The Yard Cleaner

Old Maria and me in 1993

There's a number of food pantries around the Elmira area.  It's understandable, times are hard and it's nice that churches and such are able to distribute food that would otherwise go to waste.  But there are problems.  From what I understand, they're being inundated with people who move from one location to another packing as much food as they can into their containers, taking more than they really need, putting heavy demands on those who are simply trying to help their neighbors.  Therefore, several of the food pantries have decided to close as they are simply unable to deal with the sheer quantity of these scavengers.  I can't help but wonder how many of these people are actually motivated by hunger or if it's just the idea of getting something for nothing.  I tend to think it's the latter.

I can't say that I've known real hunger.  Let's face it,  we as Americans are pretty pampered.  No nation on the face of the earth takes care of its people as we do, and I for one am very grateful for the privileges I have because of the stamp on my birth certificate. I'm certainly not saying that we don't have hungry people inside our borders, I'm sure we do.  But for the most part, we really don't have a clue as to what it means to struggle to get something to eat everyday.

During our years in Honduras we lived directly across the road from the Caribbean where the ocean breeze was constantly blowing stuff off the street and into our yard.  When our co-worker Lydia Hines lived there, she'd hired an old woman by the name of Maria to sweep around the mission house and rake the yard.   After our family moved in, she asked if I'd mind keeping Maria on as it was the only way she could support herself and her daughter.  "Just give her a few lempiras and some beans and rice," I was told.  "She'll be quite satisfied with that."  That's how Maria came to work for me, and she showed up faithfully almost every Saturday.

As time went by, I found out a few things about the old woman who usually wore the same faded dress and a plain white kerchief over her head.  "I wish I knew how old she was." I once wrote. "She seems so old, but I think it's her broken teeth and skin that has been exposed to the tropic sun for so long that makes her seem so.  I asked her one time. She told me that she was 80.  I laughed and told her that was impossible as she claims to have a daughter that is barely over 20.  I explained that women don't have children when they're 60 years old.  She looked at me genuinely confused.  "Well, then I don't know how old I am," she said.  Over time I would learn that her husband and son were both dead and that her daughter was crippled, unable to care for herself.  Maria was the sole provider, there was no other family.

As the months went by I could see her becoming more frail.  I wrote this is my journal shortly before we moved away:  "Old Maria thanked me profusely after I paid her today and gave her some rice and beans.  She asked if possible would I let the next people who live in this house know about her and ask them if she might continue to work here.  I assured her I would do what I could.   There is a quietness about her that wasn't there when she first started working for me.  I could say that it's because she's now a Christian.  But I believe that primarily it's because she's old, wearing out, and just doesn't feel well.  She shouldn't have to do this kind of work at her age.  She should be collecting Social Security and watching soaps, doting over grandchildren, baking cookies and working crossword puzzles like my grandmother did when she was her age.  But old age for Maria and those like her is a curse here.  There is no rest for them."

I don't remember how I first met Antonia.  She had most likely come to our gate looking for food, a daily ritual for her.  This is how I described her back then:  "Antonia is a woman without hope, without dreams.  Her children are dirty, their clothes are seldom washed.  They never wear shoes.  Once a week someone will be at the gate.  There is no more to eat.  And though they never ask for money, I know why they have come.

There is a father.  There is talk that he drinks the money he earns chopping fields with his machete.  Antonia denies it, defending her "marido" vehemently.  She claims that he has an ulcer, at times debilitating him for days.  Whatever, they seldom have food.

There are six children.  David is the oldest at 12.  The youngest is an infant.  At one time there were four others.  They all died of common ailments.  Lack of medical attention killed each of them. One day David came to the gate, and I told him that if in a couple of days he would return, we would like him to show us where he lived.  Antonia had a baby girl several days before, and I had not seen her since.  I was concerned about how the baby was doing. 

Two days later he came and Larry, Autumn and I headed several miles out of town towards the pineapple fields.  Eventually he told us to turn off into one of the fields, and for several kilometers we drove along the dirt road used by tractors to collect the ripe fruit for export. Eventually the road ended.  We stopped the car and followed David down a dirt path which led towards the river.  There on a bank overlooking the water we were led into a tiny wooden hut covered with a thatched roof.  We were in the home of Antonia, her "marido" and six children.

Antonia greeted us with a welcome smile and invited us to sit down on the beds.  Larry insisted on standing, but I sat down beside the tiny form of a sleeping newborn.  I was amazed at the size of her! She was so tiny.  She had weighed four pounds at birth Antonia informed us, and she was but nine days old.  Autumn started at her, not quite believing she was real.  Feelings of pity for this child overwhelmed me.  And there was regret, regret that we could not take her and give her promises of good things to come.

Since that day, we have had continued contact with Antonia.  Someone from the family still comes to our gate once a week "to visit" and we know that they're hungry again.  We simply do what we can which isn't very much.  And we know that this is how they will live until they die."

When Maria would finish her job, she'd call me and have me look at what she had done, beaming with pride and satisfaction. There was dignity there in spite of her station.  But Antonia and her family on the other hand were scavengers, often seen going through trashcans in the city and begging on the streets.  There was certainly no dignity there.  One day she happened to stop for a visit as Maria was finishing up for the day.  I saw the old lady look at the young mother with pity and heard her softly say in Spanish, "That poor thing."   It was obvious she saw her life as being preferable over Antonia's.  I believe it was.

Antonia with her children outside her home

Slow Down for Frogs



I heard on the news this week that the New York State Parks and Recreation Department has posted some frog crossing signs over near Rochester in a couple of their parks. They want people to slow down for the little guy. It's raising quite a controversy with us being in a recession and all. People can't quite figure out why money is being spent to save a few measly frogs when there's much bigger issues to deal with. I don't have a clue as to how many of these hundred-dollar signs are actually in place, but I think it's rather nice that someone in Albany is concerned enough to try to keep the little amphibian from being crushed beneath the wheels of somebody's SUV. And what does it matter if they're only an inch or two long and kinda hard to see, meaning they're likely to get flattened anyway. Those who came up with this wonderful idea should get a big slap on the back for effort.

It's not that I have anything personal against frogs. No, quite the opposite. Every stage of my life has stories and therefore memories tied to the humble creature, and they start when I was just a girl living by the old Genessee Canal in Western New York. The canal hadn't been in use since the late 1800s, but for my brothers and I it was a place to search for lizards and snakes under rocks and pieces of sheet metal. The water was long gone, but the Fitzgeralds, just three neighbors down, had a wonderful little bog in their part of the canal with a short path that led down to that magical green pool full of frogs' eggs and tadpoles. I still remember my mom trying to keep us away from there, but to me it was absolutely one of the coolest places in the world. Most of the canal has since been filled in, but when I go home and stand on the bank, I remember how a good part of my childhood is tied to that place.

