in the midst of the noise at Waffle House

It was Christmas morning and the only place open was Waffle House. This eatery chain is not high on my list of healthy cuisine providers, but we had little choice. It was crowded. Music was playing, orders were being shouted out to unseen cooks and as we sat at the counter, I feared that I might have to run out of there screaming.We live quiet lives, John and I, and it felt as if the din was attacking my brain. My nerves were fraying, as I looked at the menu. Slowly, I adjusted and began to watch the crowd. Busy, bustling wait staff, smiling Christmas happy patrons, I started to like it.

Our waitress was Lettie, a fifty-ish lady with straight brown hair held by her ball cap.She was pleasant, attentive and seemed to care that we were well served.

In my prayers leading up to Christmas, I had come to understand that I was to be available to love others, touch them and make them feel the love that is the gift of Christmas.I internalized this in some way because I almost patted the swollen belly of an Indian woman who was coming out of the Mass before ours, the night before.I was so delighted that she was about to bring a baby into the world, that I had to stop myself from patting her belly with my stranger's hand. Instead, she got a smile.

As John paid the bill for our breakfast, I felt the strongest urge to find Lettie. I went behind the counter a bit and thanked her for taking such good care of us. I asked her quietly about what time she would get off work. She said she would leave at 10 P.M., which was a double shift, because the next day, she had to go for chemotherapy and wouldn't be able to work. It felt like time stopped as it got quiet around us. All I could do was hug her amid the scrambled eggs, music and noise and tell her that I would pray for her.That night, when we were driving home at 6:30 P.M., we passed the restaurant. She was still there.

It is difficult to put into words how this woman affected me.I am filled with prayer for her and admiration for her grit. It is as if she is wrapped around my shoulders. I am broken by her in a way that I cannot explain. I can never not know her and her story.There is a risk in the life of the spirit. When you hoist yourself up on the Path and say "yes" to all that means, you never know....

a Christmas memory..

It was all the brown that brought it back. Sitting on my prayer bench in the woods, beech leaves quaking like palsied hands, everything I see is in shades of brown.Tree trunks, branches, still attached leaves. Dark, light, tan.

I was brought back to the first Christmas in our apartment in Queens. Small , bright, but assaulted every 50 seconds by a screeching jet going over. To us, it was all just part of our heaven. I still worked then and so, in my comings and goings, I noticed the older man across the street as he shuffled along the sidewalk. He lived alone, but the tan and brown puppy on the end of the leash he carried, took him out of his apartment. I wonder what he thought of this bright young couple, bursting with love and ready for an any unknown future.
An old song winds through my mind:"We've only just begun, white lace and promises, a kiss for luck and we're on our way."

Oh, how I loved that small brown puppy. Whenever I saw them, I would dash over for a chat, but truth be told, it was to embrace that puppy.The man was called Charlie and I wish I could recall the little dog's name.

On a cold day near Christmas, when the blowing snow was swirling up the street, my husband called Charlie. We wanted him to come over for some warm homemade cookies and tea. My husband barely got the words out when Charlie mumbled,:"No, no, no." and hung up. He sounded so scared and we were dumbfounded.What had happened? We have laughed about that misadventure over the years.Not long after that, we moved away and left them behind.

And now we are the elders, after what seems like a quick New York minute. Fifty years later, we walk our neighborhood and deliver a few cookies we've made for dear friends.A botched tradition and a mystery has turned into something that gives us pleasure each year.

A prayer for you, Charlie, and your little dog. You were a sweet part of our love story.

the puppy Christmas

A bitter cold December was upon us and we ran from car to door, spending little time out doors.When my husband did have to go to the storage shed, he would hear a very low, soft growl from underneath. He thought it might be indigestion and paid no attention.One day, I thought I saw a big white and black dog crawl under the shed .Thinking the dog wanted to get out of the cold, I dismissed the event.

A few weeks before Christmas, we could ignore what was happening no longer.Mewing sounds, like the squeaks of little mice, was filling the yard and, on hands and knees, my husband saw the big dog and movement all around her.The mother took off and John saw the puppies.He left them there for her to take care of and so it began.The Puppy Christmas.

