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

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

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

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

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 

disproportionate grace

 

Joy

Happy Birthday M.

Long before the births of my bio-grandchildren, you opened my heart to the possibility of grand-parenting. 

I remember well the moment years ago when the strong young woman God chose as your mother announced her pregnancy. 

"Congratulations!" was my response.

There is joy!

Happy Birthday M.

R

Truth Be Told

2:15PM 

I am running away, with a large Diet Coke from Jack in the Box. I am sitting in my car in a shaded parking spot at Mastodon State Park.

It is Thursday and I am tired-- weary of whining codependent people who seem to think that I somehow possess an endless supply of empathy (while being keenly aware I too am a whining codependent). I am tired-- exhausted in supporting my sister in her choice to care for our aging parents in their home, a choice that is crushing her in so many ways.  

I am tired-- drained by living in Ashleigh Woods, a Truman Show replica, a subdivision of gazebos and picture perfect $300k houses where the garage is the most frequent point of entry and front doors remain unopened. I am tired of living where there is little or no room for me, where heating a cup of water for instant coffee leaves me feeling as though I am intruding. In response I retreat to the 12 x 12 room that serves as my bedroom, my office, my home-- the room shared walk-in closet containing women's Poshmark-worthy fashions and my limited Goodwill collection of spring-summer casual clothing.

I am thankful for the room's generous windows facing north-northwest and framing the forested bluff and the clear blue sky, where I can watch red-tailed hawks soar over the bluff.

I am tired of needing tires on my car. I am ashamed of not earning income enough to promptly pay the $300 rent due each month on my room, and I feel a bit guilty that I drive through Culver's too often and pay storage fees for stuff I desire, but probably do not need: two wicker rockers, photographs, books, and warm winter clothing.

I am tired of groceries, office supplies, and toilet paper going on my Red Card, the balance rising toward the credit limit with each purchase.  

I am tired of living in emotional and physical celibacy. 

I am weary of being a sparrow in a sea of flamingos.

I miss the flawed sanctuary of my studio apartment at Taravue and the companionship of my dog, Harley, who was with me until August 27th of 2018... or 2019. My heart breaks with vivid memories of our last day together and the frustration of being unable to remember which year.

I miss friends and family in Wisconsin-- people who knew my husband and think of me as married or part of a couple, even though he's been gone nearly five years now.

"Truth Be Told" by Matthew West comes on the car radio-- tuned into JoyFM Saint Louis: Lie number one, you're supposed to have it all together...

I listen to the lyrics. I am soothed by the song, then suddenly squirm with the need for a restroom-- one of the disadvantages of being nearly 60 years old. I compose myself and walk toward the park's public restrooms, hoping these are unlocked in this claustrophobic Covid-19 world. Blessing-- the blessing of flush toilets, hand soap, running water and toilet paper. 

On the walk back to the car I detour over a walk bridge and through a picnic shelter with a large grill on one end and a horseshoe court on the other. The trail beckons and I walk on, following the path of white crushed rocks away from my car and toward the stream bed I know is there.

This part of Mastodon Park reminds me of the Ledges State Park in Boone County, Iowa-- especially the shallow, inviting waterways. Our son and daughter-in-law brought me here once, to Mastodon, along with the first two grandchildren, and we spent the day in the creek bed-- the warmth of the Saint Louis summer subdued by the shade of ample trees and the flow of cool water. 

When a choice-- a fork in the path-- comes, I choose the longer one which I believe will bring me out near my car. I pass on the option of the much-much-much longer Limestone Hill Trail, and come out of the woods where I'd anticipated. A sign where the path breaks into the clearing reads, "Spring Branch Trail .8 mile loop." That is far enough, given I am wearing flip flops. 

I had not planned to walk at all and I feel better having done so. None of the many things that leave me tired have changed, yet, somehow, a short walk in the gentle woods has soothed me.

God is not surprised.

R

Lament and Celebration

Pour out your heart like water.

The phrase brings tears even now, four years later. Can it really be four years? Yes. This is my fifth Independence Day weekend without my husband. The loss is still heavy. I've grown stronger through the years. I've grown weaker these past four months.