 

 

I became Miss Marcy the Frog Lady in the seventies. It was during my college years and I was working as the children's director at a camp in Western New York during the summers. I discovered early on that Circle C Ranch was chock-full of frogs and toads so decided to take advantage of the large population and incorporate them into my program. The campers with their counselors had to spend one afternoon of the week hunting down as many as they could, and that night at chapel the most exceptional ones were honored. Not a week went by when some nervous specimen being held up for a couple hundred kids and counselors didn't let loose and pee down my arm, but it was all in fun and in the four years I worked there, not one succumbed to death by children.  Each was always released and more often than not refound by the next group of campers. It was during those years that people started gifting me with frog paraphernalia. I guess they just assumed I liked them, and I suppose I did. I've since gotten rid of most my collection, but I still have the set of five instrument-playing ceramic croakers that Larry bought for me out of the country store my last summer there. We met at that camp and he proposed to me under a tree somewhere on the property. A couple of them are chipped now so I keep them in a box with other memorabilia. Occasionally I pull them out and smile, remembering.

My sister Dawn was attending college in Ohio the year I got married.  Always the prankster,  she snuck a large frog into the cafeteria and dropped it into the tea dispenser.  A couple of days later Dawn was eating her lunch when she heard a girl's scream and the sound of a breaking glass.  "There's a frog in the tea dispenser!" she cried.  The thing had swum up to the glass just as that poor girl was pouring her drink. The school never found out that my sister was the culprit, and perhaps she thought the whole incident had been long forgotten.  Not so.  Recently while reading through her alumni magazine she came across a page entitled, Favorite Dining Hall Memories. You guessed it.  Someone had written:  "The day they found the frog in the tea dispenser."
  

I saw some of the biggest toads ever while visiting the Atlantic Coast in Costa Rica. Those giants would come out by the dozens at dusk and fill the paths, seemingly oblivious to the pedestrians all around them. The street outside our first home in Honduras was sometimes filled with a much smaller variety that could squeeze its way under our screen door to check out the premises. Eventually we moved to the mission house on the other side of town. It was a two-story building and we lived on the second floor. One morning Fawn had just walked into the bathroom and proceeded to scream. She pointed to the wall where the toilet sat. There, filling up most of the bowl, was a rather portly toad having a leisurely morning swim. At first we were convinced it had to be a prank. But then it happened again, and the missionaries who followed had the occasional visitor in the same commode. We have yet to come up with a logical explanation.

A favorite picture of my grandson Tyler sits in a blue frame on a low table in the dining room. He is probably around four-years old, riding his first two-wheeler. If you look closely you will see a toad with suction-like feet clinging to and peering over the the handle bars. This particular fellow lived outside our bathroom window and would venture out and take a climb up the wall each afternoon. He and Tyler seemed to take a liking to each other, but after that bike ride he disappeared and never came back. Can't imagine why.

Tyler giving his little friend a ride

 

 

Now back to those signs. I'm thinking that maybe there's somebody in the Parks Department that really has a liking for frogs. Perhaps they lived by an old canal or pond and have memories of times gone by skimming frogs' eggs off the surface or carrying a big old granddaddy covered with warts off to school in a shoebox for show 'n tell. After all, remembering those special moments and places of our past are a gift, especially when we see the thread that ties them all together.

Peg and "Chal" (A Tribute)

There is a large stack of  letters and journals sitting on the desk beside me as I write, all from the same person I should add.  I gathered them together shortly after receiving the call from California  that our writer friend was gone, that her heart had suddenly given out.  I couldn't quite believe it.  Some people you expect to always be there and she was one of them.  A couple of days later I went into the attic,  pulled two heavy boxes full of letters out to the center of the room and began to sort.  I found several addressed with her familiar handwriting, most in blue airmail envelopes.  Next to my mother, she had been our most prolific correspondent while we were living in Central America.  I put them in order the best I could, carried them down to my front porch and began to read.

I suppose I need to go back to where this story begins.   It started when we moved to the tiny little community of North Rome, Pennsylvania to pastor the youth.  Pastor Brentlinger had been taking care of two churches, but with the one at North Rome suddenly taking off, he gave Larry the added responsibility of pastoring the other.  We put a lot of miles on our car during those first few years in Bradford County, traveling twice from North Rome to Herrickville each Sunday and at least one other time during the week.  In the meantime that little church which seemed to be plopped down in the middle of nowhere was filling up with young families who were soon asking for a full-time minister. Larry said yes and  the church bought an old farm house to use as a parsonage.

Herrickville is real country, and we went from living on a paved road to dirt.  As a matter of fact, most of our people lived on back roads just like ours.  It's even documented that our mailman had the longest section of dirt roads in the entire state of Pennsylvania.  That's why the first couple of times I saw Peg and her husband  Charles sitting in the back pew, I was taken back a bit.  I had no clue as to who they were, I just knew they looked slightly out of place, for sure not Herrickville people. I can't say it was just the clothes; after all, our people knew how to dress up nice for Sunday service.  They just didn't quite look like back-road type folk.  Turns out I was right, they weren't.  They were  Philadelphians who had bought a second home in the country, and for the past several years they had traveled up every weekend to remodel the place in anticipation of Charles' retirement which was just a few years off.

Larry and I became somewhat acquainted with the Bayers while still living at North Rome. But the friendship with this couple went to a whole new level when that old farmhouse I mentioned had to be gutted and remodeled.  Since most of the work to be done fell on Larry, he was making trips to Herrickville almost daily, trying to get the new parsonage ready for our family.  By this time Peg had pretty much moved into what had become a quaint little country cottage while Charles continued to work in Philadelphia, still traveling up on the weekends.  She felt sorry for the young pastor who came day after day to work on the old farmhouse that she could see from her property on the hill and decided that she would like to do something special for him.  She'd feed him lunch.  And she did, everyday.

By the time we moved into the new parsonage, Peg and Larry had become close friends, and it didn't take me long to realize what a gift I had received in this new neighbor.  She was generous, hospitable, an animal lover (she never had fewer than three dogs) and hilariously funny with an amazing wit.  That's what I loved most about her letters through the years I think.   I could just hear her Philadelphia accent as she would recount an event or encounter with someone and turn it into the most delightful read imaginable.  But she had known pain as well. She lost her youngest son to a horrible accident when he was a teenager, and for a time her life seemed to spiral out of control.  I believe their decision to leave Philadelphia came out of this tragedy.  She didn't even stand five feet tall, but that didn't keep her from taking on some huge challenges.  She became an advocate for women in crisis, sponsoring and mentoring several over the years.  It would take a multitude of paragraphs to tell all the stories of those early years in Herrickville, so many of them involving her. 

When we made the decision to leave the pastorate and go to Honduras it was hard on all of us.  We were extremely close to the people in our church, and the pain was intense. Looking back, I still believe it was one of the hardest times for us as a family.  Peg and Charles insisted we stay with them our last few days in Herrickville, our house having been emptied.  There is no place I would have rather been during that last week.

