God's Mountain Garden
By Bertha M. Sutliff

I grew up on a farm in the mountains of northwest Arkansas. As children, my brother and I roamed every inch of the little mountain facing my parents' house. We knew where every giant boulder and animal burrow was on that little piece of mountain bordering my dad's farm.
One day, my grandpa came to visit from his home several miles away. We sat on the front porch swing looking at the mountain and he began to tell me a story. It was a delightful tale about him and me living in a little cabin on the mountain.
"Can you see it?" he asked. "It's right there by that big acorn tree. See it?"
Of course I saw it. What eight-year-old child wouldn't see what her imagination wanted her to see?
"We're gonna live in that cabin. We'll catch a wild cow for our milk and pick wild strawberries for our supper," Grandpa continued. "I bet the squirrels will bring us nuts to eat. We'll search the bushes for wild chickens and turkeys. The chickens will give us eggs and we'll cook us a turkey over the big ol' fireplace. Yep, we'll do that some day."
From that day on, every time I saw my grandpa, I asked when we would go to live in that little log cabin on the mountain. T hen he'd once more spin the story of how the two of us would live in the cabin with the wildflowers and wild animals around us.
Time raced on; I grew into my teens and gradually forgot Grandpa's story. After graduating high school, I still saw Grandpa and loved him dearly, but not like that little girl did. I grew out of the fantasy of the log cabin and wild cows.
Before long, I married and set up my own house. One day, the phone rang. When I heard my daddy's sorrowful voice, I knew my grandpa had left us. He had been in his garden behind his house and died there, his heart forever stopped.
I grieved alongside my mother for my dear grandpa, remembering his promises of the cabin in the woods with all its animals and flowers. It seemed I could once again hear his voice telling me the fantasy we shared. I felt my childhood memories being buried with him.
Less than a year later, I went to visit my parents' farm. Mama and I sat on the front porch admiring the green foliage of the mountain. It had been ten months since Grandpa had passed away, but the longing to hear his voice one more time was still fresh in my soul.
I told Mama about the story Grandpa had always told me, of the cabin in the woods, the wild cow, the chickens and turkey. "Mama," I said after I had finished my story, "would you mind if I went for a walk by myself?"
"Of course not," was her reply.
I changed into old jeans and put on my walking shoes. Mama cautioned me to be careful and went on with her chores.
The walk was invigorating. Spring had come to the country and everything was getting green. Little Johnny-jump-ups were springing up all over the pastures. New calves were following their mamas begging for milk. At the foot of the mountain, I stopped. Where did Grandpa say that acorn tree was?
"Straight up from the house," I thought I heard him say.
I began my journey up the little mountain. It was steeper than I remembered, and I was out of shape. I trudged on, determined to find that tree.
Suddenly the ground leveled out. I was amazed to see what was before me. Soft green moss covered a small, flat clearing. Dogwood trees, smothered in pastel blooms, surrounded it. Off to the side stood a tall oak tree -Grandpa's acorn tree! Scattered among the tufts of moss were vibrant colors of wild wood violets. Green rock ferns and pearly snowdrops were scattered about as well. I could hardly catch my breath.
I don't know how long I stood there - several minutes, I suppose. Finally I came to my senses and sat down on the moss. In all my childhood wanderings on the mountain, I had never seen this magically beautiful place. Was this what Grandpa meant when he pointed out our special spot on the mountainside all those years ago? Did he know this was here?
A squirrel darted in front of me. He had a nut in his mouth. I watched as he scampered up the oak tree. No, I didn't see a wild cow or chickens. But in my heart, I knew they were there somewhere.
I decided to go tell Mama what I had found. She would want to see it too. Before I left I took one more look. It was the most beautiful place I could have ever imagined.
It didn't take me as long to get back to the house. I burst into the kitchen babbling about the clearing on the side of the mountain. Mama calmed me down enough so she could understand what I was talking about. Daddy heard the conversation and tried to convince me there was no such place up there. He knew the mountain and had never seen anything like that.
On my insistence, he and Mama decided to go see the amazing place I was raving about. Once again I climbed the mountain straight up from the house. Before I knew it, we were at the top.
"We must have missed it," I told my dad.
He just nodded and we retraced our steps. We searched for over an hour for that little place on the mountain. We never found it. I was devastated.
On the way back home, Mama put her arms around my shoulders.
"Sissy," she said, "you know what you saw, don't you?"
"Yeah, I know what I saw, and I know it's there somewhere. We just missed it."
"No sweetie, it's not there anymore. You saw God's garden. Only special people can see that. Your grandpa loved you so much, and he knew you were grieving inside. Hold that memory in your heart."
I'm 52 years old now. Every time I go back to Mama's house and sit on the porch, I remember the secret garden Grandpa told me about.&nbs p; But I no longer go out and look for it. No, I know just where it is.

