Moments

There are moments that cry out to be fulfilled.

Like telling someone you love them.

Or giving your money away, all of it.

Your heart is beating, isn't it?

You're not in chains, are you?

There is nothing more pathetic than caution

when headlong might save a life,

even possibly, your own.~Mary Oliver

There are decisions to make every day. And the choices add up, good or not as good, over time. Then there are what I define as the big decisions. Who to marry, whether to get the degree, the career path, another child. Every season of life contains the "big ones." I thought at almost seventy years old, I had surpassed most of the major decisions. Surely I have to some degree, yet a choice I needed to consider emerged. 

I had the opportunity to move forward with publishing my books in an expanded format. I felt excitement about having my books in other locations besides Amazon or ThriftBooks. I would be responsible for promotion and getting the word out, creating a TikTok platform and having to "face" Facebook again. There was monetary investment as well. The publisher exhibited enthusiasm about my work and encouraged me to think about "getting out there." 

...but we know how the minutes fly out into the dark trees and vanish...and we know how the weeks walk into the shadows at midday...at the thought of the months I reach for your hand...~W.S. Merwin (From The Solstice)

Sometimes I dislike time. Want things to stay the same. No change. Yet that is not reality. So I think about what is true. God doesn't change. Oh, God, I ask you to be the comfort I need in this shifting world, in all the fluctuations. The unexpected. The uncertain. I thirst for your endurance, your backbone. Someone stopped me on my walk and said, "I want to be like you one day." I wondered what they saw, there in the evening light, sweat running down my back, wearing a baseball cap, mascara smudged beneath my eyes. If they only knew how weary my emotions are--moth eaten, shaky, vulnerable. I am weak, Lord, my fear of the future attempting to blot out the incense of your Spirit. Oh, God, how do you see me?

I was once taught that in Eastern writing it is common for stories to move in spirals while Western academics like straight, narrow lines.~Rebecca Spiegel (From Without Her)

I'll admit that I'm a fan of straight, narrow lines. Point me in the right direction. Please, give me a formula. I crave black and white. No gray, I beg of you. No ambivalence. No uncertainty. 

My brother-in-law, Mario, is dying. Cancer. I loathe this disease. This pestilence. And he's toppled so fast. Bound to a wheelchair. His robust health a relic of the past. 

And I'm here on the sidelines, an ocean away from him. I wish he could hear me urging him on, my pom poms held high, rustling in the wind. I wish I could speak his language fluently so that I could tell him how much he means to me. How I understand, in part, some of his suffering. I had cancer too. I know what it feels like to look in the mirror and not recognize yourself, the body trying so hard to carry on, yet almost out of breath. And you know the people who love you are hurting too. Don't know what to do. Sometimes ask too many questions. Say the wrong things. And also you know that you couldn't go on without them. Family and friends are God's hands, God's heart for you. Oh, Mario. This life.

So why should I fear the future? For I'm being pursued only by Your goodness and unfailing love.~Psalm 23: 6 (The Passion Bible)

Last week I learned I placed first in an essay writing contest sponsored by my town. The writing prompt for the essay was Why Summerville? Here's what came to mind:

COMFORT ON NORTH CEDAR STREET

I hadn't planned on moving to Summerville. Didn't know much about the town, only that pink azaleas bloomed indefatigably in April and that it was about twenty-five miles from Charleston. I was in transition, free from the obligation of an eight-to-five grind. Retirement at last after a thirty-year stint in my field. There was a problem, though. Almost no condominiums were for sale in the Lowcountry. When I called my realtor to look at a property, usually someone had already made an offer, and much of the time that offer was over the asking price. Real estate was scarce during the Pandemic. 

Then an opportunity to buy a home opened in Summerville. I felt ambivalent about moving. I had lived in Charleston for eleven years. I'd been only a few miles from Folly Beach and downtown Charleston lay just over the bridge. I'd grown accustomed to walking down to the end of my street and climbing into the boughs of an ancient oak that overlooked a tidal marsh. Egrets and blue herons waded in brackish waters. I peered through curtains of Spanish Moss at skies streaked with coral and amethyst at sunset. Smelled the tang of salt. The embrace of that old tree and the stillness of the marsh whispered peace to me. I didn't want to move.

There was no turning back.The house by the tidal creek sold quickly. No room for the piano and scant storage at the new place. And all those books I had to purge. At the condo, sunlight poured through the windows and cast shadow patterns on the wood flooring. Granite counters gleamed in the new kitchen. The countertops in the old house were tiled with white squares that needed new grout.

Change of address forms, arranging furniture, finding new doctors and grocery stores and the nearest Walmart took some time. I didn't concentrate on missing Charleston. I was busy fashioning a different life in all the unaccustomed liberation of not working forty plus hours per week. 

Enter Summerville. Like a cerulean jewel dropped down from the heavens.

I can take all the madness the world has to give but I won't last a day without you.~Paul H. Williams/Roger S. Nichols (From the song I Won't Last A Day Without You)

My mind was a mess. I was trying to reach a state of mental poise by writing in my journal. Praying a bit. But it seemed I was holding a rucksack of dysregulated emotions. I felt as if I wasn't doing life right, couldn't keep up with all the things on my list; couldn't keep up with all the birthdays. So many people. And I hate to write fake birthday greetings. I always want to think of something meaningful to say. I can't just leave some already-written phrase from Linked In. I want to read more books, but then I scroll on Instagram too much. I want to be nicer to my neighbor who can hardly walk her dog. But then I avoid her. She doesn't remember much anyway. She probably won't remember that I haven't spoken to her in a few days. Ugh--a slush of insecurity, self-doubt and that gritty taste of shame in my heart I couldn't write in my journal--slammed it shut. Better I go grocery shopping. 

I got in the car and made my way to Walmart. As a waited in traffic, a faded yellow pick-up idled in front of me. I squinted to read the sticker on the driver's back windshield. Luke 24:6. I didn't know the Bible verse. When I got home, I remembered the Scripture reference and looked it up. "He is not here. He is risen." All the groceries were put away, there was nowhere I needed to be. i sat down in my favorite chair and opened Pandora. Karen Carpenter was singing, "I Won't Last A Day Without You." Tears rolled down my cheeks. In all my dysregulation, I had not considered to stop and be honest with Jesus, the alive One. I began to talk to Him and tell Him how I felt, that I knew He is the One I can't live without. Can't last a day without.