Several months later,  after completing a year of language school,  we arrived in Honduras.  I was seven months pregnant.  Peg and Charles were mortified at my being in a strange land without family, so they wrote informing us that they were making plans to come for a few weeks around the time the baby was due to help out wherever needed.  Honduras was politically volatile in the 80's and their family and friends thought they were absolutely crazy, objecting strongly and trying to convince them not to go.  It didn't work.  They got their wills in order and they came.  I have a copy of the journal she kept during those weeks.  Her writing is wonderful,  full of both humor and reflection on the country, the Burkes and on "Chal," always her favorite subject.  Charles always needed to be in control of a situation, kind of like the title of the old sitcom, "Charles in Charge."  But in Honduras things never go according to plan, and Peg (or Margaret as he called her), wrote about their wonderful and at times scary misadventures with humor and sarcasm.  I laughed all the way through and then cried as she ended her last day with this: "What more can I say about our dear friends and how much this trip has deepened our intimacy and caring?  As the elephant said to the mouse: 'Ours' is a strange and beautiful relationship."

Peg and Charles would eventually leave Herrickville.  They never thought they would have grandchildren, but their son Bob married a girl in California and had started a family.  They were both ready for the new adventure of grandparenting and moved to the West Coast.  We never saw them again though we continued to write and speak occasionally on the phone. 

Peg pursued her writing, something I'd always encouraged her to do,  becoming a member of some writing groups and publishing some short works, a novel and eventually her memoirs.  The last letter we got from her was a little over a year ago.  She wrote,  "We shared so much.  I'm especially reminded because I finished my memoir, This Old House, my story of our lives in Bradford County....You guys played major roles, and I sent you three chapters."  She went on to talk about Charles who was suffering from dementia and how she was caring for him.  "Well-meaning friends advised me to put him in a nursing home, but I couldn't do it.  It would be abandoning him and he'd know it.  For sixty years he was a loving husband, and felt responsible for my care.  He provided a good life for me....I've done everything I can to make him comfortable in his situation but I'm eighty-six and I'm worn out....I try to explain that I'm physically incapable of lifting or dressing him, but he thinks I'm mean.  He said, "We married to care for each other in sickness and health."  My response was, "Our vows didn't say that in my sickness I was to take care of you in yours...."  And always the wit, she ends this part of her letter with this.  "As soon as Chal awakes, he starts calling, "Margaret," which goes on all day.  I'm going to change my name."

Not too long after we received that phone call, we got another informing us that on the day of Peg's Memorial service Charles breathed his last.  I can't help but feel that Peg would have had something to say about that too.

The Cliffs of Cangrejal

It's hot in New York.  It hit 104 in Elmira this week breaking records from decades ago.  It makes me think of those years in Honduras where you started the day with a shower and ended the day with a shower.  On the worst of days you'd take three, or even better, you'd pack up the Nissan truck with a large thermos of iced tea and some towels and head to the Cangrejal River that runs through the mountains right outside of La Ceiba.  The beach was just as accessible but we preferred the river by far.  The water was colder, a nice contrast to the bathwater-like-temperatures of the Caribbean.  And though the white sand beaches outside the city were beautiful, there was nothing quite like the river that snaked its way through the canyons off the Northern Coast of Honduras. 

Steve and Gale were our young American neighbors living across the street from us in our new neighborhood of El Sauce.  Steve was a teacher at  Brassavola, the bilingual school where Angela and Joel attended their first year.  We hadn't been in La Ceiba long when they invited us to go to the mountains with them on the following weekend.  "The river is especially nice there,"  they said.  "And there are cliffs."

It was just a mattter of minutes before we were out of  La Ceiba and onto the mountain road that Saturday morning, climbing higher and higher, the river in view down below.  About fifteen minutes later Steve had us take an exit,  one used by trucks to haul gravel from the riverbed.  We descended,  parked, and grabbed our stuff  before following him onto some large rocks that lined the river, the perfect place to lay down our gear and spread out towels and blankets.

I got situated then began to take in the view.  The water seemed to be moving pretty fast through this section,  cliffs on either side of different heights, the highest perhaps thirty feet or so.  And though it was beautiful, that's not the first word I would have used to describe this place.  Untamed, even a little dangerous better fits.  I was awed and mesmerized by those who ascended the cliffs to dive into the waters below.  But I also held my breath each time as there were rocks jutting out from the banks.  Was there any guarantee that they'd not miss them and break their necks?   The young Honduran men that were there, dark skins and hair glistening as they dove again and again showed no fear whatsoever.  And eventually the white skinned foreigners climbed the trail up to the highest point and had their turn.  Steve dove,  Gale didn't flinch.  Larry chose to go down feet first and  I breathed a sigh of relief.

We would return to those cliffs again and again during our years in Honduras.  Our kids were young at first, very young,  but they jumped the cliffs more times than I could possibly count.  Joel was in the first grade and could hit the water without his head ever going under, as if it were made of cork.  Even Fawn,  four years old our first trip out, would find her way to one of the lower cliffs.  The water was swfit as I mentioned, and as soon as the kids hit the water, they would be carried downstream a ways and would come out where the water slowed. From what I understand, white water rafting is pretty popular on the Cangrejal now.  We were already doing that all those many years ago, just without a raft. 

I'm glad my kids were up for the challenge.   Even though they were under our watchful eye everytime they plunged into that river, we never feared they wouldn't make it back to the bank.    We knew them as strong swimmers and achievers and I've no doubt that gave them all the more confidence to jump those cliffs.  I hope that lesson will help carry them through their adult lives, especially when they need the courage to take some risks.

Fawn and I had a conversation a few days ago.  It went something like this.  "Mom, don't you think what we did as kids was kind of dangerous?"  "What do you mean?" I asked.  "Well," she continued. "You had us jumping off cliffs in Honduras."  "You didn't have to jump off the cliffs if you didn't want to," I countered.  "I know, " she said.  "It scared me to death, but I wanted to do it.  I just remember it taking me forever because  I was so scared."  So I asked Angela, Fawn's oldest sibling by five years, how she had felt about the whole thing.  She didn't see it quite the same way.  "That was our life." she said matter-of-factly.  "That's just what we did.  And then she added, "And it was a great childhood."  There was no debate there.

The following video is not of us, but it will introduce you to the beautiful river of Cangrejal:

The Trouble With Chickens

I've got to buy eggs today and it will be the first time in months.  That's because up til now my friend Lois and her husband Brian have been providing us with eggs from their own chickens.   We've enjoyed them, especially our three-egg vegetable and cheese omelettes.  Actually some of them could be called five or six-egg omelettes because of the size of those suckers. I strongly suspect we may have had some duck or possibly turkey eggs in the mix.  At least I hope so.  I can't imagine some poor little hen laying those gargantuan things. She'd be walking around like a bow-legged cowboy.  Oh, and we've not been the only one to benefit from the egg surplus.  Lois has brought dozens of cartons full of the preferred brown variety to share with the church folk and has provided enough for several church events, all involving food of course.

