Memphis Zoo

He was 16, almost 17, when he started getting them.

Severe headaches and double vision.

His Dad took him to the ER, and the doc on call happened to be a family friend.  The CAT scan didn’t show anything, but his gut feeling told him this was something serious.  They sent them on to Halifax, and they operated yet that night.

It was a brain tumor.  Part of it had grown into a ventricle, which they were able to clear with that operation. 

But they were told the tumor itself was inoperable; that they would start him on a low dose of palliative chemotherapy. 

They said there would be no cure. 

They said he had a year, maybe longer, to live.

Later, the tumor disseminated and traveled, via the spinal canal, down his backbone and begin to grow again there.

They did radiation to his spine in order to save the mobility of his legs, and later, after his legs had shut down, to save his arms.

But you can’t tie a 17-year-old up and expect him to go with it.  Not even cancer can. 

He lived as normally as life allowed, maybe even more so with some of the inventions he concocted to get himself around and to keep himself from being more of a burden than necessary to those around him.

*****

I met him for the first and only time at Memphis Zoo. 

His family was in the area, and we and some of our family made out to meet them there and go through the zoo.

I was looking forward to this.  Not the zoo.  I don’t seem to get the meaning of zoos, but that’s okay.  If you want to meet me at one and go through it together, I will.

I was looking forward to meeting him, because, in my mind he had become legendary. 

I knew, by then, that the amount of chemo they had given him already had exceeded by far what medical limits declared livable. 

I knew that he was in a wheelchair by then.

We found a parking space, facing east, and waited a bit until we saw a moderate looking full size family van pull up with Nova Scotia tags on it. 

It rolled to a halt near us, and the doors bulged open to allow family of different sizes and shapes, and even a bit of luggage, to spill out. 

I stepped over and met some of his siblings for the first time, but I was eyeing the front passenger side door.

It looked like that might be him up there.  He and his dad were chatting quietly just prior to getting out. 

His dad jumped out and the group moved over to say hello to him. 

I saw the passenger door ease open, and I moved over to say hello to the one slowly and carefully coming down from his seat, using only his strong arms and hands to support himself and hold himself in place while he waited for someone else to bring his wheelchair up to him.

Once his hands were free, I shook his hand and told him who I was.  He wasn’t unfriendly; probably more neutral would be a better description. 

I instinctively wanted to help get him situated, but I could see he was a man of his own by that time and had his moves and ways that worked for him.  His wheelchair tried to roll away from him as he was settling in to it, so I grabbed it and held it steady.  He paused to thank me.

But then he was ratcheting himself back up out of the chair. 

“What do you need,” I asked.

“I forgot.  Got some Gospel Tracts in my carryon I wanted to take with me.”

“Where are they?  I can get them for you.”

“Nah, I’ll get them.”

And so began the arduous process of hoisting himself out of his wheelchair, up to a standing position without standing on anything, back across the seat to his carryon and then back down after he had retrieved the tracts.

It was just him and I by that time; the rest had gone on to buy tickets or run ahead to see what they could see.

He got himself situated again and looked up at me, taking stock of me it seemed.  After a brief quiet spell in which we both settled into knowing each other, he said, “Folks take these tracts way easier from a person like me.  I’m not threatening to them.  And a zoo is the best place to hand them out.  Lots of people all around.”

“Hmmm,” I thought to myself, “This guy has different priorities than a lot of folks coming to the zoo today, including myself.”

I stayed near him during the entire zoo visit.  I don’t recall anything of the animals.  But I do recall, very vividly, a young man who shared the Gospel with anyone who came near to him.

And it was exactly like he said.  People accepted what he had to give them readily. 

I think at least a hundred people had life-changing literature in their hands by the time we exited the zoo that morning.   

*****

He died when he was 23 ½ years old.  He lived 6 ½ years with that cancer. 

Really lived, in fact.

Grateful, not Generous, Receipt

She was sitting where Jane Goodall had sat a few weeks ago.

KU Jacket, KU stickers on her computer.  Books arranged in a semicircle around her on the table.   Studying, by the looks of things, for a medical degree.

Early twenties.  Pretty.  Studious.

In a word, well put together.

I was sitting in my favorite place at the high table; the painting on the wall had changed from total abstract to a little less abstract. 

