That Favorite Time of Day

Its pitch dark and a heavy cloud of sleep presses upon her like the downy comforter in which she is curled up. In her dreams a bird is screeching in her ear and as she fights to ward it off it slowly transforms into a round metal ball. The metal ball continues to screech until finally the noise penetrates a new level of consciousness and she fumbles through the tangle of sheets and blankets to reach for the annoyance. 

Groping blindly her hand makes contact with the metal object, searches out the button and finally—silence! Exhausted from her efforts to protect her sleep, she now rolls onto her back and admits defeat. Forcing her eyes open, she searches the ceiling for the meaning of life, waiting for her brain and body to reconnect and allow her to negotiate her way out of bed.

Scuffing down the hall, her robe securely tied around her, she is aware that certain parts of her anatomy are more awake then others. Morning rituals must be followed. When she finally makes it to the kitchen she sniffs appreciatively; the auto setting on her coffee maker is a life saver.

Taking the first cup black, she lifts the mug to her mouth and sips slowly. This is nectar of the gods she thinks. This is a holy moment. She senses before she sees, her husband, ensconced in his chair in the living room already sipping his coffee. He lifts his mug in silent greeting; he knows the rule. No speaking till her cup is almost gone.

“There isn’t enough coffee in all of Central America to make me a morning person.” She once told him and he believes it. It is safe to say that early morning is not Jane’s favorite time of the day.

The early morning routine rarely changes and soon Jane has eggs frying while she tucks sandwiches into Sam’s lunch box. It’s amazing what a person can do in their sleep, Sam has said, after watching her shut the refrigerator door with her hip, while balancing juice, and a pot of jam in the crook of her arm. Although occasionally an unintended item makes its way into his lunch (the raw egg that was thought to be hard boiled comes to mind) Jane pretty much has getting him out the door each morning down to an exact science, whether she’s fully awake or not.

With Sam out the door and daylight still fuzzy on the horizon, Jane pours a second cup of coffee and adds her daily treat of half and half. Settling into her own chair, she is soon joined by a purring Marley. The tuxedo cat stretches across her lap and lets her scratch him between the ears for a few moments before taking his sentinel place on the back of the couch. This is Jane’s quiet time.

She will read her bible and perhaps a page or two from a favorite devotional before flipping open her journal and jotting down any significant thoughts. It is safe to say that without this quiet time each day Jane will flounder. It has taken her a long time to learn this and now it’s a habit she cannot afford to give up. As she returns her bible and journal to her chair side table, a little sigh of satisfaction escapes her. This might be my favorite time of day, she thinks.

The next thing of habit for Jane is a brisk walk through the neighborhood. She rarely misses a morning, regardless of the weather. On a cold or rainy day the exercise is especially invigorating. but on a sunny day she turns her face upward and soaks it up. Breathing deep makes her feel as if she could swallow the sun like a tall glass of orange juice.

When her walk is done and she places her shoes and coat back in the hall closet she feels accomplished and gratified. She truly enjoys the physical movement and the benefits she gains from being active. With her endorphins pumped up Jane is ready for anything. “Bring it!” she challenges. There is no doubt that her daily walks are a favorite part of her day.

Being a stay-at-home-wife and-empty-nest –mother means the rest of her day is quite practically hers to command. Household duties are easily interwoven with volunteer activities and outside interests. Doing laundry or running to the bank, a trip to the grocery store or to the library, women’s bible study, or preparing a meal for a shut in, all of these things bring Jane fulfillment. Contentment is a rare gift but Jane has learned that it is also a choice. Reaching out with both hands she grabs hold of it vigorously and tries to live in the moment. Could it be safe to say that those are her favorite times of the day?

Yet, when Sam returns each evening and she hears the motor announcing his arrival, a little pitter-patter occurs in her chest. Like the nervous flips her tummy did when they went on their first date, or the way her heart picked up speed when his eyes locked with hers, his return at the end of each work day still brings her pleasure. She kisses his cheek and tells him often that this is her favorite part of her day; his return. Watching his eyes light up when she says this only makes it all the more true.