Therefore you can imagine my disappointment when I saw the message Lois left on facebook about a week or so ago:  It went something like this:  "Dear friends.  Between the bobcat, the fox and the raccoons, our poor chickens are almost gone.  And did I mention the bear, the BIG bear?  At this point we aren't even sure if we'll start over again with baby chickens.  Will keep you all posted."  I happen to know that Lois is at camp this week bemoaning the fact that Brian can't be with her this year.  That's because he's staying up through the night watching for varmints who might be coming after the last of his chickens or one of his ducks or turkeys.  Last I heard he'd gotten two foxes and two coyotes.  Yep, coyotes too.  And no, this is far from over.  A man suffering from sleep deprivation and a woman missing her husband at camp all for the sake of a few chickens.
 

We had chickens only once that I can remember.  We got some baby chicks from the Whitneys, a family  who rode our bus.  My mom loved animals, and it seemed like she was a real pushover when we asked for a new pet.  When our neighbors had a nice litter of kittens, she said we could get one.  Well, I liked the little long-haired multicolored one and my brother Rex liked the short-haired yellow one. She let us get both.  So I obviously told her that  the Whitneys had baby chickens and asked if we could get a few.  I liked them until I got pooped on right before the school bus arrived one morning.  I lost interest in them after that.  They grew up and roamed the old canal that ran behind our house, and I'm assuming my dad probably chopped off their heads so we could eat them since they suddenly weren't there anymore.

We weren't meant to be chicken people anyways.  We were rabbit people.  My dad always had a bunch of them out in his pen and just as many in the freezer.  We never had coyotes or bear to contend with, but one night after he'd gone to bed there was a horrible squealing coming from out back.  He quickly rose out of bed and found a mink chewing off the feet of the rabbits through the pen floor.  He grabbed a wooden stilt that he'd made for us and hit it over the side of the head.  That's about the most exciting thing that ever happened to us being rabbit people and all. 

 

Larry used to spend his summers at his cousins' farm in Castile, New York.  One day he was asked to chase down a few chickens and prepare them for supper.  Well,  everyone knows what happens when a chicken gets its head chopped off, it runs around like a chicken with its head cut off.  So rather than put up with that nonsense, he decided he was going to pelt them with corn cobs to do them in.  He felt pretty smug at figuring out how to slaughter the poultry in a brand-new way until  Marion went to fry them up and discovered they were covered with massive bruises.  I don't think he was allowed to kill any more chickens after that.
 

 

I've never quite understood why someone would have a pet chicken, but I know a lady in Prattville, Alabama who absolutely loves them.  As long as I've known her she's had a pet chicken that sleeps on her back porch.  I can't imagine cozying up to a little red hen or a banty rooster sitting on my lap, but I guess to each his own.  And I read that if a chicken is treated really well, it can live up to twenty years or so. Come to think of it, that's longer than the more common pets usually live.  Plus you wouldn't have to have that little backyard funeral that we always had with our cats and dogs and goldfish and such.  You could just eat your pet for dinner.

 

Rain

I hear they're needing rain in Alabama.  My son is ready to hit some fire hydrants just to get some relief.  I know, Alabama gets hot.  Real hot.  I lived there for 12 years and never had a summer I liked.  If the rains are particularly stingy, which they seem to be so far this year,  the grass turns brown and brittle.  Add to that the mounds of fire ants and the weeds that persist on growing even in drought and that was my yard.   Growing up I was accustomed to New York summers where the grass was thick and lush green.   I'm not a bare-foot type person anymore, but back then I loved the feel of it between my toes.  As for the weather, of course it was hot.  Sometimes.  There were those occasional  periods when the mercury topped out and the humidity hung thick in the air, but it rarely lasted more than a week or so.  We always knew that comfortable days and cool nights weren't too far behind.  In the meantime we pulled out the water hoses and ran through the spray until our mothers told us we'd better quit because we'd used up enough water.  Ah yes, there was nothing like summer in New York.

As miserable as Alabama can be, however, it's not the hottest place on earth.  No, that honor should go to Honduras, the country where I spent the six sweatiest years of my life.  Perhaps I should have been better prepared but Costa Rica had spoiled us I'm afraid. We went there first to study Spanish for a year in the capital city of San Jose where the temperature rarely drops below 65 or climbs above 80.  It's like living Spring all year long. And there's lots of rain.  We were introduced to the rainy season our very first day there.  We had arrived at the airport that afternoon with three kids in tow and lots and lots of luggage. Harriett Wittenberg, a fellow missionary who had just wrapped up her year of language study, met us there with a pickup truck she'd borrowed.  The rain had already started as we hurriedly threw our suitcases and boxes into the back of the vehicle, covering the load with tarps and securing them the best we could. She knew what was coming and wanted to get us to our new home as quickly as possible.  But it was too late.  We were on the highway for just a few minutes when it came, a hard-driving, wind-swept rain that lifted the tarps and pounded the contents in the back.  It was our initiation into a new home, a new country, a new culture.  But in spite of the wet containers,  I found the rain exhilarating.

It was rather strange living in a place where the timing of the rain was so predictable.  Larry and I had classes until early afternoon, and we learned that if we didn't head right home, we'd more than likely get caught in a downpour.  We had hired a maid, and the first thing she did upon arriving each day was wash and hang laundry.  If she'd waited to do it later on we would never have had anything dry to wear. One afternoon shortly after our arrival, we walked several blocks to the grocery store with all three kids.  We thought we were well prepared, all five of us decked out in our hooded raincoats that we had been strongly advised to bring with us.  The rain had already started as we came out of the store, large sheets of it hitting the sidewalk and splashing up under our coats and against our legs.  We must have looked like a family of ducks sloshing through the puddles in our slickers on that long walk home.  Needless to say, we were drenched and dripping puddles as we walked through the front door.  It's still one of my favorite memories.

A year later we stepped onto the tarmac in La Ceiba, Honduras.  But unlike the pounding rain that had greeted us in Costa Rica, here we were met by a blast of hot air that drained five very weary travelers.  We were to find that the rain wasn't so predictable here on the coast.  We would often go days without the welcome respite that only the rains could bring, a temporary relief from the stifling heat that never seemed to go away.  But when it finally came, everything changed. There was a sudden mad rush for swimsuits, the slam of screen doors and the squeals of children reveling in Heaven's gift.