Climb On
By Judy Henning


At a workshop recently I was asked to make a list of all the gifts I had received that made a difference in my life. What a task! To sort through my past for the many wonderful gifts of encouragement, of understanding, of real physical or financial assistance, of listening, and of good advice, is to acknowledge the many people who have given me a hand along the way. A gift I received from my daughter Lacy last summer stands out as especially heartfelt.
It was a soft June morning when she called me and said cheerily, "Hi, Mom, you want to go rock climbing?" I longed to go rock climbing. I was just a few months past abdominal surgery for cancer and still regaining my physical strength and emotional equilibrium. I was not sure I could climb a small hill, let alone a big rock. Because I trust her so deeply and because she made it seem fine to go along, I decided to do it.
We ordered picnic lunches and drove to the base of our climbing site. We loaded up with gear - big, impressive - looking blue and purple climbing ropes, harnesses, an assortment of carabiners, special climbers' shoes, helmets, the lunches, water and insect repellent. We hiked up a road and cut into the woods along an overgrown trail. It was hot, and I was working hard - harder than I dreamed I could. I stopped often to catch my breath, but it felt great to be out in the early morning sun, tramping through woods that echoed with birdcalls. I was glad to be alive.
Rose Ledge is a beautiful site deep in the woods and perfect for beginning climbs. The ledge looked awfully high to me, but Lacy and Connie set up the climb with great energy and efficiency. Lacy anchored our ropes to trees above the ledge and dropped them straight down where they landed at my feet. She set up the safety system known as belaying and tested it out. I watched and ate a cookie.
To ready ourselves for climbing we stretched a bit, then did "bouldering" on smaller rocks. This meant clambering around on rocks while Lacy "spotted" me, standing close to break my fall if needed. Bouldering was hard for me and scary, too, even though I was only a few feet off the ground. I did love the feel of the solidness of rock as I wedged a toe here and found a hand-hold there.
I stepped into the big black harness, tightened the waist, and donned a helmet. I was then fastened to Lacy by a rope that could be loosened or tightened as I climbed. Lacy, the belayer, was tied in and anchored at the bottom tree and, because of this system, I could not fall. At least that is the theory, I thought, as I struggled to get my breath.
"Ready to climb, Mom?" Lacy chirped. I wanted to shout out a resounding "Ready!" but what came out was more like the pathetic meow of the cat when he wants his breakfast. "Yeow," I said in a hoarse whisper.
Then came the series of questions and responses between climber and belayer, me and Lacy, to make sure we were communicating and the safety system was working. When it is all secure, the climber says, "Climbing," and the belayer says, "Climb on!"
The first few steps weren't that hard, and I was well off the ground and mighty pleased with myself when I stopped the first time. I was safely wedged into the chimney we had chosen as a first effort. As I climbed higher, the footholds became toeholds, the hand-holds finger-holds, and I was suddenly scared. I stopped.
"I'm scared. I can't go any higher," I called down.
"That's fine, Mom, just rest right there. Remember I've got you," she called back. I took some deep breaths and snuck a look. Oh goodness, I was far from the bottom and nowhere near the top. I wanted to complete that climb so badly I could taste it. "Now what?" I yelled out.
"You're doing great, Mom, just great," Lacy said. I blinked back tears and swallowed hard. Lacy gave me specific instructions and with my heart hammering away, I did just what she said, and before I knew it, I was up further than I ever imagined I could go. Elated by this realization, I scrambled up the last of the climb using feet, knees, elbows, hands, back and sheer determination. I let out a loud "Eeeee haaaa!" when I got to the top. Lacy was laughing and yelling, "You made it, Mom, you did it!"
I was euphoric and giddy with achievement - but wait: I realized with a nasty jolt that I now had to get down again.
There were two ways to go down. I could climb down: hard and slow but safe. Or I could rappel down: glide down while gently bouncing off the wall of the rock. That required a leap of faith because I had to lean back into the harness and let myself go. I had to trust the system we created totally.
It is a heart-stopping thrill to fall backwards into space, let me tell you. After a few mini-falls, I was back on the ground and said loudly and with great confidence, "Off belay!" And Lacy, my beautiful daughter, responded as quietly as a prayer, "Belay off."
Eating lunch, I was famished, exhausted and exhilarated all at once. Through the rest of the warm summer afternoon, I rested and watched Lacy and the others climb. We walked back to the truck in companionable silence as the accomplishments of the day sank in. That day Lacy took such good care of me. She provided for me: lunch, safety, cheer and an opportunity to have what I have always loved best, an adventure. She taught me everything I needed to know about climbing that rock, she provided my physical and emotional safety and she cheered me on. Something deep inside my chest shifted as I experienced a powerful turning of the cosmic coin. Lacy was giving me what I had always worked to give her.
It was months later when I felt another piece of this experience settle into place. At the same workshop, I was asked to discover what the gifts said about me. If the gifts were a kind of mirror, what did they reflect?
This gift reflected a mother who provided safety while encouraging my daughter to climb higher. Since Lacy always has, I must have done my part. Now when either of us faces a difficult challenge we say to the other, "Climbing," and know the response will be, "Climb on."

Loving Equally
By Nicole Peters, fifteen


My parents had been married for eighteen years and dating since my mother was fourteen. Their marriage had been on the rocks for as long as I can remember. They had talked about divorcing many times but never went through with it for the sake of their only child, me.
One of their last fights that I can remember was very physical. My parents destroyed all of each other's belongings, and it soon came to the point where there was nothing left in the house that wasn't demolished. There were holes in the walls and just pieces of everything covering the floor.
My father shoved my mother around and bruised her prettily badly, and I had to witness it all with my fourteen-year-old eyes.
Before I knew it, we were in court and I had to make the decision of whose hands to put my life into. I had to choose which parent I would live with every day. I felt like my heart was being cut out of my chest and my parents were tugging at each end of it. I loved both of my parents, and I knew one way or the other I was going to hurt one of them. After I thought for a while, I decided to live with my mom even though I knew my dad would be upset.
But it was much harder than I thought it would be. My mom was always talking about my dad and how terrible she thought he was. She still held a lot of anger inside of her heart, and she wanted to get back at my dad through me. I felt like she wanted me to love only her and to despise my father. Because I loved my dad, too, I was upset a lot and we started to argue all the time.
Nine months later, I went to live with my dad because my mother and I could no longer stand each other. I was blaming her for my feelings of confusion and anger. At first, it was better with my dad, but after only a week he started doing the same thing that my mother had been doing – only in reverse. My dad seemed to want me to have a lot of feelings of hatred towards my mother. I stuck it out at his house for a while. Then I began to see that he wasn't as interested in me as I thought that he would be. He never asked me when I would be home or who I was hanging out with. I had pretty much all the freedom I wanted. Without any curfews or rules, I began to feel like he didn't even care about me. I began partying too much, and my life was getting completely off track.
After I had a few fights with my dad and spent many nights alone, crying myself to sleep, I realized that I had to figure out what to do.
I realized that there were ups and downs about living with both of them. They both had their faults and made mistakes. Neither of them wanted to admit their own mistakes, and they were quick to point out the mistakes of the other. There was no way for me to decide who was right or who was wrong. I couldn't love one of them more than the other and leave the other one behind. I decided that I had to love both parents equally.
I could no longer let them influence me and take control of my feelings so easily. I began by asking them to please keep their feeling for each other to themselves. I think that they tried, but it didn't work. When that failed, I realized that I would have to do this myself. I'd just have to try and be strong and ignore what they said about each other. As soon as I made that decision, I felt more in control and my life began to change.
My mom and dad still say things out of anger about each other and they don't speak to one another. But do you know what? That's their problem. Not mine. I'm doing the best I can to be fair to both of them. In my life, it has been a welcome change to not get caught up in their personal battles, but to focus on loving them instead.