And yet… when Jane sips her after dinner tea and reviews her day she is often surprised to realize how fast the day has gone. Keeping busy will do that but for Jane this goes deeper. She has spent a greater part of the day in her own company, something probably only an introvert can truly appreciate, but she is also aware that she doesn’t really walk alone. The presence of the Holy Spirit is always there, strengthening her, guiding her, teaching her. And when she offers her humble prayers of thanks for another day in His presence, she arrives at the conclusion that for every moment she recognizes this,  its beyond a doubt, the very best and most favorite time of her day.

The Preacher's Wife

Alice let the screen door slam behind her as she stepped out of the steamy kitchen onto the back porch of the café. Pulling an empty milk crate away from the wall with one hand, she scrounged her apron pocket for her cigarettes with the other. The carton had one slightly bent Virginia Slim left in it and she withdrew it carefully. Her tips had been good this morning. She’d be able to buy another pack before withdrawals kicked in.

She perched daintily on the milk crate and lit her cigarette with a shaky hand. Blowing out the smoke, she leaned back against the wall intent on relaxing. Behind her, the sounds of the kitchen echoed across the fresh fall air.

Rattling dishes, sizzles from the grill, the chatter of the other waitresses seasoned with occasional laughter all offset by Murphy growling orders. He hadn’t been happy when he saw her edging towards the door but he couldn’t exactly fault her for taking her break just then. He knew who had just settled herself at the lunch counter. Knew and understood.

Alice flicked ash off her apron and grimaced. That woman. Came in every day at the same time and always sat in Alice’s section. Her ample figure spilled over both sides of the stool but it would have been more difficult to fit in a booth.

“Order up!” She heard Murphy bark. One blue plate special being handed across the serving window where little Amber Dawn would stand on tippy-toes to reach it before delivering it with a big smile to the woman at the counter. Let Amber Dawn be the benefactor of Mrs. Horseman’s unsolicited advice today. Alice wasn’t going to rush back in there.

She finished her cigarette and glanced at her watch. She still had a few more minutes before she had to head back inside—enough time to pop over to the Shell Station and grab another pack of smokes. She hated that she’d picked up this nasty habit again but, C’est la Vie. 

She peeked in through the screen. Mrs. Horseman was bent over her plate, the floppy hat she favored bobbing slightly as she scooped up her mashed potatoes. Next to her on the counter, being jostled by her elbow was the main reason Alice had needed to escape. Feeling heat rising inside her, Alice whirled around and headed to the gas station.

For the entire three months Alice had been working at Murphy’s Diner, Mrs. Horseman hadn’t missed a day. At first it had been fine; Mrs. Horseman was trying to be supportive of Alice’s need to work. But as the weeks went on and it became clearer that the older woman had an agenda, it had become awkward. Now it was just plain irritating. The final straw had come over the last few visits, when Mrs. Horseman had pulled her bible out of her purse. Alice did not need this woman preaching at her. That was when she started pulling her disappearing acts.

The beeping of the delivery truck woke her from her reverie. She grinned when she saw the bearded face of the driver through the cab window.

“Hey Bernie!” She waved. Bernie leaned out the window, one beefy arm resting on the opening.

“Hey yourself.” He swung down from the truck cab, stretching as he did. “Taking a break?”

Alice crossed her arms tightly and jerked her head in the direction of the restaurant. “Oh, that old biddy Horseman is in for lunch. I needed to escape for awhile.”

Bernie chuckled. “She’s trying to save your soul Alice.”

“Yah, well, I don’t need saving. Why doesn’t she go after Marshall? He’s the one who walked out.”

Bernie scratched his beard.

“Alice! Yoo-hoo, Alice!”

Good grief, it was Amber Dawn hollering from the back door of the café. Alice waved, “Be right there!”

Turning back to Bernie she pressed some money into his hand. “I gotta get back over there. Be a doll for me Bern and buy me a pack of Virginia Slims. Menthol.”

Before Bernie could protest Alice was gone.

Back inside the kitchen Alice met the stony glare of her boss. “Sorry Murph. I lost track of time.”

Murphy nodded towards the dining area. “Your presence is requested out yonder.”

“My presence...?” She whirled around to see Mrs. Horseman still at the counter. Her heart sank. “Lord, have mercy.” Mustering up her strength she squared her shoulders and marched through the swinging café doors.

Determined to be polite Alice forced a smile. “Hello Mrs. Horseman.”