Over time we would find other ways to survive the Honduran heat:  solitary beaches, cool mountain streams, breath-taking waterfalls and exotic island getaways.  We enjoyed them all and considered them God's special gifts to us, seeking them out as often as we could.   But life was also full of school and building projects and teaching and groups coming in from the States.  We were simply too busy to load up the car with kids and towels anytime we wanted.  But when it rained it didn't matter what we were doing;  there was always that same rush that culminated with the sounds of excited children coming from the yard below.

I have a favorite picture that sits on a small buffet in my dining room.  It was taken in Honduras on the Fourth of July, 1987.  Several American families had gathered to celebrate the day together at the mission home of Tom and Lydia Hines.  Even though the house wasn't all that big it came with a spacious yard,  perfect for families with kids who needed  to run.  It also had several trees which included a large sprawling monkey cap tree that offered an abundance of shade.  It had been especially hot that afternoon, so when a thunderstorm suddenly blew in, the children were excited and anxious to get wet.   The storm lasted for just a few minutes but the kids ran for the downspouts that were still gushing out rain water.   And that's where some of them were standing when my sister grabbed her camera and took the shot.

There are five children in the photo, all drenched with their hair plastered to their heads and their clothes clinging to their wet skin. Two are mine:  Fawn, the only girl in the picture and Joel, the oldest and tallest, stands in the middle.  His friend Matthew is the one grinning from ear to ear with his hand on Joel's shoulder, and then there's a couple of younger boys, Ian and Erik.  The moment caught forever by the click of a shutter.

If I were granted three wishes, I would return for a little while to that place and that time.  I would wait in anticipation for the rain, eager to hear the slam of the screen doors once again and the sound of eager feet on the wooden steps descending to the yard below.  Then I would join them as they dance in the yard and stand under the eaves troughs, not letting any of Heaven's shower go to waste.  All the while I would watch their faces, soaking in the memories of children not yet burdened by life's complications or disappointments.  And I would pray for each one, that when the heat becomes unbearable, God would be gracious and send the rains once again.

Breathing Again

If anyone's entitled to harbor hatred and bitterness, it's Brooks Douglass and his sister Leslie.  Their parents were brutally murdered by a couple of drifters in October of 1979. Brooks was 16, Leslie 12.  After serving for a time as missionaries in Brazil, they took a pastorate in a baptist church in Oklahoma City.  Brooks happened to be the one to open the door to Glen Ake that Sunday evening; he asked to use the phone. Richard Douglass and his wife Marilyn didn't hesitate.  That's just how they were, always helping someone out.  But Glen Ake was up to no good.  He and his partner, Steven Hatch, pulled their guns, tied up Brooks and his parents and then shot his folks in cold blood.   Brooks watched his parents die while his sister was being raped in another room.  The two men took what little they found of value,  proceeded to shoot the two younger Douglasses and  left the house believing they'd gotten away with it.  But they made one serious mistake.  They never checked to make sure the kids were dead.  Glen Ake would end up serving life in prison and Steven Hatch would die by lethal injection.

Brooks has written a book chronicling not only that horrible period  in his life but what transpired out of it as well. The years to follow were gut wrenching, and the insensitivity towards these two young people who had already suffered a horrible tragedy was deplorable.  Their home was repossessed, belongings were sold to pay medical bills, and the years of appeals and court proceedings opened up the wounds of these two young people again and again.  Eventually Brooks would go to law school, become the youngest state senator to ever serve in the Oklahoma legislature and would become a champion at passing legislation securing victims their rights.

The title of his book,"Heaven's Rain," is taken from a passage in the book of Matthew that talks about the rain falling on both the just and the unjust.  It follows the part where Jesus talks about loving our enemies and praying for those who use us.  The Message Bible puts it like this:  "You're familiar with the old written law 'Love your friend,' and its unwritten companion, 'Hate your enemy.'  I'm challenging that.  I'm telling you to love your enemies.  Let them bring out the best in you, not the worst.  When someone gives you a hard time, respond with the energies of prayer, for then you are working out of your true selves, your God-created selves.  This is what God does.  He gives his best--the sun to warm and the rain to nourish--to everyone, regardless: the good and bad, the nice and nasty.....Live out your God-created identity.  Live generously and graciously toward others, the way God lives toward you."

One day while serving as a state senator Brooks was taking a tour of the prison where Glen Ake was incarcerated.  On impulse he asked to see him and was granted  permission.  It wasn't until he was actually sitting across from him that he realized how difficult this was going to be.  He had no idea how much rage there was inside of him, anger he'd been holding back for 15 years.  For an hour and a half he would look into the face of the man who had changed the course of his life, and it was this same man who would tell him how sorry he was at what he had done to him and his family.

The morning of the day that  Pastor Richard Douglass was murdered he would preach his last sermon.  It was on forgiveness.  This was the legacy that Brooks' parents had left him, and in spite of all that he and his sister had endured, his faith had remained intact.  As he sat there with his family's killer, he knew what he had to do.  He could do nothing but what his father had preached and lived. He looked at Glen Ake and said, "I forgive you."  This is how he describes what happened next:

"When I told him I forgave him, I remember falling back on the chair and literally feeling like my body was full of water and it was poison.  I felt like the water was floating out of the room and it was so surreal!  After 15 years I felt like I could breathe again.  I was almost hyperventilating because of that feeling.  When I walked outside, the leaves on the trees were green, the sky bluer.  All of my senses were heightened."

Matt Maher's song  "Alive Again" has a  phrase that says this:  "You broke through my darkness, washed away my blindness.  Now I'm breathing in and breathing out.  I'm alive again."   What was it Brooks said?   "I felt like I could breathe again."  I don't think he could have described it any better than that.

Encounter At The Lube Shop

We had come to Alabama for a wedding and I needed a manicure. I hated to bring it up because Larry was anxious to get on to Cottondale for the dress rehearsal later that afternoon.  But I hadn't had my nails done in months and wanted them to look presentable. Besides, what was another half hour. The Escort was on empty, we'd planned to fill up at a particular gas station heading out of town.  But because I had a preference for a particular nail place in another part of Prattville, we'd be leaving by a different way.  Larry dropped me off and headed to the Pace Car just up a block or so.  And that's where the story gets interesting.

I love the commercial where the guy at the train station sees the girl across the way, their eyes meet, and using his cell phone quickly buys a ticket for the same train as hers.  It not only changes the course of his life but the country's as well.  They marry and their child grows up to become President of the United States.  A chance meeting, an impulse decision and it changes the course of everything.  It reminds me that what we often carelessly term as life's coincidences aren't that at all.  An event or encounter that seems random to us may actually have been designed ahead of time.

  

Back to the gas station.  Larry had just finished filling up when he heard someone call his name.  Across the road from Pace Car is the lube place where he always took our cars when it was time for an oil change. The guys had gotten to know him pretty well over the years, he knew several of them by name.  He looked up.  It was William, the owner of the place.  Larry trotted over and shook hands with him.  They talked for a minute or two and then William said,   "I've got a guy from up north working for me now.  We call him Yank."  "Really," Larry responded. "I'd like to meet him.  Get him out here."  So William hollered and a young guy in his mid twenties emerged from the garage.

