the brightness of the sun, the morning the weather is crisp. Neighbors walking their dogs are wearing mittens and winter coats. Even the joggers are bundled. Before heading out for my 9am appointment, I pull my winter wool coat from the rear of the closet. 

The frost on the windshield of my car is melted enough that the wipers easily clear it. I am grateful and remind myself to hold firmly to the gratefulness. The arrival of crisp weather with overnight temps nearing freezing does not mean winter will be here very, very soon. Winter will arrive and depart in her own time, far outside the reach of my impulsive demand for control.

 "Stay in the now," I tell my heart, "Enjoy this day."

I reach into the pocket of my coat and discover thick, inviting mittens... mittens I'd forgotten during years spent in the mild winters of Saint Louis. In the opposite pocket is a folded paper facemask. I put on the mittens and revisit gratefulness as I return the facemask to the darkness of the pocket.

Like the majestic summer days, the pandemic is in the rearview mirror, and I am grateful for the fall colors, for fragility and strength, for the creativity and tenacity of humanity, and for the splendor of this day.

Rw

Chaos and Conformity

In the early years after the death of my husband there was at least one person in my bereavement group that raised an eyebrow when I disclosed that God had given me three close friends who were also therapists... 

... and I will disclose to you (at the risk of your raised and questioning eyebrow) that just hours ago I asked all three for insight and reached out to my accountability partner too. I am distraught.

Today I am the woman behind the mirror. I am feeling trapped.

The chaos that is COVID-19 touched my life (touched all our lives) then took me down for a count and retreated into the shadows and even now is lurking there. 

I gave up hugging and playing with my grandchildren, and instead left gifts on the porch, smiling and waving through the windows.

I complied with the distancing and mask protocols at local businesses and friends' homes.  

I gave up cash and used a debit card.

I experienced the symptoms listed on the CDC website, consulted my healthcare POA designee and self-quarantined, then sought out and received written confirmation of a POSITIVE Antibody Test Result.

I worshiped at a nondenominational church that created space for wearing masks or not, and fostered respect for those who chose like me and those who chose differently.

I endured being verbally accosted in a restaurant by someone whose views I shared (no mask) because I was choosing to wear a mask.

I now habitually keep appropriate social distances in check-out lines and give wide berth to those who are wearing masks.

I am self-employed so did not face the choice to vaccinate or be terminated, yet I grieve with and pray with friends who are weighing that choice.

I felt and feel empathy, caution and sorrow, but no fear.

That is, until today, when a text arrived, "The venue has asked our ticket holders to review the COVID-19 policy." 

My desire is to see my adult daughter perform in Elf the Musical this coming November. The venue's COVID-19 policy stands in the way of my plans. I am angry and quite cognizant that my anger is almost always driven by fear.

I am not a good sheep quietly grazing in a lush pasture. I find that I do not trust the earthly shepherds. 

I am wrestling within myself, holding fiercely to my belief that to be vaccinated is a freedom of choice issue. I find myself bristling like a porcupine at the pressure to conform. 

I experienced the same chaos when just six weeks after the September 11 attacks Congress passed the USA/Patriot Act, an overnight revision of the nation's surveillance laws. I felt fear.

I experienced the same chaos when my husband and I refused to press charges against a young woman, and the "evidence" was twisted implicating me in a misdemeanor. The district attorney brought me in multiple times during the year that followed, threatening to charge me with a felony when I refused to plead guilty to the misdemeanor of his choosing. I refused conformity. I felt fear.

This morning, the venue's demand that I be tested or vaccinated collided with my desire to support and appreciate the arts. The chaos of COVID-19 had found the weapon painful enough to push me toward conformity.

I confirmed by reading the venue's policy that proof of the presence of antibodies will not be sufficient to give me access to the building. I confirmed by phone that all 1200 seats are available for each of the performances, rejecting the CDC recommendation for social distancing.

I researched my options. I spoke with people who are intelligent and informed and trusted.

I ordered three tickets for Elf the Musical.

I made peace with the idea of giving these tickets away.

I am moving forward, not by conforming, but by becoming better informed. 

I may submit to the policy. 

I may stand outside the door with a sign that reads, "They won't let me in."

I contemplate the cost of conformity and weep as I am reminded of the writings of Martin Niemoller: "First they came for the socialist, and I did not speak out-- because I was not a socialist. Then they came for the trade unionist, and I did not speak-- because I was not a trade unionist. Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out-- because I was not a Jew. Then they came for me-- and there was no one left to speak for me."

I contemplate rebellion and remember the words of the New York Times best-selling author Jordan B. Peterson: "A certain amount of creativity and rebellion must be tolerated--or welcomed, depending on your point of view--to maintain the process of regeneration. Every rule was once a creative act, breaking other rules."

I look at the calendar and count out eight months... the window most researchers speculate is the length of time the natural antibodies will be present.

I think about the risk of adverse reaction to injecting a vaccine in month seven while these antibodies are naturally occurring within me.

I look at the recommendations and policies of another venue with which I am familiar and count out the 14 days prior to the performance recommended for those of us who may choose to vaccinate in order to attend.

I research the risks and benefits of the available vaccines and select a local medical provider that could facilitate.