Gabriella and the Trophy
By Barbara E. Hoffman

The lights dim as the music level rises. Thirty children of assorted shapes, sizes and ages are presenting a dance recital in the school gymnasium/auditorium. All the parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles are there. Hundreds of them fill the seats. This is the first public performance of my young granddaughter, Gabriella.
Gabriella is two years old. She is appearing in the recital as a pink bunny in a routine called "Animal Crackers in My Soup." She executes her part admirably, even though the bunny ears have slid down her face during a particularly athletic sequence and hang around her neck by a piece of white elastic. After a few attempts to reinstall the ears, she leaves them where they are like an ear necklace and catches up with the rest of the chorus line of members of the animal kingdom.
Two hours pass, and the show is drawing to a close. Thirty children and young persons are lined up on stage, the two- and three-year-olds in the front and the sixteen-year-olds in back, with the other ages filling in the spaces in-between for the finale and the presentation of trophies.
The pink bunny with the ears clenched in her left hand steps out of line, crosses front stage and stands quietly at the kneecaps of the trophy presenter. Her right hand reaches up toward the trophy and runs out of length about two inches from the base. The presenter seems totally unaware of the silent pink bunny standing directly under her gaze. As she reads the name on the trophy, a young lady breaks from the group and claims the trophy over the head of the pink bunny still standing with hand outstretched, waiting now to claim the next one.
Herein begins the most amazing display of group dynamics I have ever witnessed. The silent determination of that two-year-old unifies hundreds of people in a space of about ten minutes. Mental messages converge into one growing breath of encouragement to the pink bunny as each trophy passes over her outstretched hand to another. With infinite patience and assurance, she waits. Ten names, ten trophies, and still she waits with hand held high. Somewhere around trophy number twenty, a brief struggle between a pink bunny is read from her body language by an intensely sympathetic audience. The bunny's eyes drop to the ears she is holding in her other hand and for one brief moment, her face falls. I feel the silent thoughts of those around me join my own . . . "No, no, it has nothing to do with your ears falling off. You are not a failure; your trophy is coming. Take heart!" The message is received, and the expression on the bunny's face changes to annoyance. Both hands go to her lips, her lower lip is stuck out in a pout, and the tiny face tilts upwards to its most extreme angle, but still no trophy.
A two-year-old monkey from the same dance sequence joins the bunny at front stage right for a whispered conversation. The eyes of the bunny and the monkey travel from the box of trophies to the presenter . . . more whispering. The audience is adding the words in their minds to the scene on stage. "You could tackle her around the legs, and I could grab two trophies, jump off the front of the stage and run out the back door." Now, the audience is howling with laughter, some stomping on the floor as if to force the laughter out faster, some holding stomachs to keep the laughter from bursting out the seams of the body and wiping tears streaming down cheeks. After considering the plan, the pink bunny shakes her head "No" and the plan is discarded. The monkey steps back in line and the audience settles back tentatively in their seats. The presenter, for whatever reason, continues to ignore the pink bunny.
Twenty-three trophies and still no trophy for Gabriella. The bunny shows signs of losing heart; her eyes are downcast, the lower lip trembles. Again there are waves of silent encouragement from beyond the stage, and even a few murmured . . . "Don't give up" . . . and "It's coming." The bunny makes a decision. She is still at the kneecaps of the presenter. Her face is once more raised in expectancy and slowly the right hand reaches up as the bunny resumes the stance of the first fifteen to twenty minutes. A collective sound arises from the audience, which can only be described as one giant moan.
The twenty-ninth trophy is Gabriella's. When it is transferred to the hands of the pink bunny, the entire audience stands up and cheers the loudest, longest, most emotional ovation of the night. The ovation is for the two-year-old in the bunny suit who taught a lesson in faith, determination and patience this night.

[AUTHOR'S NOTE: Gabriella Maria Kramer is the middle child of my son Robert and his wife Maria. Sara, Gabriella and Michael are miracle children, born after eight years of unsuccessful attempts to conceive. We see them as gifts from God in gratitude for the loving care given by their parents to the adopted sister they never knew, teachers of loving lessons and a constant reminder that God's plan is greater than our own. I dedicate this story to the memory of Rachel Emily Kramer, an HIV-positive infant abandoned in a hospital at three months of age and taken into the hearts of this family.]

Prayer of Thoughts
By John W. Doll

Thanks for the hardship and pain I experienced as a child; the sickness and death I survived. They were only lessons I learned in becoming a man, and not punishment and guilt for things I had only thought in my mind.
Thanks for the painful need for acceptance I had as I tried to replace the loves I had lost. The need gave me an understanding and empathy for others with even a greater need for love and understanding than myself. It gave me the way to gain my acceptance by giving my love to other even more barren hearts.
Thanks for the loss of a parent, so needed, so loved. It taught me by example of my mother's equal loss and how strong a human can be in the face of tragedy. Her dignity and strength were beyond my comprehension and yet, through her example, I learned.
Thanks for the strength and hope through each stage of life to continue to improve and understand not only my own life but also all my brothers and sisters of the world. It is only through loving ourselves that we can understand the meaning and true beauty in the greatest gift of love.
Thanks above all for being a caring and loving God who resides within each of us to remind us that impossible is possible and that forgiveness is not only possible but necessary.
And most importantly of all, thank you for reminding us that love is the key to all the questions, fears and desires in our small but beautiful world of yesterdays, todays and tomorrows.