I was well into my project, fingers and thoughts meshed in a nice thrum that felt like it was getting places.

Her phone rang.  I could tell it was an old friend on the other end; probably not seen recently due to school requirements.  They were planning a get-together for later sometime. 

In between they chit-chatted, catching up on each other’s lives.

About then the gal on the other end of the line said she was going to bring something to the deal out of the goodness of her heart.  She didn’t say it in a way to lift herself up, just more by way of information.

“Oh my word,” said Miss KU, “you don’t have to do that!”

The other gal said she knew that, but she wanted to.

And then I heard it in Miss KU.  A subtle inflection in her voice.

“Don’t go there,” I muttered under my breath.  Because too many times I have, and I know the general outcome of such.

But she went there.

“Do you like homemade bread?” she asked.

“Stop,” I begged, again to myself.  But I knew it was useless.

It was enough of an out of character question that the gal on the other end asked Miss KU to repeat what she said.

“Do you like homemade bread? If you do, I could whip up a batch of it tonight and bring some over to your place on my way out of town.”

I can’t be too hard on Miss KU.  She was young, and probably did what anyone else that age would have done.

*****

We had our family Christmas yesterday.  I couldn’t wait to give my gifts.  I had so much fun trying to find just exactly what I thought the ones I was buying for would want.  I think the joy I felt in giving probably comes from the old saying, “It’s more blessed to give than to receive.”

I wonder, though, if there isn’t a secondary blessed that often gets overlooked, maybe even crowded completely out.

This secondary blessed seems to bless both the giver and receiver when properly attended to. 

But it has every potential to wreck things, subtract if you will, when thought isn’t given to it.

If I am really thankful for what I received, do I need to rave on and on about it? 

Such raving leaves the giver with an emaciated piece of confidence that has them guessing as to whether their gift had been the right thing or not.

A few quiet words, spoken from the heart, mean so much more than a huge verbal bouquet. 

And please, don’t try to one up the spirit with something of your own. 

I know.  Sometimes we are so glad and happy for what we have been given that it’s almost natural to suddenly hear ourselves asking if our friend likes homemade bread. 

I’m suspicious Miss KU’s friend did like homemade bread, but if it could have waited, say, a few weeks, and then been quietly given some evening, I think it could have acknowledged every gratitude of the first exchange and then some.  Dare I say, even a simple “Thank you” could have been enough? 

It’s a secondary blessed, sure, but powerful. 

Sort of like a line I read in a book some years ago about an old man who had given a younger man something of his own possessions.  And, it said, he thought the more of the young man when he didn’t offer to pay for it.



Recorded

Let the record show that on or about November 18, between the hours of 8:30 a.m. and 10:57 p.m., or thereabouts, a lapse of the ever-present vigilance on the part of Mama Jan was observed.

The beginning of the series of events, which, when taken as a whole are presumed to make Mama J guilty of said lapse, occurred on November 14, around 10:00 a.m.

I will set forth the facts in the order of which they occurred, trusting that any departure from the truth will be negligible or nonexistent.

I received a phone call from the sweet daughter, as has been previously stated, around 10 o’clock on November the 14^th.  We chatted about what her day consisted of, I talked as much as conditions would allow.  I was on my way to Sublette to deposit a check, and I was driving in whiteout conditions and slick pavements.

She (the sweet daughter) was a little blue about the upcoming weeks.  Her plans consisted of flying to a church conference, after which she would fly back to New York.  The folks she normally lives with would continue on to their family after being at the same conference she was at.

Which meant she would have to drive home, in the dark, alone, to an empty house, and which also meant that she would spend Thanksgiving alone.

She was game for the challenge, as far as that goes, but it looked a little daunting.

In an effort to offer a bit of consolation, I said, “Well, at least with having your own vehicle at the airport, you have options,” although, if she would have challenged me on what I thought those options were, I would have been hard pressed to explain.

But she, being the positive thinker that she is, said, “Hey, maybe I should see if I could get permission to take a couple more days off, ride home from this conference with my friends, and surprise mom.”

I told her I thought that was a good idea, and if she could get clearance on it and was okay with paying for a ticket change, I’d do my part to help.

A day later she had permission.  Two days later she had her ticket changed.  We had four days in which to plan and to keep the lid on this thing, between the two of us.