At sunset last night I went for a drive to QT to buy snacks---a weakness. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I found myself, car windows open, singing God Bless America, a patriotic song I'd been taught in elementary school... then stopping my voice abruptly when a couple of neighbors out on the sidewalk raised their heads to glance at me.

I rolled up my window, looked straight ahead, and kept driving.

Along the way my comfortable, established, middle-class-to-affluent neighbors celebrated our independence---the American Revolution and our growing freedom from COVID-19 (or at least an easing of its restrictions).

The sky over our neighborhood lit up with exploding fireworks; the night echoed with rhythmic, spontaneous bursts of pop-pop-pop; and the air beneath the streetlights clouded with fog-like smoke.

I wept... for the battles, for the victories, for the people.

Rw

Arise, cry out in the night

as the watches of the night begin;

pour our your heart like water

in the presence of the Lord.

Lamentations 2:19

Photo by Chris Nemeth on Unsplash

Waiting

I wake at 6:15am ... it is Saturday, amid a pandemic. There is no work today, no place to go. Sleeping in is an attractive option, but I am awake. I walk softly to the kitchen, heat up yesterday's coffee (brewing a fresh pot feels too noisy) and open the blinds on the kitchen window to welcome the day.

I am waiting for the sun to rise.

Rain is expected. The two-story brick buildings and heavy gray clouds obscure the glory of a classic sunrise. Instead the deep shadows of the night slowly dissipate. The exterior trim framing the windows moves from murky gray to radiant white. The harsh illumination of the security light on the blossoming tree gives way to the softer, natural daylight. The gentle interplay of green leaves, brown stems, and delicate clusters of flowers calmly unfolds.

I open my devotional: "Look at the birds in the air. They don’t plant or harvest or store food in barns, but your heavenly Father feeds them. And you know that you are worth much more than the birds."

The words remind me that God is good and faithful and calms the storm.

I pray, asking to trust God in the waiting, to be more like the birds.

R

Matthew 6:26

A Matter of Place

I look at the black and white 8x10 photo of my grandson welcoming his first sibling. He is a toddler – so young – yet he is quiet in the moment, looking at her with such tenderness and love it takes my breath away. 

Wisdom whispers, reminding me that tender moments are rare and precious. Babies and toddlers are not always quiet. I am thankful for the Grands and the photograph.

Stetsonville – Medford – Cornell – Menomonie – Chippewa Falls

Cornell – Holcombe – Chippewa Falls – Eau Claire

Sun Prairie – Ankeny – Eden Prairie – Marshalltown – West Bend

Bloomer – Eau Claire – Oakville – Mehlville – Affton

The photograph has traveled with me to five of the nineteen places called home. The geography of my life spans four states – with return engagements – in the Mississippi River basin.

Wisconsin – Iowa – Minnesota – Missouri

The Mississippi is constant, faithful and changing. The levees and bridges, locks and dams, envisioned by human minds and constructed by human hands imperfectly withstand the forces of nature. Some age gracefully. Others experience catastrophic failure. All require maintenance and repair. Creeks and streams and smaller rivers flow into the Mississippi, and the mighty river flows boldly south toward New Orleans and the inevitable mingling with the sea.

My grandson, born in Minnesota, welcomed his first sister in Wisconsin, his second sister in Missouri, and just days ago a third sister amid pandemic of COVID-19. He holds the baby and smiles for the camera – a moment of tenderness and pride, flanked by femininity, a sister on each side. The generous over-stuffed rocker is filled to capacity. Behind the rocker is a patio door. Sunlight pours in and my eyes are drawn upward from the Grands to the backyard edged by untamed growth. An aging railroad bridge crosses over the Meramec, the water below eagerly flowing toward the Mississippi, flowing toward the sea.

My soul grows quiet, contemplative, prayerful.

In a letter to the exiles the prophet Jeremiah writes: “‘I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’”

Yes, Lord. Yes.