Japanese Goodbye
By Julia Booker


I looked up at the signs, trying to decipher which train I needed to take to Narita Airport. After ten months backpacking through Africa and Asia, using every form of transport from donkey to rickshaw, I was on the final leg of my journey, the flight that would take me home to Canada.
I was feeling the weight of my huge pack. Knowing that I would soon be shedding the burden on my back, I finally allowed myself to purchase gifts for my family. The Japanese language was a complete mystery to me, and I stared up at the board, searching for any symbol that appeared familiar. Anything at all.
Everywhere salary men were rushing to catch their crowded trains. Everybody, everything was moving fast. No Zen here.
And then, out of the mass, a woman stopped and asked, in English, which way I wanted to go. She took me to the station master. She spoke to him in Japanese, found out the platform number, the price of a ticket and the time of departure. I had half an hour.
I thanked her and bid her farewell, but she said she had ten minutes and insisted I join her for a quick tea.
She told me she had been born in Japan, but had spent a year backpacking in New York and knew what it was like to be a woman traveling solo. We excitedly traded stories but soon our brief chat was over. Her train was leaving. She hurriedly paid for both our drinks.
"Save your money," she said and wished me luck. And then, she was gone.
I stood up to go, pulling the load once more onto my back. Suddenly, she reappeared, out of breath, with a square box wrapped in white and red paper.
"You aren't vegetarian are you?" she asked.
"Uh, no..." and she pushed the box into my hands. It was warm.
"For the train. Goodbye." And she was gone, again.
I had seen these specially prepared boxed meals for sale in the stations. They looked delicious but they were beyond my budget.
As I waited on the platform, my pack didn't feel as heavy. Even though I had been given one more gift to carry, I felt lighter - blessed with the taste of warm food, the dreams of my homecoming and the generosity of a Japanese woman I would know only this once. And I never even caught her name.

The Last Attack
By Wayne Allen Levine

As a child I was stricken with severe allergies and asthma, which kept me from having, holding, tasting, touching and smelling a variety of foods, most plants, trees, grass and flowers. And keeping a pet - especially a dog or a cat - was completely out of the question. All my childhood doctors had agreed: I needed to avoid everything I was allergic to, remain sedentary and visit the doctor every Saturday morning for my weekly allergy shot.
"Do not exert yourself," he told me. "It will probably trigger a dangerous asthma attack."
Often disregarding his advice, I played hard, ran everywhere, rode my bike like a demon, swam every summer and trained in gymnastics year-round. I became the top gymnast in my grammar school and also set the 50-, 60- and 100-yard dash records. At eleven, I told my parents that I would no longer be taking the allergy shots each week - a subjective decision based not on information I read in any book, nor on the advice of any experts. Rather, my body told me I didn't need them anymore.
My parents, though doubtful, agreed to a trial period. "We'll see how you do without them," they said.
But I wasn't through. I begged, pleaded and finally convinced them to get a dog - a furry little Pekinese we all grew to love - and I began to immerse myself in all the things that used to make me sick (or had been told would make me sick). I cut the grass for neighbors who didn't know I wasn't supposed to be near lawns. I smelled flowers and climbed trees. I even began to eat strawberries, which doctors said "could possibly be fatal."
I don't remember my first asthma attack, but I vividly remember my last. I was eleven years old; it was a humid, hot summer day in Chicago, and I was running hard through the African jungle - in reality, the alleys behind our house. There were many beasts and potential predators I needed to outrun. Sometimes while running, especially on a sticky day, my lungs would swell and squeeze off my air supply. That day was no different. Reluctantly, I decided to leave the jungle and return home to rest.
The house was empty, a true blessing that allowed for undisturbed, quiet focus. In the stillness, I came to a new awareness and found my cure.
As I lay on my parents' bed gazing up at a ceiling fan, I stared at the shiny silver bolt that held the sharp blades together. I focused on what seemed like the still point in the center of the fan's great vortex and held my attention there, while listening calmly to the chorus in my chest. I heard the rapid, rhythmic crackling sounds of blocked lungs, accompanied by high pitched whistles, which marked the trail of the few puffs of air struggling to make their way through narrow passageways. I remained calm, content to listen to my body.
Then came the sudden, dazzling realization that altered my life forever: a simple thought that penetrated to my core: I have all that I need. I understood, for the first time, that the little bit of air getting through was all that was necessary to sustain me. It was enough. When I realized I have nothing to fear, I will always have enough air, my lungs opened fully.