One of my favorite Bible passages is in Ephesians where Paul calls me God's workmanship created for the purpose of doing good works for others.  What's really cool is that these things are already planned, an itinerary so to speak,  laid out by the Father with situations and encounters meant only for me.  I'm not always aware of how this is playing out through my life as I walk this journey.  There's a lot I can't see.  But sometimes He lets me catch more than a glimpse of His working out the details through me, and when He does, it totally blows me away.

Back to Yank.  His real name is Brandon and  it turns out he's from New York just like us. "So where are you from in New York?" Larry asked.  "Elmira," was the reply. This whole thing was getting weirder by the minute.  "Really?"  Larry wasn't quite believing where this conversation was going.  "That's where I live."  Brandon told him what part of the city he'd grown up in and Larry told him where the church is that he pastors.  "Yeah, I know where that is," Brandon continued.  "If you turn right at the church and then turn another right, that's where my grandmother lives."  Larry didn't skip a beat.  "Oh, you're talking about Charles Street.  That's where I live."

Brandon had already called his grandmother to tell her about the encounter he'd had a thousand miles from home with the pastor who just happens to live on Charles Street.  So when we knocked on her door that first time,  I think she was expecting us.  As a matter of fact I paid her another visit this week., and she seemed  pleased that I'd come.  She's been having trouble with her feet and has a son with cancer so I asked if I could pray for her before I left.  She didn't seem to mind.  I'm still not sure what all of this means.  Like I said, there's a lot we can't see.  But one thing I know for sure is that I have a new octogenarian friend that I probably wouldn't have met otherwise.  I also know that there is Someone who's been working all this out for a purpose and I don't want to miss out on my part.   After all, this is the kind of stuff  I've been created for.

The Little Girl and The Beggar

I spent an hour or so with Edith one afternoon last week.  That's not her real name, but I'll call her that anyways.  She's 81 years old and lives in a lovely apartment with her dog Bubbles.  Actually, that's not the name of her dog either, but that's what I've decided to call her for now.  I first met Edith one Sunday morning right after we came to Elmira, and it would be some months before I'd see her again.  The next time was at a church dinner, and we just happened to sit next to each other at the same table.  By the time the meal was over, I had decided she was rather brusque and a bit unpolished.  No, I didn't much care for this Edith person.  I didn't think about her again until I heard a passing comment several months later that she was a bit put out with the pastor who had never bothered to call on her.  I decided I cared for her even less.  Not too many weeks back, however, Edith was back.  And the next week she was back again and then the next.  "I think it's time we went to visit Edith," I said to Larry.

The door was already wide open when we got there,  she was obviously anticipating our visit.  She pulled herself up with her walker and opened her arms in welcome to embrace us.  Bubbles was in the background barking excitedly, her leash attached to the sliding glass door and hardly able to contain herself at the sight of company.  I found a chair nearby so I could fuss over her, at the same time taking in the room. It was surprisingly large for an apartment, bright and cheery from the light streaming in through the sliding glass doors and from the colors of her furnishings.  I liked it and felt immediately at home.

During the next hour I would learn that Edith had raised a large family, then went on to have a successful career as both a nurse and a teacher.  She had a husband whom she absolutely adored, left her job to care for him when he became ill, and grieved long and hard for him when he was gone.  I felt my throat thicken as she described that dark time in her life and how God brought her out of that depression through a pastor's visit.  But she didn't dwell on that for long.  This visit wasn't going to be all about her, she wanted to know more about these two people who had come to spend an hour with her on this lovely June afternoon.  She seemed as geniunely interested in knowing the details of our lives and family as we were about hers. When I was ready to leave I hugged her tightly and told her how much I really, really liked her.  "I like you too," she said and squeezed me back just as hard.  As Larry and I walked to the car, I knew what I needed to say.  "I misjudged her and I was wrong."

How easy it is to form quick conclusions about others, especially when we find them abrasive or rude.   I had stopped for a few items at the local grocery store recently and was pricing meat at the deli department.  As the woman working behind the counter approached to help,  I told her what I was doing and that I wasn't ready to buy.  She turned away in a bit of a huff and rolled her eyes to the ceiling.  I was shocked and indignant at the poor treatment I had just received and thought for a moment of filing a complaint against her.  But then I thought otherwise.  Sure, it's possible she might simply be miserable, someone who's never learned the art of courtesy. If so, she won't have that job for long.  But what if something had happened that morning to set her off, like maybe a child in trouble, or not having enough money to pay the rent or the responsibility of an aging parent requiring extra care?  I think it's only right to give her the benefit of the doubt. After all, I'd like someone to do the same for me. 

I learned a hard lesson many years ago on making assumptions.  I was shopping in El Ceibeno, a supermarket in La Ceiba, Honduras, when I saw this little girl, maybe six or seven, come flitting through the store.  She was into everything, touching the bags of eggs, pushing the buttons on the coke machine, never stopping for more than a few seconds before she was into something else.  She was having a wonderful time,  her eyes twinkling and with this big grin that seemed to be aimed at no one in particular.  But I couldn't help but notice how filthy she was. Her face was smudged with dirt, her dress hadn't been washed in who knows how long, and her hair was unkempt and dirty.  I saw poor kids all the time, but I was especially appalled at the condition of this little girl.  How difficult would it be for her mother to wash her face and comb her hair?  Couldn't she see how much she needed a bath?

As I walked out of the store that afternoon I passed the beggars who were sitting or standing in the shade that the wall provided.   And then I saw her, that same little girl who only minutes before had been playing in the store aisles.  But now she had her arms clasped around the legs of a woman standing not far from the entrance.  Her head was flung back, her smile wide and proud as she looked adoringly at the woman who was obviously her mother.  The woman was returning the smile, one hand lovingly placed on the child's head, the other cupped and thrust forward, silently asking those passing by for what they could give. I suddenly felt ashamed.  I knew why she was there, why she came day after day to beg. I looked into her eyes as I passed the two of them.  She never saw me.  How could she?  She was blind.

The Amputee Ward

My dad was the oldest of seven.  He came of age during World War II, joined the army and helped bring the Allies to victory in Europe. Even though he suffered a severely injured back due to a glider crash, he was able to stay the course and returned home after the war was over.  The youngest of the family was Ron and not all that many years older than me.  That's because my grandmother had married very young and started birthing children soon afterwards, making the age difference between my dad and his youngest brother considerable.  Ron came of age during the Vietnam War.  But unlike his older brother, he didn't join the Army.  He joined the Navy and became part of the Construction Brigade, more commonly known as the Seabees.  They were in Vietnam building aircraft-support facilities, roads and bridges for their buddies who were on the line and in the air. But they were also humanitarians, building schools and hospitals and digging wells for the Vietnamese. Uncle Ron was a big guy.  If things had turned out differently for him, I think he might have gone into trucking or highway construction.  But he was never able to do those things, and unlike his brother, Ron came home early.