We faced a formidable foe in the form of Mama J.  Because, well, Mama’s are mama’s for a reason I guess, and they always need to know where there children are, who has who’s name for Christmas, and what each one might be getting the other for a gift, even if they are adults. 

We laid out our battle plans carefully.

We knew our first skirmish would be the Life 360 app which all of our family is on and which gives live locations of anyone at any time.

Mama Jan keeps a steady eye on that app; it’s her way of taking care of her chillun’s.

I told the sweet daughter she would need to shut off her location sharing, maybe a day ahead, and plead excuse that it was running her battery down.  (It does run it down, for sure if you are out of your home area.)  I happened to see, early one morning, that the daughter’s location was turned off and casually mentioned to Mama J that Lex must be having battery usage issues with her phone because it looked like she had turned off her location on Life 360. 

We saw that one coming, and had it headed off at the pass before it ever made it near us.  Score for us.

The next big skirmish was how to communicate the ride to the airport.  Original plans called for the sweet daughter to spend the last night with her grandparents and they would take her to the airport.  A 20 minute drive for them.  New plans called for the daughter to stay at the motel she was at with friends and drive the 13 hours home with them. 

New plans also meant that we had to convey a sense of the journey by air whilst the journey on land was taking place.  New plans also meant that the daughter would tell Mama J she planned to spend the last night with friends instead and that they had offered her a ride.  (She purposely did not mention ‘to the airport’ when relating this bit of information to her mother.)  This information was tossed out a day early, and under a thick smokescreen of rapid-fire small talk about other things.

But her mother does Sudoku.  16 x 16 Sudoku’s in fact, since even the hardest 9 x 9 Sudoku’s are too easy.  We knew that it was a simple matter of numbers with her mother and it was only a matter of time before she called wolf on her daughter getting a ride with friends.  Because a ride with friends (supposedly to the airport) from the motel she was staying at called for a 2 hour transit time, going the wrong way for the friends, versus the 20 minute transit time with her Grandpa’s.

We trembled with uneasiness.  Would Mama J blow our cover?

The counterattack came a day later when Austin’s lovely wife stepped in the front door to get the mail.  Mama J was chatting about this and that, and then it happened. 

“I can’t figure out why Lex wouldn’t go back to my folks for night and then to the airport with them.  It’s only twenty minutes for them and it will be way out of the way for her friends to take her.” 

“Oh well, you know how girls that age are.  It’s not such a huge thing when you are having fun together,” Lindsey said. 

“I guess,” said Mama J, but she sounded a bit unconvinced.

I was so amazed at how well Linds had played her part that I made an excuse to Mama Jan as soon as she left that I needed to go check Bozar and went straight to her house.  Her mouth fell when I asked her if she knew Lex was coming home.  It was as I suspected.  She hadn’t known about the change in plans.

Knowing, at least a little, the thought process of her mother, the sweet daughter dutifully messaged her as soon as they left the motel.  “On my way,” she said, and which info was also dutifully relayed to me by her mother as soon as she was acquainted with it.

I saw her mother switch over from checking Life 360, even though she knew there was hardly a chance her daughter would turn it back on, to the Flightaware app.  I knew I could breathe easier for a little while as her attention would be used in making sure all flights were on time, following the flight path through the air, and checking the weather at the arrival airport, just like any good mother does. 

And the sweet daughter dutifully turned her phone to airplane mode during the time she was supposedly in the air and then turned it off once she landed.

But we hit a snag when Mama J discovered that Atlanta was delayed.  I held off from offering any consolation for as long as I could, it was getting tense, but then we were saved when Flightaware changed the delay to an on time status. 

I was updated throughout the day on flight status from one female and road status from the other.  The other female knew better than to use Whatsapp, because her Mother would see when she was last seen, so she switched to texting.

It was late in the afternoon when the sweet daughter messaged to say they were probably going to stop for Indian food in Wichita, which we both knew would delay her arrival considerably.

And . . . we both knew we were nearing zero hour when the daughter would land in New York, and Mama J would want location turned back on, because she always has it turned on over there. 

If they would have kept on time and not stopped in Wichita, we knew the time from when she ‘landed’ in New York until when she actually walked in the patio door here was short enough, and we might be able to swing it.

Now, it was a matter of meeting the battle as it came to us and on its terms.