Brief Encounter
By Joseph J. Gurneak


Several Saturdays ago I was cleaning my car at a do-it-yourself car wash. As I vacuumed, I noticed a few wisps of yellow dog fur.
I stopped my cleaning. I picked up the fur, placed it in an envelope and put the envelope in the glove compartment. The fur belonged to Buddy. As I went about the rest of the day, I couldn't help but think of the brief encounter with Buddy and his "family" just a couple of days before.
It was a Wednesday afternoon. I had just gotten off work. As I passed a truck stop, I noticed a man with a large backpack. There beside him was a dog on a leash sitting in the grass strip that separates the entrance and exit to the interstate. It was about 4:30 in the afternoon and quite hot.
I stopped a few feet away and walked up to the man. "You and the dog okay?" I asked.
I guess he was a little startled. "I'm not breakin' no law sittin' here, am I?" he asked.
"No," I replied, "I just wanted to make sure you and the dog were okay."
"We're okay, just a little hot."
I noticed a handwritten cardboard sign beside him saying something about working for food. My guess was that he hadn't had a good meal in some time.
"Look," I said, "here's a twenty - make sure you and the dog get a good meal tonight."
"God bless you, sir," he said as he accepted the money.
I walked back to my car. As I turned around, the pair were headed under an overpass to the westbound side of the I-78 ramp. Somehow I felt I should have done a little more. I went into the truck stop, bought a large hoagie and soda for the man and a couple of hot dogs and water for the dog.
As I approached the ramp, they were gone. I figured someone had picked them up. I got back on the freeway intending to get off at the next exit. There were my two "friends." I pulled over. As we spoke, I gave pieces of the hot dogs to the dog along with a few sips of cool water. The stranger wolfed down the sandwich in two minutes.
I asked the dog's name. It was Buddy.
I don't usually give strangers a ride, but I just couldn't let them walk down the busy freeway at night. I offered to give them a ride, and they accepted. He instructed Buddy to get in the back seat, but I told him it was okay if Buddy rode in the front. Buddy put his head on my lap as though we had been friends for years. I knew he enjoyed the cooling breeze of the air conditioner. He very quickly fell asleep, as I occasionally petted him on his head.
Buddy was a beautiful, noble dog, some kind of mixed breed although the man said he was a sheltie. His fur was soft and surprisingly well kept. The man was a drifter.
He told me bits and pieces about his life. He said he didn't have any sort of identification. He told me he had lost his wallet a few weeks back. My guess was he was about forty. He was tall and lean, with a beard. His piercing blue eyes seemed to hold pain, but he was a gentle person. He was born in Oregon and traveled around always looking for work, he said.
I asked him about Buddy. He told me he found him in Alabama as a puppy about a year and a half before. From that day to this, they had always been together.
There was a pause in the conversation and I asked him whether the dog was ever a burden to him, with all the traveling around. I would have gladly offered a great home to Buddy. There was a long silence. From the corner of my eye I could see tears rolling down the man's cheeks.
"Sir," he said to me, barely above a whisper, "old Buddy is the only family I got. Some days, when food is scarce, I'd gladly go without, so long as Buddy has somethin'."
There was no doubt he spoke the truth. I felt embarrassed that I would even think of offering to take the man's only worthwhile possession.
The ride was all too short. I pulled over and the man got his backpack out of the back seat. Then Buddy hopped out. The man began to slowly close the door. Buddy turned, looked up at me and wagged his tail a couple of times. I'm certain it was his way of saying "thanks."
I turned around and headed east. I had one last look at Buddy and his "family." As I drove off I was disappointed in myself; I didn't even ask the man his name.
That night I was out late watering the flowers. I looked up at the heavens. I wondered why it is that sometimes these brief encounters make such profound impressions on my life. I said a little prayer asking God to please watch over them in their travels, and to say thanks for just the few brief moments I was able to share with them.
Without their knowledge, the two "world travelers" had enriched my life, touched my soul and heart. The wisps of fur will always be a reminder to me of the summer afternoon that I encountered Buddy and his companion.

A Mother's Love
By Pat Laye

When I think of Clara Harden's family, happiness is what comes to mind. The sounds of laughter always greeted my visits.
Their lifestyle was so very different from mine. Clara's mother believed nurturing the mind was more important than trivial chores. Housekeeping wasn't a high priority. With five children ranging in age from Clara, the oldest at twelve, to a two-year-old baby, this lack of order sometimes bothered me but never for long. Their home was always in some state of chaos with at least one person's life in crisis, real or imagined. But I loved being part of this boisterous bunch, with their carefree, upbeat attitude toward life. Clara's mother was never too busy for us. She'd stop ironing to help with a cheerleading project, or switch off the vacuum cleaner and call us all to trek into the woods to gather specimens for a child's science project.
You never knew what you might do when you visited there. Their lives were filled with fun and love - lots of love.
So the day the Harden children stepped off the school bus with red, swollen eyes, I knew something was desperately wrong. I rushed to Clara, pulled her aside, begging to hear what had happened but not prepared for her answer. The night before, Clara's mother had told them she had a terminal brain tumor, with only months to live. I remember that morning so well. Clara and I went behind the school building where we sobbed, holding each other, not knowing how to stop the unbelievable pain. We stayed there, sharing our grief until the bell rang for first period.
Several days passed before I visited the Harden home again. Dreading the sorrow and gloom, and filled with enormous guilt that my life was the same, I stalled until my mother convinced me that I couldn't neglect my friend and her family in their time of sadness.
So I visited. When I entered the Harden house, to my surprise and delight, I heard lively music and voices raised in animated discussion with lots of giggles and groans. Mrs. Harden sat on the sofa playing a game of Monopoly with her children gathered round. Everybody greeted me with smiles as I struggled to hide my bewilderment. This wasn't what I had expected.
Finally Clara freed herself from the game, and we went off to her room where she explained. Her mother had told them that the greatest gift they could give her would be to carry on as if nothing was amiss. She wanted her last memories to be happy, so they had agreed to try their hardest.
One day Clara's mother invited me for a special occasion. I rushed over to find her wearing a large gold turban. She explained that she'd decided to wear this instead of a wig now that her hair was falling out. She placed beads, glue, colored markers, scissors and cloth on the table, and instructed us to decorate it, while she sat like a regal maharaja. We turned the plain turban into a thing of gaudy beauty, each adding his or her own touch. Even as we squabbled over where the next bauble should be placed, I was conscious of how pale and fragile Mrs. Harden appeared. Afterwards, we had our picture taken with Clara's mother, each pointing proudly to her contribution to the turban. A fun memory to cherish, even though the unspoken fear of her leaving us wasn't far beneath the surface.
Finally the sad day arrived when Clara's mother died. In the weeks that followed, the Hardens' sorrow and pain were impossible to describe.
Then one day I arrived at school to see an animated Clara laughing, gesturing excitedly to her classmates. I heard her mother's name mentioned frequently. The old Clara was back. When I reached her side, she explained her happiness. That morning dressing her little sister for school, she'd found a funny note her mother had hidden in the child's socks. It was like having her mother back again.
That afternoon the Harden family tore their house apart hunting messages. Each new message was shared, but some went undetected. At Christmastime, when they retrieved the decorations from the attic, they found a wonderful Christmas message.
In the years that followed, messages continued sporadically. One even arrived on Clara's graduation day and another on her wedding day. Her mother had entrusted the letters to friends who delivered them on each special day. Even the day Clara's first child was born, a card and poignant message arrived. Each child received these short funny notes, or letters filled with love until the last reached adulthood.
Mr. Harden remarried, and on his wedding day a friend presented him with a letter from his wife to be read to his children, in which she wished him happiness and instructed her children to envelop their new stepmother in love, because she had great faith that their father would never choose a woman who wouldn't be kind and loving to her precious children.
I've often thought of the pain Clara's mother must have experienced as she wrote these letters to her children. I also imagined the mischievous joy she felt when she hid these little notes. But through it all I've marveled at the wonderful memories she left those children, despite the pain she quietly suffered and the anguish she must have felt leaving her adored family. Those unselfish acts exemplify the greatest mother's love I've ever known.