“Oh there you are Alice. I was afraid you’d taken ill. I haven’t seen you for a few days.” Mrs. Horseman beamed. “I just wanted you to know our ladies circle is still praying for you. We wanted you to have this.” With a flourish she presented Alice with a book.

Alice read the title. “The Power of a Praying Wife.”

Lovely.

Woodenly she listened as Mrs. Horseman plowed on. “Our ladies circle did this book as a study last year and it was simply amazing! One can never underestimate the power of prayer my dear.”

Alice felt the heat returning around her collar. Her palms itched. She hoped Bernie showed up with those cigarettes and soon. “Thank you Mrs. Horseman but I don’t think--”

“Oh no need to thank me hon. just knowing you’ll be reading and praying is thanks enough.” Mrs. Horseman stood, sweeping her purse and bible from the counter, nearly knocking her dishes off in the process. Alice reached out to settle them and the book slipped out of her hand. As she bent to retrieve it the empty carton of Virginia Slims fell from her pocket.

She heard the gasp from Mrs. Horseman and didn’t need to look up to know how aghast the woman was. Alice contemplated her choices.

She scooped up the book and the crumpled cigarette carton and straightened. Facing Mrs. Horseman she took a deep breath.

“I appreciate your prayers and your concern, I really do. But I’m doing fine. I know Marshall’s decision to leave has been a shock to everyone but he’s not coming back. The sooner we all accept it the better. I’m making peace with it and I hope you will too. But” she pushed on, ignoring Mrs. Horseman’s’ sputtering.

“I can assure you, I have not turned my back on God. I just need some time to figure things out.”

“We—we’d love to see you in church again Alice.”

Alice sighed. “It’s not a good place for me right now. Surely you can understand that. ”

“I know it must feel awkward Alice, but we’re your family. Regardless of what Pastor Marshall has done…”

Alice held up her hand. “I need time. You need to respect that.”

Her eyes locked with Mrs. Horseman and for the first time since she’d started working at Murphy’s she sensed something other than sympathy coming from the older woman.

With a deep sigh, Alice dropped her hand and turned away. She felt Mrs. Horseman’s hand on her arm.

“Of course dear. You take all the time you need. And remember, we’re here for you. I’m here.”

Nodding, Alice retreated to the back room. Ignoring the looks from Murphy and the other waitresses, Alice pushed her way back outside. There on the milk cartoon she found a fresh carton of Virginia Slims and a chocolate bar. 

Bless that Bernie.

* written in response to the writing prompt of incorporating the following characters into a story: chain smoker, preacher's wife, delivery man. 

Bloom Where You're Planted

yep, that's this years garden!

I don’t garden. Shocking but true. Just add it to a long list of things I don’t do:  I don’t sew. I don’t pintrest. I don’t play Martha Stewart and… I don’t garden. It’s not that I can’t. And it’s not that I won’t. And it is certainly not something I have never done. Because I have. Some of them have been successful. That one year the tomato yield alone was enough to supply salsa for most of East County. That was a good year! And Zucchini? Who can’t grow zucchini? Um... Apparently me, because the following year not even the long necked green squash grew under my attentive care.

One year we didn’t have time to work in the garden. By the time we finally got around to it, we found ourselves planting on the 4^th of July. Isn’t that when corn’s supposed to be knee high? Well, whatever. We planted late. Then we suffered an early frost and everything shivered to death on the vine before we could harvest it.

As I said, I don’t garden.

But I could. Early in our courtship, my husband wrote me a love letter in which he outlined things he was looking for in a woman. He listed gardening. A-hah. He wanted a woman who could garden? I’d be that woman! (He also listed darning socks but I’ve managed to finagle my way out of that one!) I was happy to don bib overalls and walk barefoot in the cool damp earth, dropping seeds into carefully prepared mounds of dirt. Ah, it was one of my finer moments.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against gardening. In fact, there’s something to be said for getting down on one’s knees and digging in the soil. (There’s something else to be said about getting back up but whatever.)  It just seems that gardening takes a special touch and, these days, I don’t seem to have it.

I can plant however! I love going to Home Depot and buying trays of pretty flowers and bringing them home to transplant into happy little pots to line up on my deck. This seems to work well for me. I sit outside watching my pretties bloom and I smile.

