Wandering In The Thin Place
The Vocabulary of Prayer
“Does your dad live there too?”
Its an ordinary question. The pickle it puts me in has become ordinary too. I can answer honestly – “My father passed away” – and put this stranger in the uncomfortable position of realizing he just innocently brought up far too intimate a subject for individuals who just met over a conference dinner. Or I could simply answer, “Yes, he’s in Connecticut as well,” which, when I stop to think about it, wouldn’t really be a lie. Because we did bury him in Connecticut and his physical body remains there now, fourteen years later.
“Check this out.”
Anytime his name pops up on my phone I have to smile. He is something akin to my baby brother in recovery. A human I have never encountered in “real life” but who I am bound to by our shared experience of surrender.
Me & Abraham
I have been baptized four times in my life.
The first time was in the Catholic Church. I was under a year old and I don’t remember much about it. I’ve seen the white gown I wore and a handful of pictures of my dad with incredible sideburns and a brown corduroy sport coat. But I don’t remember the water or if there was music or what it was that my godparents (who I also don’t remember) promised to do.
His name was Bob, and legend has it I made sure he went everywhere with us.
Bob went to the market and Bob went to Nana’s house. I even made mom buckle Bob in.
Imaginary friends are important, you know.
American Love Story
I’ll just cut to the chase.
My CA125 is 12.5.
“Normal” is anything under 20.
My cancer is in remission.
I am a hopeless romantic.
I’ve spent a good bit of time trying in earnest to change this. A trail of broken hearts, like bread crumbs, meanders its way through my past and should be enough to get someone to stop believing in love stories.
But not me. My faith in love stories endures.
I am not sure I have ever been so happy to see a human as I am when I see Claire waving frantically from the curbside of the airport in Richmond. My happiness morphs into full-on joy when I realize she has Hope tucked into the backseat – my personal welcome home wagon.
On The Run
“Kaity is coming to dinner! I love Kaity!” I am standing in the side yard but can hear his six year old voice bellowing through the kitchen and into the family room, out toward their front door. As Hope and I head down the road to finish our walk before mealtime I can’t help but hoist my eyes upwards and smile.
“Okay. I get it.”
When it comes to the legendary stories in my family, along with the one where I bit the doctor who dared try to give me a TB test falls the story of the time I sobbed about having to complete the one mile run in high school.
I spent my morning today down by the river, just like I did one year ago. The Dragon Boat races are back in RVA and one of the organizations I love had boats out on the water. Last year, I rowed hard in three races and loved every second of it.