The refrigerated air hits my face as I enter his office.  As I step into the waiting room, a slender, smooth-skinned woman--young and green-eyed greets me.  Looking at her tailored clothing and perfectly coiffed hair, I suddenly feel old and somewhat disheveled, having driven to the appointment in the heat of the Carolina day, the walk from my car to the office causing me to perspire, my suit jacket wrinkled after a day at work.  The lovely girl tells me with flawless courtesy, "Wes will be right with you." As I wait to speak with my financial consultant I stare down at the plush Oriental rug beneath my shoes--the swirls of sage, burgandy, cream and black so pretty--no crumbs or threads.  I think of my own rug at home--always a few stray pieces of grass embedded in the carpet strands--and yes, surely crumbs.

Her accent caught my attention.  Elizabeth Jose is an artist from Great Britain who lives in Taos, New Mexico.  The day I had the pleasure of meeting her, I was visiting my sister who has a cabin near that famous artists' colony.  She, my other two sisters and I were out for the afternoon browsing art galleries.  As I perused the gallery, I discovered that Elizabeth Jose's pieces,Artist included oils of vintage airstreams and trucks.  A particular painting of a red pickup truck captured my attention.  Red pickup trucks are important to me.  They symbolize a promise from God that came in a dream.

Today I wondered what is the worth of a day?  So begins the first chapter of The Folded Clock--a book by Heidi Julavits.  The material comprises two years in the life of the author in diary form.  And as might be expected, the story takes on the surprise, humor, delight and ambivalence of her life, because that is reality.

I can relate. I attempt to focus on that very delicate balance of keeping life "day to day."  I often fail, allowing the past to poke around in my psyche.  "Oh God, if only I hadn't spent that money," or "I should have not said that or eaten that huge piece of pie." Sometimes I shift gears, and it's not ghosts noisily clamoring in my past, but rather anxieties spooling their way into my future like coarse thread. "I don't think I'll ever be able to finish that book project--I'm not good enough.  I don't know enough.  What if my health doesn't hold out?  I'm getting old."  I know that this type of thinking is not helpful, so I constantly go back to the concept of what I call "increments." Taking life in small steps and noticing the good helps me more than anything.  And this is a coping tool that is not new. Jesus talks about the concept in Matthew 6:34 (The Message):  Give your entire attention to what God is doing right now, and don't get worked up about what may or may not happen tomorrow.  God will help you deal with whatever hard things come up when the time comes. 

This week I found a penny.  When I find pennies, I always look at the year and determine what was happening for me at the time. The year was 1975.  I had lost contact with Giovanni.  We could not bridge a relationship with an ocean between--we faded from each others' lives.  I was heartbroken and trying to make sense of my reality without him.  I wrote constantly--the page like a window in the wall of my tattered emotions.  That year was also when I was born-again--Jesus made real in my life--His salvation and healing another window in the wall.

"The most precious gift that marriage gave me was the constant impact of something very close and intimate, yet all the time unmistakably other."~C.S. Lewis

I must have walked four miles in the rain. I hadn't been out in a while--battling an infection and just trying to hold my own at work. My life felt as if the margins were much too thin--hardly room to jot a few notes on the sides of the page.  The soaking rain pelted my skin and was like God Himself refreshing me with His Spirit.  With each step, I seemed to get a little more clarity, a little more breathing room, my margins increasing.