Uncle Ron and my grandmother not too long before he joined the Seabees

I had a dream long ago that I was standing at the top of a hill with a large wheel in my hand.   Letting go,  it rolled down the hill and ran over someone's leg at the base of the hill.  I was writing Uncle Ron who was serving in Viet Nam at the time, and I remember telling him in one of my letters about the strange dream I'd had.  I certainly didn't see it as a warning or premonition, but it wasn't too much later that my grandmother received the news that her youngest son had been seriously injured.  He'd been thrown from his equipment, and the tire from the large earth-moving machine he'd been operating had run over his leg.  They couldn't save it.

There are certain episodes in our lives that make an indelible impact on us.  My parents packed the five of us into our station wagon early one morning.  We were going to the U.S. Naval Hospital in Philadelphia to see my uncle where he was recuperating and rehabilitating from his injury.  Even after all these years I see and feel the sheer size of the building and hear the echo from our shoes hitting the hard tile floor. I couldn't help but wonder if time had altered what I remembered about that day and place.  So I googled it and discovered the place was 352,000 square feet and 15 stories high.  My memory was right on.   And the size of the building only added to the enormity of that war for me, that it was full of people who had come home terribly wounded and were therefore changed.  As a young teenager, I found that overwhelming.       

It seemed like we walked forever, through ward after ward until we found my uncle. And then there he was, his bed in the midst of so many other beds, all filled with amputees.  A muscular young soldier lay in the bed next to his, both legs gone well above the knee.  He was working his upper body and what was left of his legs with a couple of acrobatic type rings hanging from the ceiling.  I didn't want to gawk but couldn't keep my eyes off him.  Without stopping his regimen he asked if I'd ever seen anything like what I was seeing there in that room.  I shook my head, not knowing what to say.  I felt awkward, uncomfortable, as if this place should be private, devoid of outsiders.  But then it was my turn to visit with my Uncle Ron. I walked over to the bed and any words I might have prepared remained unspoken.  I was so overcome,  not just with the emotion of seeing him in that place, but by the number of amputees all around me.  So all I did was hold his hand and he held mine, not letting go for a long time.

U.S. Naval Hospital in Philadelphia

The U.S. Naval Hospital of Philadelphia is gone now.  The Navy decided not to keep it and sold it to the city of Philadelphia.  They demolished it ten years ago.   My Uncle Ron is gone too.  He eventually married, had three children and lived a pretty productive life doing things he enjoyed.  After I moved away I didn't see him much, but he and my father remained close.  He died suddenly, unexpectedly, just a few months after my dad passed on.  I often think of him, and sometimes when I do I'm back in that amputee ward with those wounded soldiers all around me.  I can't help but feel my throat tighten just like it did on that day long ago, and I know the words won't come.  I don't think they ever will.

Postscript:  The acreage where the hospital sat is now used as a parking lot for the Philadephia Eagles.  Sadly, there's not even a commemorative plaque on the site.

Through The Storm

It was Wednesday, April 27th.  We were on our way to Alabama for a wedding and had spent the night before at my sister's in Frederick, Maryland.  The second leg of our trip would take us as far as Cleveland, Tennessee, a city just east of Chattanooga where Larry's brother lives.  It'd be a long day of driving and I wanted to know if we'd be having much rain.  Dawn got on her computer and pulled up a weather map.  It didn't look good, lots of serious storm activity was being forecast throughout the south.  I was glad I'd thought to bring an umbrella.

The drive was pretty uneventful until we hit some hard rain right outside of Knoxville later that afternoon.  I pushed the scan button on the radio hoping to get an idea what we were driving into, and it didn't take long to find out.  A local station was taking calls from people all over that part of Tennessee with stories of strong winds, hail and even a few tornado sightings.  The rain was picking up, blowing in sheets across the highway in front of us, making it harder to see.  We sighted a Cracker Barrel sign and took the ramp; we might want to wait this out.  We were barely seated when the weather seemed to clear a bit.  I looked at the menu, then at Larry.  We weren't really all that hungry anyways.  We apologetically handed the menus back to our server, ordered some coffee to go and headed back onto the interstate.  The sky looked pretty clear up ahead.  Maybe the worst was over.

About thirty minutes out of Cleveland we hit rain again, but this time it came with such fury that the wipers could hardly keep up with the deluge striking the windshield.  This went on for several miles.  And though it was barely six o'clock, it seemed much later, the dark storm clouds blocking what light there was. It was then we heard and felt the hail hitting our little Escort.  With gas hovering close to four dollars a gallon, we had made the choice to drive the more economical of our two vehicles, but now I felt particularly vulnerable as we heard the balls of ice striking the roof.  I sat tensely with my hands clutching the seat, almost expecting to be blown off the road.  But a lighthouse in the form of an eighteen-wheeler with flashing red lights suddenly loomed in front of us, and Larry followed and fixed his eyes on that beacon until we were able to catch sight of our exit.  

As we left the ramp everything was dark, traffic lights included.  Trees are especially vulnerable during a storm and Tennessee has its share of them.   No doubt there would be the roar of chain saws over the next several days.  But as we settled in for the night, all was still, the tempest having passed on to wreck havoc further east.  The house seemed unnaturally quiet without the soothing hum of the refrigerator coming from the kitchen.   Larry had lost his mother seven months earlier, and his brother Paul had just acquired the letters his parents had written each other long ago.  So as we sat and talked by candlelight, it seemed only natural and appropriate that he should read portions of what had been written some sixty years earlier.   Later the news would come that almost 300 lives were lost that day due to that same storm, something I'll never forget.  But I will also remember the sound of Paul's voice in the hush of that living room reading his parents' private expressions of love and longing. For me, the two will always be connected.

The young lovers

The contrast between Wednesday's and Thursday's skies was striking as we left Cleveland behind us that  morning, the temper tantrum most definitely over. And except for some downed trees, we saw little to remind us what had transpired the day before.  But I knew that not far from the highway we traveled there were families and communities devastated by loss, reeling with grief.  We would be in Cottondale tomorrow,  a suburb of Tuscaloosa, just a few miles from the flattened ruins of hundreds of homes and businesses.  We had come all this way to celebrate the wedding of a friend who had been ravaged by his own personal storm a few years earlier.  Betrayal and broken vows had produced heartbreaking loss and grief.   The irony of all this was not lost on me. People recover from storms all the time, no matter how devastating at the time.  Our friend had weathered his.  Love, joy and laughter had been restored through a lovely new bride named Charlotte.