I suggested to the sweet daughter that she video call her Mom and break the news to her before it got too late, but she said she wanted to continue with her original plan for as long as possible.

She parried off with a message to her mother as soon as she ‘landed’ that she was okay.  She said she was going to get something to eat and then if she got tired on the way ‘home’ she would call to stay awake.  She also said she would let us know when she got home.  (This last obviously, just maybe in a different way than Mama J was expecting.)

Of course, being the good Mama she is and all, her Mother messaged her a time or two on her ‘drive’ home in New York.  But we almost bit the dust when the daughter forgot and left her phone in the vehicle when she went in to eat Indian at Wichita.  Her mother wasn’t getting any replies to her messages and started going ballistic. 

I tried sending one to her myself, telling her she was going to need to say something or else we were up in smoke.  It was a bit later she was back in the vehicle and realized her mistake.

She quickly messaged her mother, telling her she had gotten something to eat, and was going to try to get some sleep.  According to New York time, she was at home now and would be going to bed to get this sleep, although by now it was Kansas road time again and she was safe in trying to get some sleep while the rest drove.

She wanted the dogs penned up so they wouldn’t bark when she got home and so she could see her beloved Taz on her own terms.  I mentioned to her mother that as cold as it was going to be that night, it might not be a bad idea just to pen the dogs.  Her mother agreed and even got up and penned the dogs herself, unknowingly.

The daughter messaged me soon after saying ETA would be 10:53 p.m. 

I knew we couldn’t stay up because that was later than we had been getting to bed, so I soon said I would go to bed, and my good wife followed. 

I fell asleep for a bit, but awakened around 10:50 and saw I had a couple of messages from my friend Caden, sending me some songs they had sung. 

“Perfect timing,” I thought, realizing that my good wife hadn’t fallen asleep yet.

I played those messages, quite a bit louder than I normally do, to cover any outside noise, even though my good wife claims now that she heard something out in the yard in spite of all that.

I heard the patio door quietly close.

In seconds, I heard, more than saw, our bedroom door open. 

And then the lights flashed on.

And there stood the sweet daughter, as real as life.

Mama J raised up from her pillow on her elbows and squinted in the glare of light.

“What the world,” she muttered.  I could tell the truth hadn’t dawned yet, being too early in the night for that.

She rose up again from her pillow.  (My song messages continued to serenade us.)

“What the world,” disbelieving.

“What the world,” slight panic.

“What the world,” believing, yet not believing.

“What the world!” Full belief.

A huge hug.

“What in the world.”

As recorded earlier, let the record show that a lapse occurred, on or about November 18, between the hours of 8:30 a.m. and 10:57 p.m., in which Mama Jan’s unswerving vigilance for her children was in the wrong place at the wrong time and said vigilance was therefore lacking upon the individual mentioned heretofore.

Spring

“Listen for it,” he said.

“For what?”

“For the trill of the robin.  You could hear it any day now.”

“What?  It’s not even the middle of December.”

He chuckled.  “You think I don’t know that?”

“But it’s winter.”

“I know.  But listen anyway.  Don’t you remember that one winter you saw a robin out hopping around in the snow?”

“Sure do.  It’s hard for me to reconcile something like that.  I hear the first trill of the robin, and I get all excited spring is on the way.  We have a few days where it feels like spring, even smells like it, and then we get a blizzard.  I can hardly bear that, when I have my hopes all up and then they come shrieking to a halt with the first blast of snow.  Besides, I’ve always wondered how those poor birds keep their feet warm, standing around in the snow like that.  But I do remember the winter you talk about.  I even remember hearing that robin sing out there in the snow.”

“Yeah, I know it frustrates you.  You’d like everything orderly, in its place, all predictable and zipped up in a pretty package, seasons not excepting. 

Have you ever truly enjoyed those brief spring days that surprise you?  Or do you spend all day muttering about how you need to have a full wardrobe of clothes in your truck.  Coats for the morning, jackets for noon, and short sleeves for afternoon, maybe even a raincoat, muck boots and regular shoes.

Those spring days are priceless, if you’ll just look at them that way.  I send them because of your winter.  I send them as a spoonful of hope.  I send them to sparkle up your tattered grey skies with brilliant sunshine with glorified joy.  I send them, because you need them, even if you don’t realize it and grumble about them when you know you have two months of winter left to go.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.  Listen for the trill of the robin.  You could hear it any day now.”