R

Jeremiah 29:11

Restless

The afternoon light fades into evening, then is overcome by the darkness of night. The social distancing implemented to flatten the curve of the pandemic leaves me restless. I stare at the ceiling fan in my bedroom. My introvert longs for human interaction. I cannot imagine the torment this must be for the extroverts. I am thankful for my daily conversations with my roommate and one brief exchange with the Fed Ex guy who delivered a package on Monday. On Saturday I take time out and listen to an author-friend explore Elijah's story. She describes her own journey adhering to the Safer at Home guidelines and invites us to do the same... to sit in our emotions, our sense of isolation, disruption and loss. My mind wanders backward in time: The Great Recession, Ebola, 9/11, Y2K, Cold War, Space Shuttle Challenger, AIDS Epidemic, Jonestown Massacre, and assassinations of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and President John F. Kennedy ... poverty, wealth, faith, doubt, divorce, marriage, widowhood, pregnancy, childbirth, growth, strength, love. Using a black pen I write ill-equipped, lost, scared, distracted, loved, blessed, befriended, scattered, faithful, concerned, adrift, self-doubt and assured on the line-less white paper in front of me. The virus is contagious. Panic is contagious too. The author encourages us to journal our thoughts on COVID-19's impact and our experience. I draw a horizontal line across my page and make a timeline in response to her question: How will we use these days? Be calm. Be kind. Be patient. God is bigger than whatever evil threatens to emotionally crush me today. 

R

I leave you peace; my peace I give you. I do not give it to you as the world does. So don’t let your hearts be troubled or afraid. -- Jesus, in John 14:27 NCV

The Dream

This morning, waking just before 3 a.m., I realize I had been dreaming---vividly.

I am in a large stubbled field at night. Though there is a partial moon, most of the light is coming from the headlights of my car---a mahogany red VW Rabbit I drove 25 years ago. I am walking behind and away from the car. I am walking with purpose to the edge of the field where the area is wooded primarily with deciduous trees. As I move toward the woods I see two wolves and hear a third.

In the dream, I stop, then slowly reverse my motion, walking backward in the direction of my car.

The alpha male is in an alert resting position, his abdomen to the ground, his front legs positioned to rise quickly. He doesn't stand nor threaten me.

From the moment I see him, he never lets go of my gaze.

I am aware that I feel fear.

I reach the car without incident and open the passenger side front door.

When I am safely inside the car and the door is closed I look down to see a black lab on the floor, sitting upright. There is ample room for him and my legs. My first impression is that this dog is a familiar pet, one once belonging our family, specifically to me or my son---Lady, Midnight, Dozer or Dee Dee. After I wake I realize that several years ago during Theophostic prayer sessions God appeared often as a black lab: steady, protective, comforting, familiar, love. Unconditional love.

In the dream I effortlessly move left into the driver's seat, put the car in gear, then do a u-turn, screaming at the wolves, driving fast, tires kicking up dirt as my u-turn takes me close to them before driving away.

The wolves do not retreat. The alpha remains at rest; he does not stand nor startle.

As I experience the u-turn in the dream, the directions I feel are not as we as a society agreed or established here on earth---North South East West. The wolves are north of the field and in the dream east and west are reversed.

The lay of the land feels very Iowa---the harvested field being table-top flat. The dirt, though, is not the rich black top soil Iowa is blessed with but the less fertile brown of a parched Wisconsin field in autumn, or even the crusty clay-infused topsoil of surburban eastern Missouri.

Returning to sleep, then waking a couple of hours later, I realize that the fear I feel in the dream is within me. I am concerned about the fragility of my human body. And, it is the God-infused strength in my soul that empowers me to meet the gaze of the wolf---to stare back courageously into the eyes of the predator.

R

Jesus called his twelve disciples to him and gave them authority to drive out impure spirits and to heal every disease and sickness… “I am sending you out like sheep among wolves. Therefore be as shrewd as snakes and as innocent as doves… do not worry about what to say or how to say it… you will be given what to say, for it will not be you speaking, but the Spirit of your Father speaking through you.” Matthew 10:1,16,19-20 NIV