Performance Under the Stars
By Rayleen Downes

They slouched in folding chairs in a semicircle, eyeing me suspiciously. Their ages ranged from fourteen to sixteen, and they were there because they loved drama. I was a new teacher, and I had absolutely no experience in directing drama. My background was in teaching, writing and literature.
No problem, I thought.
That was how I found myself in chaos late that fall, staging the musical Godspell. I spent countless nights at rehearsals coaxing my Jesus to sing louder and my Mary to tone down her body language.
My three-year-old, Breana, was the least of my worries. She was a sweet child, undemanding and easy to please. Usually I left her at home with my husband. But when he couldn't watch her, I'd throw her in the car and take her to rehearsals. She wandered about the stage, bottle in hand.
When I was wrapped up with responsibilities, I would pass Breana off to students. Her word for bottle was "baboo," and it was common to hear the pitiful cry of "Baboo!" from some corner of the drama room. The student nearest to her would then hunt it down.
As rehearsals for the play progressed, the integration of the acting with the choreography and the music became extremely time-consuming and intense. Breana seemed to accept my hectic schedule with characteristic charm. Once the play was over, I reasoned, I would give her back the time I was taking from her.
On the way home from one particularly good rehearsal, I asked lightheartedly, "Do you love Mommy?" She turned to me and said simply, "No." Wounded, I drove on in silence.
Opening night. We played to a sold-out crowd. My Jesus sang like a dove. The crucifixion scene had the audience in tears. At the last song, people were on their feet, wildly cheering for more.
The next night an even bigger crowd appeared, and we had to bring in more bleachers. Those who couldn't find a seat crowded shoulder to shoulder in the back.
Breana came both nights. The first night, she sat on her dad's lap - dutiful but fidgeting. As everyone complimented me on a job well done, she fell asleep.
The second night, she was bored. I sat her in a corner where she played quietly. Then she came over and pulled on my arm.
"Go outside," she whispered.
I looked in vain for her dad.
"Go outside," she whispered again.
I glanced down. Breana was looking especially pretty in a red dress with petticoats. Loose hair from her pigtails trailed softly down her neck in tendrils. I relented. My cast could be without me for a few minutes.
There was a slight chill in the air. I let her pull me wherever she wished. We ended up outside the cafeteria, where there was a small amphitheater.
Breana pushed at my waist. "Sit, Mommy!" I did. She looked at me with sparkling eyes. "Watch me!"
Marching up on the stage, she put her arms straight out to her sides and began to twirl. Her red dress lifted up, revealing white tights that were bagging a little. I leaned forward and chuckled. She threw her head back and laughed gleefully as she spun.
Around and around she twirled like a plane out of control. I could hear the noise from the auditorium, but it began to subside as I focused on my daughter.
I remembered my countless hours at rehearsals. I remembered handing Breana off to others because I didn't have the time.
A rousing cheer came from the theater, but that was only background noise now. I was at the best performance - sitting under the stars, watching my three-year-old revel in her delight. She spun. She skipped. She finally bowed. And straight-backed on a wooden bench, I sat alone and clapped and clapped.

Motherhood - A Trivial Pursuit?
By Jacklyn Lee Lindstrom

You've no doubt heard of Trivial Pursuit, the popular board game based on answering trivia questions. I've often thought that mothering is similar to such a game. It seems we spend much of our time in a maze of trivia, fumbling through the daily minutiae of family living, never quite sure whether we're ahead of the game or not.
With that in mind, I have devised my own trivia game for mothers. The rules are simple - you'll start with 10 marbles, and collect or deduct marbles as you play the game.
Are you ready? Okay, let's go . . .

Square 1. You are awaiting the arrival of your firstborn child. If you look at your rapidly expanding waistline and say, "As soon as the baby is born I'll be a size 6 again," deduct 2 marbles - for wishful thinking.
Square 2. It is two years later and your second child is soon to be born. To avoid sibling rivalry you have prepared carefully for the event, spending "quality time" with your firstborn, giving him his own baby doll to feed, bathe and cuddle. When the new baby comes home, older brother is fine. But deduct 1 marble - it's the dog who's jealous.
Square 3. Your number one son has just announced at the supper table that he is to be an oak tree in the school play and needs a costume by tomorrow morning. If you stay up until 3 a.m. making an imaginative and innovative costume, deduct 3 marbles for setting an impossible example for the rest of us. On the other hand, if you stick him into a brown paper bag with a hole for head and arms and tape green leaves all over front and back, collect 5 marbles. You've just taken the rest of us off the hook.
Square 4. The kids now number three and are all in school. You have discovered that "mother" is synonymous with "taxi service." On a typical day you drop the youngest off at her music lesson, then go with the boys to their Little League practice. Then back to pick up daughter and drop accumulated Little Leaguers off at their assorted homes. It's dinner on the fly because somebody has to be at choir practice at 7 p.m. It's now bedtime and you discover you have an extra kid. But you don't panic . . . it's happened before and soon the phone will ring as another mother discovers she's missing one. Collect 5 marbles for endurance.
Square 5. The little darlings that you tucked lovingly into bed for so many years suddenly treat you as though you lost your brains in kindergarten. They are embarrassed to be seen with you. Guess what: You are the parent of teenagers, those strange creatures who think they are eight feet tall and bulletproof. If you survive this age with your senses intact, collect 8 marbles for heroism under fire. Until then, always remember that you hold the ultimate weapon - you have the car keys!
Square 6. You can tell your oldest child is home from college when you see the pile of dirty laundry in the front hall. If you take the clothes downstairs to sort, wash and press as in days of old . . . deduct 3 marbles and shame on you! If, instead, you take him by the hand and show him the room where the automatic washer and dryer have been housed since he was small, collect 5 marbles. Some of the most important things in life are not taught in college, you know.
Square 7. The children, by some miracle, have grown into responsible adults. By chance you overhear your now grown-up son telling the same bedtime stories to his firstborn that you so long ago told to him, and the tears fall silently down your cheeks. Don't despair - these are the pearls of parenting, and that is what the game is all about.