Song of Solomon 2 : 11-13

Different

I am different, and I know it. 

It maybe doesn’t show so drastically on the outside, but I still know it. 

Life choices have a way of leaving their mark.

Some of my life choices were my own.  Some made and implemented by others when I was still young.

Regardless, I have their mark to live with today, and it makes me different.

I know that my kind of different probably isn’t so different than the way you think you are different.

But my personal different is big to me.

It holds me back from a full range of life experiences.

I am hindered by it mostly because I feel like I don’t measure up.  It always tugs on me when I’m with my friends or in a group. 

Sometimes, it rides with me when I’m all alone in the car. 

I know that I have some good things about me, but because of my different, they are often pressed down and pushed to the back.

So, it came as quite a surprise one day when I got a message from a friend with whom I had only limited contact, inviting me to his house for lunch.

I often thought about this friend with admiration.  I often wished to be ‘in’ with him. 

But I always figured my different is what kept anything from happening.

My different did not keep it from happening, as I found out later, but not in the way I had been thinking.

I’ll never forget the way he said my name when I walked into his house. 

It rolled off his tongue in such a kind way; but more.  I am convinced from the way he said it that he honestly wanted my friendship; that he had been lonesome for it.

We talked about a lot of things that day.  Eventually I made reference to my different and asked why he had invited me to his house in spite of it.

“No, you have it wrong,” he said.  “Your different is the sole reason I invited you here today.”

“What?”

“Yes.”

I sat numbly, waiting for the happiest hour of my life to end with a rebuke or course correction given by him.

“Look,” he said, “some folks have cabinets with all the same kind of coffee cups in them.  They don’t know if they are drinking out of the same one today as they did yesterday, because they all look the same. 

When I go to my cabinet, there are many different kinds of coffee cups.  I stand there for a while each morning, thinking just which cup my coffee will taste the best in, and once I’ve decided, I can’t stop smiling for how good it tastes, just because of the unique way the cup is.  I know, you probably think I’m a little somehow that way.”

“So you invited me today because I’m different?”

“And because you were the one, above all else, I wanted to spend my day with,” he said.

*****

Every morning, when I step outside, I smell it. 

It’s the same smell I smelled when I first met him at his place.

I wonder.  Do you ever smell it?  Have you ever been to His place?

Song of Solomon 1:3-6

Crawfish

Tonight, if I had my rathers and could choose any place and any food, I know exactly where I’d be and who I’d be with.

And I know already, that my friend Jesse is gonna say, “I thought I told you to come over to Louisiana the next time you ate that.”

And I know, that if it were in my power, I’d be there with him, but it ain’t, and I haven’t eaten what he says is good yet, so I’ll go with what I know is good, even if it isn’t good by his standards.

Anyways. 

I’d call my sister-in-law Sharon, tell her to go pick up Mom-in-law, and I’d tell them to start moseying in a southwesterly direction and me and my wife would do likewise, except we’d go southeasterly, not that it matters to you.  I like their men and all, but what I’m thinking about this time doesn’t concern them, and they’ll have fend for themselves I guess.  At least until we get back with our leftovers and such. 

Because this meal won’t taste right if we don’t go back and do it just like we did one other time.

*****

It’s been about a year ago now, that we were in Wichita on sort of a rarified pleasure trip that involved taking care of two precious little souls whilst their Mama got through some Doctor visits with that good hubby of hers.

The question came up, towards evening, of what was for supper.

Someone mentioned a restaurant that specialized in seafood, and we all said we’d go for it. 

I went there with the intention of maybe some fried catfish, or perhaps some shrimp.  Either way seemed good to me.

But when we got into the joint, Taylor (Dad of the little tykes) asked me if I had ever had crawfish.

I said no.  I also asked myself quietly if I had the strength to do this. 

He was a pretty good salesman, showing me how to order and all, and telling me how good they were and everything, that I ended up with a low country boil plate with half a pound of shrimp, and half a pound of crawfish.

Shrimp are amazing.  For sure if you eat them down south with folks who know how to boil them up.  And I know enough about shrimp by now that I usually peel them first before I try to eat them.