Our friend Larry and his new bride Charlotte, three days after the storm

Our last couple of days were spent back in Prattville where we stayed with our friends John and Brenda Doublerly.  Their son Jeremy just finished up his last year at the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa.  He lived on the third floor of an apartment complex but decided at the last minute to take refuge in the clubhouse.  That's where he was when the tornado came barreling down on the city that fateful afternoon. It swiped at the building where he huddled with the others, fortunately no one was hurt.  The story was different for those living directly across the street, however.  When Jeremy exited the clubhouse, he saw that the entire neighborhood had been leveled by the twister, everything lay in ruin.  I didn't pry into all he'd seen, but I know there were some who died there.  And then he smiled and said something like this:  "You know, even with everything going on, there was something funny that happened.  This huge black guy runs into the clubhouse right before the tornado hit and heads for the wall trying to get cover.  And as soon as it's over, he reaches into every part of his shirt and starts pulling out kittens."

When we were crossing Tennessee a week earlier our oldest daughter Angela had texted me.  She had seen the reports coming out of Alabama and was begging us to turn around.   But that wasn't an option,  we were already in the middle of it.   That's simply how life is.  The storms come, usually unexpectedly, and we have no choice but to get through them.  Jeremy's story of the man and his kittens reminds me, however, that no matter the outcome, our Heavenly Father holds us close, refusing to leave us.  The quiet hush of that candle lit room in Cleveland speaks of the peace that comes after the thunder and lightning have subsided.  And the wedding celebration of our friend who had been so battered, the reason we'd come through the storm in the first place, declares that God not only rescues, he restores.

In My Weakness

I'm heading to New York tomorrow for the Botox injections into the muscles that help control my vocal cords.  I've learned to recognize some of the subtle changes in my voice that tell me it's almost time.  First there's that raspy, husky quality, a mix of Lauren Bacall, Tallulah Bankhead and Kathleen Turner all in one. I don't mind it really as I actually get compliments when it's like that. I had a guy tell me once that he could listen to me all day, but since he wasn't my husband, I simply thanked him and left it at that.  I could probably hire myself out to do voice-overs for commercials or animated features, but even if I did, I could easily sound like Porky Pig one day and Darth Vader the next.  I know that's a bit of an exaggeration, but in the world of Spasmodic Dysphonia and Botox injections, one is never sure what the voice will do.

I'll never forget my first injection.  Since I'd never had a treatment before, the doctor guessed at the dosage.  The first couple of days I sounded pretty good.  I didn't realize that it takes about three days for the stuff to kick in.  I woke up that Sunday morning sounding like one of the Chipmunks.  My daughters thought it was hilarious and would phone me so that I could talk to their friends. Needless to say, the doctor cut my dose on the next visit.

After the raspy voice comes the fatigue,  meaning it just takes more effort to talk.  Simple conversations become work.  We'll be riding along and I won't say anything or very little.  Larry will look over at me all concerned then rather tentatively ask if everything's alright.  Well, yes and no.  Things are fine but I'm simply too tired to carry on a conversation.  That's hard for him as he really likes to talk.  Then soon after, the spasms become more intense.  The voice no longer has that deep, husky sound, it merely sounds like it's in pain.  It isn't, but to anyone listening, it seems that way.

So back to my appointment in Manhattan.  I fly tomorrow to meet with my doctor who incidentally is the absolute best at doing what he does. After all, he was a pioneer, the first to use botox in the treatment of Spasmodic Dysphonia.  He's so confident, so adept at his work, I'll be in and out of the chair in just a matter of minutes.  And since I've set up an early appointment,  I can relax afterwards and hang out on Fifth Avenue for a few hours before my flight home.  It's really not a bad way to spend a beautiful day in May.

There was a time when I pleaded with God to give me my voice back.  And there have been times, especially over the last year or so, when it was so strong,  I thought the spasms might never return.  But they did and they do.  That hasn't changed what I believe, however.  I know unequivocally that my Creator could rewire that piece of brain sending the wrong impulses to my vocal cords, restore my voice,  even make it better.  But sometimes it better serves His purpose to leave things as they are.

When I left South Carolina a couple of years back I was hardly able to talk.  Because of insurance headaches, I hadn't had a treatment in well over a year.  But I came into a church that desperately needed someone to take over the music program and I seemed the logical choice.  The piano wasn't a problem, my hands and fingers were working just fine.  I could certainly plan the music and practice with the musicians.  I couldn't sing, but it wasn't all that hard pounding out notes.  Yeah, I could do this.  So I had worked out the music that first week with the singers and the instrumentalists and I knew we were ready.  Except for one thing.  I had no spokesperson, someone to tie the music and the service together.  "You do it."  Ever hear God's voice?  I did, and I argued with Him.  "I can't Lord, not with this voice."   Aah.  My voice.  That was who I had been, my voice central as musician and teacher.  I had done community theater and formed a successful drama ministry. Those things had brought me a sense of pride, of accomplishment.  But now they required too much effort.  Besides,  they were part of my past, not my present.  He responded,  "Now it's time to let me show what I can do.  Trust me."

I can't begin to express how nervous I was that first Sunday standing at the keyboard.  I have never been afraid of microphones but found this one intimidating.  It was time to introduce the first song.  I took a deep breath, opened my mouth and the words poured out easily.  My speech felt free for the first time in months, and except for a slightly raspy throat, no one would have ever suspected a voice disorder. 

This continued for the next several months as I was able to speak week after week.  Without fail, however, the spasms would return immediately after the service ended, simply a reminder that this had nothing to do with me.  This was God's doing.  His strength manifesting itself in my weakness became an ever present reality in my life.  There were even a few occasions when I was able to pray over someone with clarity, effortlessly. But as soon as the prayer was over,  the spasms were back.

So I'm getting my treatment tomorrow.  Did I mention that my doctor's one of the best in the world?  Used to be I could go only a few months without another injection.  I've been going lots longer than that,  and except for a raspy voice, I don't sound all that bad.  Did I mention I'm singing again?  It doesn't come quite so easily as it used to,  so now I ask God to help me with each and every note.  I'm glad He doesn't make it too easy for me.  Besides, I had to learn that I can't do what I do without Him.  There's just one more thing. The injections don't last more than four months,  I happen to be going on eight. Last visit I asked Dr. Blitzer how I'm able to go so long. He told me that sometimes the brain gets fooled and it takes awhile for it to figure things out. 

Hmmm.  Perhaps that how it works for some.  But as for me, I had some learning to do and God knew I needed an object lesson.   So here's what I think He might have said to me:   "Marcy, I'm going to take what you consider the strongest thing in your life to show you that you're nothing without me.  That just happens to be your voice box.  It's going to be hard.  You won't understand at first.  You'll plead, you'll cry, you'll grieve.  But the day will come when you'll understand, and you'll see that it's in your weakness my strength comes through. And you will feel more blessed than you can possibly imagine. Trust me on this one."  He was right.