As the sun moves beyond the horizon and the night sky darkens, I read from the Psalms, taking in the ancient wisdom and giving my fear to God.

Praise the LORD. Praise the LORD, my soul. I will praise the LORD all my life; I will sing praise to my God as long as I live. Do not put your trust in princes, in human beings, who cannot save. When their spirit departs, they return to the ground; on that very day their plans come to nothing. Bless are those whose help is in the God of Jacob, whose hope is in the LORD their God... (more)

Rw

The Night

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I see your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and stars that you set in place—What are humans that you are mindful of us, human beings that you care for us?

I step out into the night.

I turn in awe 

to the night sky 

the stars uncountable, across the velvet darkness.

The shapes of pine trees

tower over me, dark silhouettes

growing, stretching, reaching

toward the heavens.

The crickets fidget

the familiar sound, a fitting accompaniment

to the movement of the stars.

In the tall grass

at the edge of the lawn

fireflies dance.

The night world worships God.

Rw

Psalm 8:3-4 more

Midway Telephone Company (again)

 Among the list of posts unpublished in 2011 were six drafts

~ the fifth draft entry contained this 1949 news:

The Medford exchange of the Midway Telephone Company installed its first dial tone Saturday afternoon, which was added to the equipment for the purpose of convenience to the customers. When the receiver of the phone is lifted and the line is clear there is a distinct tone that can be heard. After the first number has been dialed the tone disappears if the line is clear, and if it doesn't it is a clear indication that the line is out of order or in use.
—The Star News, 3 March 1949 The Time Machine

dusty family treasures

The child-me remembers
the power often going out
in high winds, winter storms,
sitting around our table,
me with my sister and mom,
soft candlelight. When winds
rattled windows, dad wasn't
at home with us. As a lineman,
he was out in the storm, atop
telephone poles, making repairs.

me
1:25am arrival

The story of my birth is set in a winter storm, the onset of labor inviting my dad in from a bitter cold winter night ... when I finally arrive and my dad is called into her hospital room, mom bursts into tears, a response to the overwhelming exhaustion and my dad's well-intended observation: the long fingers of this baby girl.

morning glory
4:23am arrival

Decades later, holding my newborn,
family connections, nuances echo,
the hands of my daughter are crested
with the long slender fingers my father
first noticed in me.





Morning Glory was in her first year of college, University of Minnesota, when a new family tradition began. A 4:23am birthday call from me, her mother, woke her from a deep winter's sleep.
 

The next year she set a alarm and answered a very chipper "hello mom" - she'd been waiting for predictable me.


For the LORD is good and his love endures forever;
his faithfulness continues through all generations.
Psalm 100:5 NIV


Rw
.
17 Jan 1962 Weather temp -22º with wind chills approaching -40º

re-published today from 01/02/2012

Proverbs 1:7

Fellowship - Proverbs 1:7 

I accepted the invitation to bring a response this morning to Proverbs 1:7 “Fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.” 

Fear. My heart immediately jumps to the night Jesus the Christ was born—to the shepherds in the fields. When the angel appears to them—I imagine the angel as astonishingly bright in the sky. He or she appears and speaks and there has to be fear. And the angel then tells the shepherds—Do Not Be Afraid. 

Then “an army of the troops of heaven, a heavenly knighthood” joins the angel praising: “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace”—did that bright light hovering in the sky multiply and grow brighter? 

Did the night mimic the brilliance of day? 

And then, God’s messengers leave and there is darkness.

As the shepherds’ eyes adjust—as my eyes adjust—to the night sky, do the stars now seem very tiny? Smaller, somehow? 

There in the fields at night, were the shepherds—human like me—filled with fear? 

The shepherds were in a place familiar to them and could choose to remain there. Or, they could choose to seek out the Child born in the town of David. The Bible tells us they “went with haste and by searching” found Mary and Joseph, and the Baby. They chose to move.

As the shepherds drew close to the place where the Child lay, did the light shine from the Child? A light more brilliant than the night sky filled with messengers? 

And, as a shepherd coming into the birth place, did I pause? Do I choose to look at the Child from just inside the entrance? As others moved closer toward the Child and his parents? Are they drawing close? Did some stand like me? Did others kneel? 

And, as only God could envision and orchestrate that perfect moment, did each shepherd remember the words of the angel—Do Not Be Afraid? In the presence of the Holiness, does my human heart beat faster? Did another person's heart skip a beat in awe and wonder? Did someone smile? Did someone's eyes fill with tears? Did words of adoration escape the lips of someone next to me, as I stood speechless with praise? 

On an ordinary night God’s witnesses look up at the night sky and are terribly frightened by the beginning of something extraordinary. The shepherds’ first response is fear. And, the angel-messenger announces—Do Not Be Afraid. 

Fear is somehow linked to the darkness—or begins in the darkness. I believe fear resides within the graceless space, the darkness within my own human heart. 

God invites me into the discovery, to confess my fear, and with haste and by searching, seek with awe and wonder the wisdom of God—a wisdom as vast as the universe that holds the stars in the night sky. 

Fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.

Rw

Scripture: Luke 2:8-16 AMPC Amplified Bible, Classic Edition more

Suggested image: Birth of The King by C. Michael Dudash