Crawfish are a whole ‘nother story.  Especially considering some of the stories I had heard about them previously, such as how they were tossed in the kettle live, and you ate the tail and the tail was right close by the ‘you know what,’ and many and gruesome picturesque approximations were made concerning what the tail may have encountered as the crawfish endeavored to extricate himself, whether inside or outside.

But Taylor has always been one to inspire confidence, and he didn’t seem to bother about the stories that went around and proceeded to show me how to eat those things, or at least what part of them to eat. 

My first go around, that evening, gave me a fair impression, although it seemed then like a lot of work.  Enough so, that I had them another time at a place not far from where I had them the first time.  The second time I was sufficiently impressed.

And that’s been the problem now.  Every now and again I get a hankering for them.  And once I get that hankering, it’s like there is a slow, torturous gash that starts cutting itself into my belly, begging me to satiate it with more of them. 

And so, like I said, if I had my rathers, I’d get me down to Juicy Seafood in Flowood, Mississippi with the aforementioned folks.

Because, you see, it was like this. 

Dad in law in was in the hospital, and none of us could go see him since it was so late in the day. 

Mom looked so tired, I almost didn’t suggest it.  But when you spend the day in the hospital or nearby it, you start feeling like you need a little something to change the scenes. 

And since it was just me and those three ladies, I told them I was down for seafood at Juicy Seafood.  I really don’t know what they thought, it not being your general lady thing to do when you are just one guy and three ladies like that, but it seems they were desperate enough that they took me up on it without giving it much thought. 

They got shrimp and fried catfish.

I got sweet southern tea and crawfish. 

And even though the restaurant gave me this cute little bib to wear and these pansy plastic gloves to put on my hands, I forsook all. 

Because, it like the Tanzania gal who sat beside me on the plane said, “Food just tastes so much more nutritious and all when you can eat it with your fingers.” 

And believe me, that food was some kind of nutritious. 

So, if I was there again tonight, with those fine ladies, I’d convince at least one of them to order fried catfish, and I’d go with the crawfish and sweet southern tea. 

And I’d order the crawfish just as hot, spicy-wise as I did last time.  Enough so that I’d have to filch a bite of catfish every now and again to cool down. 

That’s where I’d go tonight.  It’s like my daughter Doc said the other day when we got crawfish here in Wichita, “Okay, but sure nothing to write home about.”

I don’t know why it is, but some food you just have to eat with the right folks and in the right places.

Jane Goodall

“What can I get for you?” she asked.

“I’ll go with a London Fog.”

“For here or to go?”

“For here.”

I looked the chairs and tables over.  There were some comfy, neighborly looking chairs sitting by the back door alongside some windows that were letting in capricious sunlight.  I thought about taking one of them, but someone was blogging nearby, and I remembered when I sat in one of those chairs last time, they hadn’t been as comfortable feeling as they looked.

I meandered to the front door; it wasn’t too busy, and there were a couple of spots there that would work.  I thought about the bar.  It faced a blank wall.  There was plenty of room there, but it didn’t feel right.

And then I spied it. 

A high table and chairs in a secluded area, not occupied. 

Except I still don’t know how to get myself slid up to the table on those highchairs, for sure if you are sitting against the wall and another chair is against you on the other side.  But I hopped and skipped it into place, reveling in my spot even if the artwork neighboring my table wasn’t my choice, being more of the abstract kind.

I pulled out this machine, opened it, and about then my London fog arrived, full to the brim in an oversize cup. 

She arrived about then, and took a seat at the next table.  We smiled at each other, and I thought to myself that if Jane Goodall lived in Kansas, this could be her sitting across from me.

Except she was a lot prettier and younger looking.

Five minutes later, he arrived.

They exchanged pleasantries; I took my first sip of my London, and lost focus on everything for a bit; it was that good.

When I came back to, they were talking cooking and he was showing her some pictures of a couple of meals he had recently made. 

She was enthused with it and told him so.

I wasn’t long in catching on that she was his counselor of sorts and they had met here to talk about how he was doing with the divorce he was going through.

She was so kind.

She gently led him through his problems, always with an understanding ear, but also with little positive comments here and there that encouraged him to keep going, both in his dialogue, and, later I knew, in the real world.