*****

The Asparagus Costume
By Barbara LoMonaco




I am not what you would call an artsy-craftsy mom. I can follow directions that are given to me but I don't have a lot of creativity when it comes to doing art projects.
Halloween was rapidly approaching and my three-and-a-half-year-old son, John, was old enough to really get into the spirit of the whole thing. Even though he had gone trick or treating before, he had really not participated in the selection of his costume. He had been too young to care and was happy with whatever I bought for him.
This year was different. He had very definite opinions and he knew just what he wanted to be. An asparagus! An asparagus? Where in the world did that idea come from? We had never even seen a costume like that in the stores and with my sewing abilities I certainly wouldn't – or rather I couldn't – sew one for him. What was a mother to do?
I had the perfect solution. I would convince him he wanted to be a monster for Halloween. Monsters I could do. I would dress him all in black, slick down his hair and make up his face. Oh, would I make up his face! There would be no sewing involved, and that's a good thing.
Being the thoughtful person that he is, and since we couldn't find any asparagus costumes, he agreed to be a monster. But, he wanted to be "the scariest monster in the whole wide world." I told him not to worry and that I would take care of everything.
A few hours before dark on Halloween, the transformation from boy to monster began. I sat on a small chair in the bathroom so we were at the same level, looking eye to eye. I got all of the makeup out of my drawer, lots and lots of half-used cosmetics that for some reason I'd never thrown out. When they were all mixed together, the concoction became wonderful monster make up. And so I got to work.
John had his back to the mirror while the transformation took place. He practiced making appropriate monster noises so he would be ready when we hit the streets to trick or treat. I slathered his beautiful little face with all kinds of goo. When I was finished, hit was bluish purple with scars, gashes, gouges and blood from his forehead to his chin. There was not a speck of skin showing. The scariest of all were his eyes. They were really hideous. I must say I was really pleased with the results. I had thoughts right then and there of giving up being a stay at home mom and becoming a professional make up artist.
It was now it was time to show John the results of my artistic abilities. I knew he would be delighted and impressed to see his goal of being "the scariest monster in the whole wide world" achieved. I turned him around slowly telling him to keep his eyes closed until he was facing the mirror. Then I told him to open his eyes. He did. He screeeeeeamed! So loud he could be heard all over the neighborhood! I had done such a fabulous job that he was scared of himself! Not knowing who that monster was in the mirror, he couldn't stand to look at himself and he started to cry. Loud.
Being the sensitive mother that I am, I started to laugh. I tried to explain to him that there was no need to be afraid. The face in the mirror was John and that beneath all of that glop was still that sweet, loving little boy. Well, he would have none of that explanation. So, I turned him around, hugged him and spent the next ten minutes wiping his face clean of all traces of that monster and drying his tears.
When he was back to being John, I turned him around again. He kept his eyes closed but I finally convinced him to open them. His smile said it all. He was back. The monster was gone. He was happy.
We did go out for Halloween that night. I slicked back his hair and put just enough dots of blue eye shadow on his face to satisfy him but not enough to cover up his face and make him unrecognizable. We were not exactly sure what he was supposed to be – maybe the blue dot monster - but at least he didn't scare himself.
Where was that asparagus costume when I needed it?

Getting Even
By Suzanne Lowe Vaughan

Several years ago my son was attending a college out of state. He called one evening and asked if he could come home for Spring Break. I reassured him that he was welcome. There was a pause and he asked, "Can I bring my sweetheart Deanna with me?"
"Sure Jeff," I said. "We'd love to meet her."
While I hung up the phone, I started remembering all the times this particular son had totally embarrassed me. Like the time I asking him to pick out a box of cereal at the store, then turned around to see him doing his stammering Elmer Fudd imitation to the delight of fellow shoppers. Or the time I was speaking from the pulpit at church and saw him sitting in the pew wearing glasses with bloodshot eyeballs springing from the lenses, swaying back in forth. His pranks were never-ending.
"So," I said to myself, "this is my chance!" I decided to show up at the airport to meet him and his sweetheart in less than my conservative manner of dress. I donned a black leather mini skirt, patterned hose, and six-inch patent leather heels. I wore a gold sweater that sparkled and glowed in the dark, accented by earrings swaying from my ear lobes to my shoulders. I spiked my hair and moussed it orange.
When my husband came home that evening, he took one look at me and said, "What is this? The bachelor party I never had? You aren't going to go through with this, are you?"
I nodded. He drove me to the upper level of the airport and let me out of the car, refusing to walk with me to the gate.
It was a long walk through the airport. I found myself looking down a lot. I found out what men think of women dressed like I was. I found out what women think of women dressed like that. But when Jeffrey got off the airplane, ohhhhhhhhhh it was all worth it! I ran arms outstretched toward him.
I squealed, stretching out his name as if he was a long, lost relative. "Jeffrey!" He looked away as soon as he saw me, the color quickly fading from his face. Deanna stood behind him, grinning - or was it grimacing.
"Aren't you going to introduce me?" I asked.
"No," he said abruptly. I looked at Deanna, smiled and reached forth my hand.
"Oh hi, Deanna, I'm Jeffrey's Mom."
She seemed not to know whether to laugh or cry. A snort of disbelief came from her as she covered her face to disguise her reaction. I looked back at Jeffrey, whose horrified expression looked as if he'd experienced his worst nightmare.
I smiled.
About now, his father showed up and as they walked together to baggage claim Jeff asked, "What in the world has gotten into Mom since I left for college?"
His Dad whispered, "A severe midlife crisis."
I chatted nonchalantly all the way home. Jeffery and Deanna clung to each other and barely spoke. When we got home, I jumped in the shower and washed the orange out of my hair. I entered the living room in slacks and a sweater, looking like the mom Jeff knew and remembered. A look of relief flooded his face and he burst out laughing. "You got me, Mom!"
We hugged and laughed and spent the next several hours giggling and reminiscing about the tricks Jeff had pulled on all of us.
The next trip home for Jeffrey and Deanna was in December after they were married. I went to the airport to pick them up. I arrived at the gate just as the doors opened and cheerful seasonal travelers filed off the plane. I noticed two large reindeer coming toward me in full fur and antlers, one with a blinking red nose.
I hugged Rudolph.
"You feel a little silly this time, Mom?"
"No," I laughed. "Don't you?"
Somehow we were even for all those times he had totally mortified me.
Or were we?