A few years ago, when I was a self employed business woman, the “Bloom Where You’re Planted” quote was very popular. I had never pictured myself running my own business but there I was, and doing it pretty well if I say so myself. It was hard work; long hours and much sacrifice but as the business grew and thrived, I did too. My self confidence grew tremendously during that time, as did my spiritual maturity. I knew God had planted me in the world of women’s fitness as a way to share my faith while encouraging women. About two years into the venture however, I hit a snag and things began to unravel a bit. That is when the bloom felt like it was fading and as year 2 slipped into year 3, I didn’t find the idiom of blooming where I was planted quite so cute and charming anymore. I switched my mantra for the next couple of years to a verse from Galatians that said, “Let us not grow weary while doing good…” Weary was the word all right and I prayed daily to be released from my role. Eventually that chapter was completed and I was free to move on.

For all my disparaging remarks about gardening, I do love the parallels between growing things in the soil and growing things in our hearts and souls. I look back over the many challenges I have faced in my life and recognize the many seasons I have gone through. Just as there were some good years in the garden, years that yielded good fruit, so there have been in my personal life. Drought and blight can and do descend, even when we are most diligent so finding ways to overcome are important. 

Just as I switched from trying to maintain a large garden plot to managing smaller containers, I’ve undertaken that in my own personal life also. Now, when I look out at my deck lined with its bright splashes of color bursting out of clay pots, I see happiness and joy. I hope that when you look at my life, you see the parallels. 

living on the deck, one grateful moment at a time. 

thanks to Suzanne A. for this weeks writing prompt: gardening. 

Impulsive, Impetuous Snap

I don’t really know when I was given the nickname “Snap” but I can tell you several reasons why.

“You were no bigger than this.” Daddy would say, snapping his fingers together. Mother says it’s because I was such an easy baby that taking care of me was a snap. And Grandma says it’s my dark coppery colored hair that reminds her of her favorite cookie, gingersnaps. All of these explanations are fine with me. Over the years, my impulsive nature for making snap decisions has given the name new meaning. 

“Snap, why oh why?” was my families most used expression. As in… Why oh why did you cover the puppy with suntan lotion? (Innocent face, age 5) Why oh why were you climbing on top of the fence (emergency room, age 9) why oh why didn’t you check the fuel gage? (ran out of gas, age 16)

And then there were the whys they already knew the answers to. When I invited the homeless woman to come home with me for dinner (after the preacher spoke on the sheep and the goats) When I gave my new winter coat to the girl who sat next to me (shivering every day on the bus, wearing only a thin sweater) When I rescued the box of kittens from the grocery store parking lot (Mom, the boy said his dad was going to drown them if he didn’t find homes for them!) 

As I got older, I tried to temper my impulses but my poor college roommates still had to adjust to finding strangers joining us for dinner, or sleeping bodies curled up in blankets on the living room floor.

When my husband and I eloped, (why, oh why… never mind… exclaimed my family) he thought he knew enough about me to prepare himself for the unstructured existence joining our lives together was going to bring. And I was learning to pray before jumping in. (Lord, I’m going in, cover me!) 

Still, the shock of discovering baby skunks in the bathroom, (the mother was hit by a car) a piano in the hallway (don’t ask) and a wall knocked out between the girls rooms (they like being together, what mother doesn’t want to hear that?) did nothing to prepare him for the day I brought home Mickie. 

“What do you mean you want us to adopt her? Snap, she’s a grown woman!” 

“Yes, but she has no family, has never had a family and her last name isn’t really even hers.”

Mickie had shown up at the shelter, where I volunteer, several months previous. She had been beaten, robbed of what little she had and a vacant look in her eyes that broke my heart more than any baby skunk or kitten ever had. We did everything we could to help her and she began to thrive. She seemed comfortable with me and a friendship flourished. She was 19 but emotionally much, much younger. She had been raised in various foster homes where she was repeatedly abused by both the families and the system. I came to realize her deepest desire was to have a family that would love her and in return she could allow the love locked inside her to spill out. 

And I found out that the last name she had been given was a name assigned by social services to satisfy the paperwork. 

My idea was for us to adopt Mickie legally so she could have a name that would mean something to her. My husband was not convinced. A baby was something he could understand and even warm up to. A grown woman with a questionable past was not. 