And they were making progress.  He was speaking favorably of making his way back into life; she, guiding him to each waypoint.

I was typing, (not about them) and swinging my legs from my highchair, generally soaking it all in, including my London fog.

But then something changed with him. 

He went from somewhat cheerful and accommodating to dark. 

He started circling, round and round. 

It seemed he was hyper dialed in on the process that the judge would use on the divorce. 

She asked him about a certain point of what he was saying, trying, I could tell, to get him to stop circling. 

He got angry and his tone got snappy. 

She backed up and asked him to explain it all to her so she could understand the divorce process, even though that knowledge to her was meaningless. 

I saw the line go from the apex down to a point not far from the level where they had started when they were talking cooking on the figurative line graph in which I was plotting their progress. 

But she was okay with that.  Because it was still progress.

And then the thing that caused him to start circling got blurted out.

“We always fought on navigation,” he said.

“You mean like when you were driving?”

“Yes.  We would be driving along, and I would tell her where I thought we should turn, but she wouldn’t have it.  Said when I talked like that to her it was disrespectful.  She could tell me what she was thinking, but I could never tell her what I was.”

“So, it was navigation that got you.”

“Yes.  We always fought on that one.  We could get along just fine on most everything else.”

My London had chilled measurably by that time; so had my estimation of him. 

He kept whining about his wife and how she had mistreated him.

I had to restrain myself from getting up, stepping over to his table and saying, “Sir, please. Can you try a bit harder to be a little more open minded?”

Because he was 65 and couldn’t reconcile navigation with his wife that he had been married to since their twenties. 

And because there were people in my life who were dealing with death and heartache that would have welcomed a chance to have a disagreement on navigation with their loved lost, had it been possible.

I’m sure there were other things in the picture that he didn’t mention which also magnified things. 

But right then, I had a hard time keeping from circling him myself.

Instead, I shut this computer down, cased it in my trusty backpack, and slung it over my shoulder.

I stood just for a second by my table, and she looked up at me with those kind, now a bit saddened eyes.

I locked my eyes with her and said, “You sound like a very kind woman.” 

And she giggled. 

Like the little girl she used to be 60 some years earlier. 

It seemed the least I could do.

Come Away

I remember all the times he came to my rescue; still does in fact. 

Times when he showed up without my asking him, just to help with the day.

I remember how so often he’d show up almost immediately after I had asked for help. 

In those times, I envision him running to me.  Leaping over anything in his path and taking advantage of any jumping off point to shorten the distance between us. 

I envision him leaping from mountain top to mountain top, skipping from hill to hill, faster than the wind.  Faster than light. 

I remember how he always arrived.  Never out of breath; never needing time to recover. 

He jumped right in on my project like it was the first of the day for him, but I knew it wasn’t.  And while he helped me, he somehow made me feel like I was his best friend, had always been in fact, that he’d run the mountains again, any day, just to be with me and help me.

I think of the times he came running to me when I never asked him to.  Times where it seemed like the thrill of being together lent urgency to his feet. 

Those times were different.  The times when I didn’t ask him to help me. 

He stands there, right outside my house.  I see him smiling at me through the glass windowpane of my door.  He holds the door open, standing behind it; he invites me to go with him for the day. 

He tells me of things he wants to go see; landscaping and gardens that are exquisitely beautiful.  He tells me of wonderful meals we can share together.  He says he’ll pay for everything.  He invites me again to come away with him for a while. 

But I stand inside my door. 

I’d like to go with him.  In fact, this isn’t the first time I’ve refused him on such an offer. 

It’s just that I have so much going at the moment. 

Schedules that have been in place for over a year.

It’s tempting.  I know I’d love a day off from all the stress.  I know I owe it to him for all the times he has helped me.  But I hardly feel like I can this time. 

He waits a bit longer, smiling his welcome. 

“Come away with me?” he asks. 

Song of Solomon 2:8-13

Two Questions

How old are you? 

What is your definition of a friend?

I’ve asked the first question to several people in a little different way than they perhaps are used to.

I don’t ask them how old they actually are; for sure if they are a woman.  I rather put it this way. 

“What age have you been for the last while?  Do you stay current with your age, or have you ever stayed locked at a certain age?”

Now, with that info, I’ll ask you again.  “How old are you?”