What Will I Be?
By Cheryl Kremer

After twenty years of working full-time, I found myself with an opportunity to quit my job and be a stay-at-home mom. As I faced this decision, I felt the stirrings of longing to be more of a mother than a career woman. My seven-year-old daughter and four-year-old son had grown up in the daycare system since they were both six-weeks old. At the time, I never felt any regret in handing my children over to them each morning. I had a great job that I loved and had worked my way up to being the Assistant to the Vice-President of Sales at an Internet company.
I decided to resign and begin my new job as a full-time mom, but it felt strange to lose this part of my identity. The first time I needed to fill out an application for online banking, I came to the line that asked my occupation. I stared at it, not wanting to write "N/A." Ultimately, I threw the application away, rather than label myself as a "non-worker." I continued to struggle with this feeling.
However, after a few months of waiting at the bus stop, volunteering in the classroom, and making good dinners, I began to get into the whole idea. My daughter was in school, but my son Cobi was with me all day. For the first time in his life, I was all his. We rollerbladed, took walks, played soccer and made crafts. He thrived on this alone time with me and I began to see what I had missed.
One day as we kicked the ball in the park, Cobi looked up at me and said, "Mommy, do you know what I want to be when I grow up?"
"A professional soccer player?" I asked.
"No," he smiled at me. "I want to be a stay-at-home mom."
My heart melted. I've never looked back since.

2006-05-22
Hearts Across the World
By Amsheva Miller

     Clattering along in the hot Indian sun, our train neared the southern city of Nagpur, India.  Beside me this Thanksgiving Day sat my husband and our two adopted Indian sons.  We were traveling to Nagpur to meet the small Indian girl we were adopting to complete our family.  Sadly, because the foreign adoption process takes a long time, we would not be able to take our daughter home to the United States right away.  But at least we could visit her for a few hours.
     Three years earlier, I had come to India from our home in Maryland and established a second residence in Hyderabad, near the orphanage where I was adopting my sons.  Now I was staying in Hyderabad again, and my husband was visiting briefly from Maryland, where his job supported our efforts to adopt this little girl.  The duration of my stay would be determined by the slow-moving Indian adoption court, a system over which we had no control.  But at least for a few hours on this hot day, we could be a family.
     Shortly after lunch, a bicycle rickshaw carried us the last miles to the overcrowded orphanage where we were greeted by a hundred eager faces, each hoping to belong to us.  The sight was heartbreaking.  And yet the people in charge seemed genuinely to care for the children, and the conditions, though humble, were orderly.
     We waited, fidgeting in our seats, until a small, delicate girl was escorted into the room.  Immediately, I recognized the child my heart had been praying for daily for almost a year.  Ghita, our daughter!  We hugged and kissed her in our joy, creating in that moment a bond that would last a lifetime.
     Ghita could not speak a word of English, but it didn't matter.  She was our daughter, and at last our family would be complete.  We shared some ice cream and looked at picture books, then parted with tear-stained smiles, knowing that in a month we could be together for good.
     My husband returned to his job in the States, and I
settled in with my sons in Hyderabad, almost 300 miles from the Nagpur orphanage, anxiously awaiting notification that Ghita's papers were processed.  I often lay awake at night, imagining myself holding her in my arms and protecting her from harm in the crowded orphanage.  She was so delicate, so trusting.
     Finally the news arrived that I could proceed to Nagpur immediately to take custody of my daughter.  Wasting no time, I arranged to travel by air, so that I would not have to leave my boys overnight.  Then it happened - the Hindu temple at Ayodhya in the north was bombed by Muslims.  Although we were thousands of miles away, Hyderabad was a heavily Muslim city.  All flights were canceled for fear of terrorism, and the entire city was placed under curfew.
     Undaunted, I decided to travel to Nagpur by train instead, making arrangements for my sons to stay with friends.  But our hired driver, himself a devout Muslim, advised against it.  "Madam, you would not come home alive!"  He explained that an American woman traveling alone would be a prime target for random violence.  My close Hindu friends gave me the same advice and urged me to abandon my plans.
     Then I hit on the idea of driving to Nagpur.  After all, I reasoned, my driver was Muslim and I knew I could trust him.  He had even helped us secure food during curfew, allowing the children and me to stay safely at home.  But again he discouraged me.  "Madam," he said, "I am only one man.  What can I do against a gang of robbers?  Be safe - remain at home!"  I had to remember my responsibility to the children I already had, so I sadly surrendered to the reality that there was nothing to do but wait.
     As the days turned into weeks and weeks into months, I prayed daily for my little daughter in the orphanage.  What did she think?  Did she even know why I hadn't come?  My sons grew more agitated and harder to handle.  I desperately needed support, but my husband and friends were 10,000 miles away.  As the challenges I faced grew more severe, I realized that I alone had to meet them, through my own inner strength.  Keep cool.  Try to act normal.  God, please give me the strength I need to get through this.
     Gradually the tension between the Hindus and Muslims dissolved, curfew was lifted, and life in the city normalized.  It was now March, four months since that sunny Thanksgiving Day when we met Ghita.  My husband came to visit again, and I felt I had passed an enormous test.  I could take a deep breath now and feel some lightness in my heart - and there in my heart was Ghita.
     Then the miracle - the news that flights to Nagpur had resumed!  We acted like lightning and within a few hours were holding tickets for the next day's flight.
     The bicycle rickshaw to the orphanage seemed to move in slow motion.  I could hardly contain myself.  Then, finally, the moment we had waited for arrived.  Out of the crowd of eager faces, I saw only one - one shining little face that stepped forward and said, "Mommy!"  It was her first English word, spoken with eyes as big as the universe and enough love to last a lifetime.