Within a few days, a neighbor called to say that one of our puppies was in the street.Our puppy????Then John came up with a plan. He took everything out of the shed, laid down a tarp, dragged a heater out there and started grabbing the puppies.There were 16 live, healthy little dogs.We started feeding them every few hours, using a blender, milk and cereal.Up at night for a few feedings, we were heroic in our care of these unexpected visitors.The mother would come around but eventually she disappeared.She was medium sized, white with black spots and I wished I could say she was pretty but we had decided to keep her if she came near.She never did.

When I think of that Christmas day, I see it as a bright red, gleaming ornament gently swaying on a fir tree. It shines so sweetly, there in my heart. I had been very anxious for my three young grandchildren whose family was going through a difficult time.What would this Christmas be like except sad? No present could make a difference, I thought, although there were many under the tree. But here is the small Christmas miracle that came that day; those 16 warm, bouncy, sweet little puppies of many different hues and sizes that were born unwanted under a shed in a cold month, brought joy to all of us.The grands helped feed them and just cuddled and enjoyed these amazing gifts of Life.I can see their happy smiles even now ..

We are told in Scripture to welcome the stranger and we did .16 strangers. Eventually homes were found for all and I think of them now and then in wonder.

wind scarped hills....

Color has deserted the trees. I can see only the tan of the Beech leaves that dot the woods.No pale yellow leaves curled to look like ribbon. No Bradford pear's red diamonds out there.What I do see looks mysterious to me. Between the grey tree trunks it looks like a mist that is beckoning me to the river. The Flint is calling.

This time of the year feels like desert time to me. Simple. Quiet. Bare, spare, just the essentials, the trunks to hold the branches. Darkness coming sooner. No leaves rustling, no lawnmowers, few birds.Just deep silence that feels so rich in its nothingness.Silence.

Once, I had an experience of silence that has never left me.The place where I stood was on the brink of the Painted Desert and the quiet made me think of floating in outer space.We were at a pull off and what I saw stretched as far as any eagle could fly.I was surrounded and covered over with quiet.The postcard above states that .."Hopi Indians live near here in a desolate region of multi-colored sand and erosions ever changing in color at different hours of the day."

I looked up desolate and the words are forbidding: abandoned, lonely, gloomy, depressed.This was not my experience on that precipice of so long ago because in that moment I heard the Voice say: "This is Me, I am in this great Silence."It is in desolation that I can hear the voice who is always there, a breath away in the quiet.

sobbing on the mountain..

The hubris, the cheek of it all.

It was the Fall of 2013 when my husband and I left for Europe with a friend to walk the Camino, the holy pilgrim path of 500 miles in Spain. But did we start in Spain? Oh no, we had to do the whole thing, so we arrived in a small town in France so that we could climb over the Pyrenees the next day. Did you read that?The Pyrenees Mountains! Up in the dark, with a roll for breakfast and with an exuberance that should have been a warning, we started our trek. Up, up, for 13 miles with no food but some lovely views. When we reached the top, I was weeping like a open faucet; so depleted that I wanted to curl up in a ball.

 And then there was the down.Three miles over a rock strewn path with no other way to go. After a few feet, I took off my hat put it over my face and started wailing.This was the 70 year woman who was going to show those Europeans that Americans aren't soft. Soft? I was shredded cheese,  an overcooked pasta dish, a mess.My husband was very patient and later told me that he was so whipped he wanted to call for his Mother. Finally, we got down and I took two Advil, had some wine and just knew that the next day would be better. And it was for ten miles but by the 13th mile, I knew that my feet and my soul  just couldn't do this.

We finished but with train and bus assistance, walking only 175 miles.

I was reminded of this horror by today's wonderful Advent readings from Isaiah who I wished had been with me those days for inspiration. Listen: " Come let us climb the Lord's mountain, that he may instruct us in his ways,.and we may walk in his paths."...