For years, I was sixteen.  Then after a while it changed to somewhere in the twenties.  For some reason, I skipped the thirties entirely.  (I’m guessing it had to do with certain teenagers and my close proximity to them.)  Now, I’ve been 44 for the last couple of years. 

I asked the clerk at Walmart this question and if she knew what I meant.  “Oh, for sure,” she said, “I was thirteen for the longest time, then bumped up to nineteen.  I think I’ll be nineteen for quite a while yet, by the way I feel, even though my real age in getting close to 30.”

Some folks I ask, especially the men, give me a strange look and try to put a little distance between themselves and me.  I can’t say I blame them. 

I’ve pondered it myself.  What makes a person’s age memorable?  Is it a life event?  Does it have to do with how settled one is with themselves and their place in life? 

I haven’t been in seriously deep water for years now, but part of me still thinks I could be sixteen when I’m around a pool, measuring my steps to the end of the diving board, backing up and running out with one long leap at the end and launching up and out effortlessly, dangling weightlessly at the top of the arc, then down into the depths . . .

But I think if I tried it in real life, certain handicaps might come into play; gravity may be a thing to be reckoned with more so than before, for whatever the reason.

Now, on to the friend question. 

I hope to tie these two together yet.

Sure, we could look up the definition of friend and get the exact meaning of it. 

But what is your definition?

I think back to when I was younger.  Friends were a commodity that had high value.  If you were friends with THE TOP DOG your value was intrinsically more than, say, if you are friends with just a number of guys. 

In other words, you limited out with ONE friend. 

Not several.  Hardly even two, because then you had to SHARE your friend, and he might suddenly like the other person better than you, and then your self-value would immediately plummet to rock bottom.

Unless, of course, sometime later in the evening, TOP DOG happened to glance at you.  You could allow yourself a few points of self-worth then. 

I don’t think I’m the only one who had this mentality when I was younger.  I’m suspicious everyone sort of goes though a phase of being friend stingy, and I’m equally suspicious that phase is during some or all of the teen years.

But do friends ever lose their high value if you spread them out a bit and have quite a number of them?

I’m not friend stingy anymore; rather, I’m guessing I’m friend greedy nowadays.

I’ve come far enough to realize that a life without friends is a lonely one.  And I’ve also come far enough to realize that having more friends is better than having only ONE friend. 

And here’s where the age question comes back in.  Does it matter what age my friends are?  I’ve heard it said that when we are in a group, we naturally gravitate towards the folks we feel least threatened by. 

What does it say when I find myself carrying a conversation with 2-year-old Ishmael?  (I love to touch his light roast coffee bean colored skin and tight, curly hair.)  Does it mean I’m a 2-year-old when I talk to him?

Or what if I enjoy going for a ride with my friend Dallas, as he shows me some of the history of this area?  He is 40 years older than me.  Am I 86 years old on that ride?   

Toss the age question out, if you will. 

I’m glad I have friends that vary in age.  Makes life much more interesting.

Like my friend Amber, who is 16, and with whom I share a twosome writing group.  Who more than likely will do a better job than I did at our shared assignment of writing something with the word coffee in it that can’t reference the drink and must be in adjective form.

All is Calm, All is Bright

I stepped outside this morning. 

A couple of inches of freshly fallen snow blanketed the ground.

Everything was so calm and bright.

I know that in a couple of hours, the wind will come up, and the temperature will rise.

By this evening, the pristine world I looked upon this morning will have returned to its dormant gray and two-day old coffee brown colors. 

But just for a bit, I caught a glimpse of Christmas this morning.

A glimpse of little children who are eternally happy; where they run free all day long and never get tired.

A glimpse of quiet times, sitting nearby a loved one, where words are too feeble to describe what we are looking upon.

Where music becomes visible, as it dances up, and runs along the top of the walls, then leaps down to the courtyard below and courses through the singing happy throng, skipping out among the hills, and, in a burst of euphoria, joins other music that continually encircles the dome.

Family gatherings, where each one is loved and included, and time together never gets long.

Where, just over the next hill, I know another joyous reunion awaits with other friends I haven’t seen in a while.

Because all are friends, all are family.

It comforts me somehow, to think that those who have left us recently are celebrating an eternal Christmas.

Where all is so calm and peaceful.  All is so perfectly bright and whole.