It took some long discussions, (persuasive, tenacious, and well thought-out) but eventually he caved. I did the research on adopting an adult and when I had all my ducks in a row, shared my idea with Mickie. She sat very still for a long time and then slowly began to cry. And nodded her head with the affirmative when I asked her if this was ok. 

When Adoption Day finally arrived, Mickie shyly pressed a small package into my hand. Inside I found a silver chain with a tiny circular object hanging from it. She pulled a similar necklace from inside her blouse. I recognized the objects as each half of a fastener. The symbolism wasn’t lost on me. Seems my nickname had gained another meaning.

Without a word, we brought the two circular objects together and grinned as we heard the pleasant sounding snap.

God's Plan

“The bank called today. They'll start foreclosure proceedings this week.”

Despite the knowledge this day had been coming, my stomach twisted. I stared at my husband, wordlessly.

Unemployment—weeks that had stretched into months had slowly taken away even some of our most basic needs. We'd gotten by with help from family and friends, limping along, just barely. Gift baskets of food had kept us fed; a twenty dollar bill stuffed into my hand had allowed us gas in the car for another week. We counted ourselves blessed despite the poverty that consumed us, because we knew God was in control.

Then—a break though! My husband landed a good job and was bringing home regular paychecks. But the months of unpaid bills would continue to plague us, for some things couldn't be paid back fast enough to satisfy our creditors. Already slapped with a judgment from a collection agency, we now faced the loss of our home.  

Clasping hands, my husband and I cried out our frustrations and fears in tenacious prayers. We claimed the promise of Jeremiah 29.11 for the thousandth time. “For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” 

With faith that only comes from trials, we resolutely surrendered all those fears. “ Lord, whatever happens, we trust you. If losing our house is part of your greater plan for our lives, we will accept this. It hurts, but we'll accept it.”

We were both filled with a sense of peace even as we cried together. It’s as if God was saying, “ I've got this. Don't worry. Let it go.”

The day the foreclosure proceedings were to be filed, I crept through it, committed to trusting our Jehovah Jirah. At a quarter to 3 my husband called. He'd been in contact with our pastor through all of this, and now had a miracle to share. Our church family had banded together to raise the funds needed to satisfy the bank! We'd be able to wire the money by the end of the day.

Overwhelming shock, relief, and gratitude rendered us both at a loss for words. Yet, is this not our God at work? Did we not surrender it all at His feet and trust Him to take care of it? God had a plan for our lives. He has one for you too. 

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the class of 1977

quiet little girl
who liked books best
shy and insecure
just wanted to be accepted
and liked.

it didn't take much to make her cry
but she never let them see it.
the butterflies in her tummy
were from fear, not excitement
and when other kids laughed
at her and her clothes
she knew, she KNEW
they were laughing at her.

she developed thicker skin
as she got older
and a sense of humor;
be a clown and that way
be more in control of why people laugh.

but books were still her BFF.

grade school, high school
such a difference
the lines were clearer
who is popular
who is not.
if a boy walks with you in the hallway and he is one of the 'in' ones
it could change your life.

the clown got braver
'if you don't like my peaches, don't shake my tree'
love me or hate me
but let me be.

she buried herself in her writing.

she had her circle of friends but she was always looking
looking over at the other circles
the ones with the pretty girls and boys
cheerleaders, prom queens, studs.
ached to be liked, ached to belong.
never suspecting they each carried their own insecure demons.

class reunions, over the years
did nothing to erase the lines of division
that she felt each day in school.
until this one....

this one we finally got it right.
we are not prom queens or cheerleaders or football stars
we are not losers or deadbeats or drop outs
we're not the girl who got knocked up
the boy who got busted for drinking
or the one we suspected was gay.

we are simply..... people.
all the same age, with a journey through life
that has taken twists and turns,
some ugly and some not.

we've faced cancer and divorce
DUI's and custody battles
we've moved and graduated and been fired and been beaten.
we've battled addictions and some times we've won and sometimes we've lost.
but we are still just people.

we've had promotions and raised families
switched careers, taken trips.
built houses, built businesses
found religion, found God.
increased our faith, been tested.

We've been celebrating life.
crossing lines because they don't matter anymore.
as they never should have existed.

we are the class of 1977.