Despite all that had happened, we were on the Lord's mountain and as if to underscore this, Guy happened. He was a  Frenchman about our age who was hiking the trail.The second night, we encountered him at dinner.My French would fit into your sock and his English wasn't there, so we smiled alot. After night prayers in a convent, I kept getting the feeling that the rosary that I was carrying needed to be given away. And to Guy. The next morning, in the dark, I saw him heading out the door. I followed, pressed my small green ladybug rosary into his palm and went back to eat.I  looked up and there he stood and through tears he told me that the day before he had lost his beads somewhere on the trail.Amen.

rosary by the river..

The woods are now filled with the muted yellow of an artist's palette.The green has fled and here and there I can see the grey of tree trunks that stand sentinel by the river.The birds have been taking their yearly fling southward; the bird bath yesterday was visited by blue birds, bright orange robins, stunning blue jays, and some red headed house finches.None seems in a rush to leave.

There is nothing more calming than walking in the woods, leaves scattering, saying the rosary. The one that I am using was made in Russia; the beads are blond wood with a cross that is edged with curves and all caught with white string. Simple. I recall the day that I bought it in St.Petersburg. It was a beautiful August day, two years ago. After the store purchase, we went into St. Issac's church and I saw a perfect bag to hold it.There was Russian writing embroidered on the side and oh, how I wanted that little bright blue sack.However, despite my fevered yearning, they didn't accept anything but rubles.How Russian of them! Of course, we had none.  I smile remembering how my husband scoured around looking for rubles outside the church, only to find that we couldn't get back in without missing the bus.A memory worth many rubles.

Sauntering with rosary in hand, I never feel alone or unproductive.I hold the mother's hand and we wander together in harmony.The beads come from a forest on the other side of the world in a place that, years ago, I would have been unable to go.The faithful in St.Petersburg gathered that day in a small side chapel of that huge cathedral.They held a service touching in its intensity.Heads covered, eyes on the altar or closed, grace dwelt among them. While in that city, we also saw the place where American communists helped bring on the Russian Revolution.What was going on in that church is of a different sort . Mary, Queen of Heaven, pray for us.

strolling through the leaves with Riley...

Again, a stunning Georgia day.No clouds, just a thick blue background to the many colors in the woods.The bright orange pumpkins, side by side on a bench in the front yard, look  to a day that may reach 80 degrees and wonder. Each day brings more reason for gratitude.

Last year at Thanksgiving, each of my family members wrote 5 things of thanksgiving on a piece of paper as we always do, and then we read them aloud. My grandson Riley, 14 at the time said ,"Jesus". His brother thought he said Chees-its and started to laugh and then had us all laughing. A truly joyous moment for me for many reasons. Just their being there and for the faith of a teen-age boy.And laughter.

The first time I saw Riley's heart was a few years back. He may have been three at the time and we were sitting on a log in the backyard when his Grandpa came up.Immediately, the little boy held out his small bag of Graham Cracker Teddy Bears for John to share.Now Riley is as tall as his Grandma, thin from running cross country and has bright red hair that stands up with glee.

I recall a day thrift shopping with him when  he suggested we get something for his younger sister who couldn't come.He picked out a necklace with a silver dolphin hanging from it.I thought it perfect for her as, at the time, she wanted to be a mermaid when she grew up. He also found a small green Bible that was free.His face shone with joy. Riley, please always delight in giving and in the Word.

When I started writing, this was going in a very different direction. But our inner place of mystery and delight knows what really needs to be said. So this is about Riley, my precious grandson, who told his Dad that he remembered being with God before the long journey down the steps that he took alone to come here.He was about 4 and still had that memory which I  hold in my heart.

And so this writing is really a prayer for protection for my dear RiRi, and a hope that he will always feel God's presence and follow His lead. Yesterday, while in prayer, I was given this which is too good not to share:

......"for all the good in the world, give praise: for all that has been given you, both great, this land, and small, this journal. Ask for what you need daily. Ask and smile as you wait for a response.
   Is it peace of heart ? Ask, and thank before it comes. Is it riches or wealth, ask and see what different thing enters your heart. Is it health? Ask and see what changes need to be made.
Hold the hand of the One who loves you and ask."