a prophetic voice-

As another glorious autumn day draws to a close, as I sit before the fire in warm, cuddly pajamas, my dear friend, Mae, across the room, reading, I am overcome with gratitude... for a day yesterday spent walking and talking and sharing... for the wonderful Greensboro Historical Museum... for cheesecakes by Alex... for warm and comforting homemade vegetable soup...  for Thursday evening's dinner at Bistro B with Marie and all of its     joy and laughter... for today's quick trip to Wilmington to see my daughter, Hope,     her significant other, Matty, and granddaughter, Lindsay, and     lunch with our Rwandan friend, Innocent... for the gift and blessing of friendship... for my comfortable little car... for the beautiful, bountiful leaves which gently cover my yard... for a daughter and two sons, loving and caring, each one... for nine incredible grandchildren... for health and happiness, resilience and restoration... for life itself- every blessed moment...

I'm returning today to one of the three remaining "Made for Living" columns I found in the bottom of my study closet in a plastic envelope, reminders of my life at another time, in another place... kind of like looking in on someone else- who, it turns out, much to my surprise, was me. This column was published in February 7, 1985. The week had taken its toll. A week of caring for a husband sick with the flu. A week of daily trips to a Miami hospital to visit and care for our young Salvadoran guest. A week of servanthood. And I was tired! Physically tired, emotionally drained, exhausted from the exertion of giving myself hour after hour to those around me. Tired of serving! And I still had this column to write.   I was finding smiling difficult, instead feeling constantly on the verge of tears. And I could feel my resolve to place myself in God's hands to do God's work weakening, as my tired body and mind rebelled. It would be nice to have someo

Did you see the moon last night...or early this morning? The light was so intense that it totally lighted up my upstairs hall as it smiled down from the western sky at 6a.m. when I arose. The world of nature is truly amazing, something about which I need reminding periodically, living in the city as I do. But driving to church this morning along route 311, I was suddenly in a shower of leaves...glorious yellow leaves swirling around my car and seemingly coming from only two trees along the highway. Nothing ahead, nothing behind...only that one beautiful, amazing leaf shower which lasted about 30 seconds and put a big smile on my face which lasted all the way to the church. Nature's gift for my morning...a swirling invitation to the dance of life.

I had set as my intention- and project- for this week to paint and update the spare bedroom in my house. The walls had long been dingy and still bore many marks from the previous residents who had occupied these premises more than twelve years ago. High time, I thought, to turn this room into something more welcoming...and so I bought the paint, did the wall prep (filling in the numerous nail holes, dings, etc.), moved and covered the furniture, and set about the task, a little at a time.   If you have ever undertaken a painting task, you know that it involves cutting in- by brush- around the edges: along the ceiling, the baseboards, and in the case of my lovely old home, along the crown molding, windows, and four doors. (two closets, an attic, and the door into the room.) Then came the rolling...the prestidigitation of turning dingy walls into fresh, bright, clean ones. Last came the woodwork- which you might already realize is considerable in this admittedly small roo

The writing experience is a different journey for each one of us who embarks upon it. For me, many of my most deeply creative periods have been in response to the hard times in my life- challenges, crises, pain, loss...for whatever reason, these trips into life's valleys have been the places where I have been brought to a face-to-face confrontation with my fears...my hopes and dreams... with my innermost, deepest, truest self. And it is there, in the midst of the maelstrom, that words begin to emerge... The other greatest creative stimulus is always deep emotion: awe, gratitude, the overwhelming wonder of life itself...and again, words emerge...And yet, so often, I find myself writing about the mundane, the ordinary, the everyday....which perhaps means that the creative energy is ever-present, just waiting for me to release it. This was written on the twentieth anniversary of my son's death. After the night he died... (twenty years later) The storm blew flat

In late September of 1984, I discovered a tiny lump in my right breast and in early October, I embarked upon the long journey to diagnosis, surgery, and follow-up treatment. This "Made for Living" column was written for publication on October 4, 1984, just a few days after I had received my diagnosis and decided on the course of treatment with my surgeon. Looking back now, I realize how totally blessed I am to be here, these nearly thirty years later. Amazing... How aptly Betty Rollins had titled her book of several years back, I thought. First You Cry told of the personal experiences of that author in dealing with breast cancer, with the subsequent surgery and treatment. I remember reading it with strong feelings of empathy for the difficulties Rollins experienced in dealing with her diagnosis. After all, I wondered at the time, how can any of us say how we would react to such news? And now I was learning first hand. As I drove the blue Datsun carefully

I love autumn, with its sparkling colors and colder weather...as the world gives one last incredible hurrah of brilliance prior to settling into the stark, hibernating bareness of winter. For me, it is also a time of reflection...a season when I think deeply about life and living, about making the daily journey. And so today, on this fourteenth day of October, I am sharing with you some of my autumnal poetry...reflections which have emerged from the deep inner places where my hope resides. My wish is that some of my words may speak to you, heart-to-heart, mind-to-mind, person-to-person. autumn In the autumn, life readies itself to sleep, to rest and re-form, to lie in fallow peace for a few short months until spring again calls out in gleeful abandon and life unburies itself.   Autumn is floating leaves, full of color, creating noisy confetti underfoot...crisp, clean air punctuated by the chattering of busy squirrels, by the songs of birds seeking seeds and

religion? Re-ligiare, that early Latin word from which "religion" and "religious" come, meant- in those early Latin days-     to re-connect, to re-member         what has been dis-membered...     to return to our deepest, truest selves,         remembering what we already know. How, then, has religion become something which divides,                 which dis-members                     the family of humanity,                  pitting sister against sister,                  brother against brother,                  tribe against tribe, until even                  heaven has its teeth set on edge by the                  cacophony of warring certainties,                      each competing for the hearts & souls                      of humankind...                      each certain that its answers                      are THE answers...                  while angels weep and                  all creation bears the battle scars