Sunrise...sunset in Corpus Christi

I've not been overwhelmed by the beauty of Corpus Christi...except in the sunrises and sunsets. Those have been quite lovely. My sister and I have both been disappointed in the weather and the surroundings otherwise. I don't know what we expected, but I think we at least expected sun, warmth, and birds. Except at the extremes of the day, we had no sun, it was warm only compared to what we left, and the only birds we saw were gulls and grackles or magpies (or something loud).

People I've mentioned this to are surprised that we aren't more enamored of the area. Our aunt and uncle come here often to go birding. One of our superintendents and her husband used to come here birding. A friend we met at the conference came here for vacation. Actually chose to come here! We don't get it. Perhaps we have too much New England in us.

I flew from Houston to Corpus Christi with the Mid-America Union Director of Education, a friend of several years. He lives in Nebraska and was commenting on the landscape we were flying into. He said it was quite similar to what he's used to...flat, flat, flat. I asked if he gets claustrophobic whenever he goes to a place like New England. He said not really, but when he goes home he realizes how open the space is where he lives, and it feels strangle freeing to be able to see for miles. I'm reminded how Pa in the Little House books needed to have space to breathe, how he needed to leave the Wisconsin woods for the wide open plains of Kansas and Missouri...

The meetings have been good. Today I learned some amazing things about the changing demographics of our country. It was most amazing to see things I'd thought laid out for me in graphs and charts and numbers regarding the impact of immigrants and generational shifts. Things I know in my gut, but now have research...facts...to back me up. All very interesting.

My sister and I spent yesterday evening and this afternoon exploring the area. We didn't find much, but did make our way to Padre Island yesterday and the USS Lexington today. We had more fun than we initially thought we would. We also went out to lunch today with a friend at the Olive Garden where they gave all the ladies carnations for Valentine's Day.

Meanwhile, snow in Massachusetts. And no school. wouldn't you know it.

A Wrong Righted

One of the more startling things that has happened to me in quite awhile came sometime this afternoon while I was waiting for the afternoon marketing session to begin. I was sitting next to my sister minding my own business when someone said in my ear "Can I ask you a question?" It was a former boss. His question: "Are we friends?"

We went on to have a conversation I never expected to have, and didn't really know entirely how to carry out. He wanted to know if we had parted as friends and said it had bothered him for years to think that we hadn't. The truth is I do not remember the details. I remember the hurt and discomfort, vaguely, but not the details. I don't really want to remember them and so I told him "what's past is past. I've moved on." And in reality, it ended up being a good thing for me to have moved on, even though it was painful at the time.

Moving on meant I had a year of working on my PhD at UNH under teachers whose work still impacts on my life. Moving on meant I had two years of traveling all over the world with the New England Youth Ensemble. Moving on meant I met people, formed relationships that changed my life for the better. People and events that never would have happened had I stayed. Important things, life-changing things...all because I moved on.

He asked my forgiveness. Told me I was the best English teacher he ever worked with. That was surprising (and secretly pleasing) news. I had no idea he felt that way. I hope my response was gracious enough to let him know I had forgiven him, too. It can't have been easy for him to have done that...I'm not sure I would have done it... It is a relief to me, thinking on it now. I hadn't realized what a heavy burden I've been carrying until I set it down this afternoon.

Pictures: Well, I've been trying to upload more pictures of Corpus Christi, but they won't post right now. I'll try later.

Corpus Christi

I've never been to Corpus Christi before, but now I find myself here for 5 days. It's a marketing conference, which may or may not be interesting, but will definitely be helpful to me in my work.

The cool thing is that there are lots of people here that I know. People I've worked with before here and there across the country. One, I even dated for awhile. He's the keynote speaker.

I was all set for some warmth and sun. So far it's been cloudy, rainy, and cool, although it's still some 40 degrees warmer than it was when I left home this morning.

My hotel room has a balcony that overlooks the harbor. The pictures are the view I have. The first two are from when I arrived in my room around 5 p.m. The second two were taken about about 8:30 p.m. after a long dinner at a Thai restaurant that had hot, pretty food. There were 10 of us at the table from all over the country. It was a lot of fun. Tomorrow should be more of the same.

Passion gets some Backup

Have you ever known something from your gut? I mean deep down believe in something so strongly that it’s part of your core being? That’s how I keenly feel about what I do. That’s how I passionate I am about my school and what we stand for. I’m sure it’s the same for my colleagues who work side by side with me every day.

Being passionate about what you do and who you’re doing it for is usually considered a good thing. It often means that your work is not just a job, but a huge part of your life. That kind of passion can be a good thing, but it usually isn’t very objective. And when it comes to judging the quality of the target of your passion, that kind of subjectivity is somewhat suspect to those who need entirely unbiased criteria by which to make such a judgment. Your passion, in essence, rules you out as a viable critic.

That’s why it’s a joyous day when you have facts to back up that gut feeling, that deep-down core-of-your-being passion. Such a day was mine earlier this week when I sat in a meeting and heard the preliminary results of the first year of testing in a massive three-year study of the cognitive abilities of the students in school system across the country. I wasn’t alone. There were a couple dozen educators with me who were privy to the report the directors of the new study our school system is doing is doing. So far, the news is outstanding. So far, the results indicate that our efforts not only hold their own but our students are performing even better than expected in all subject areas and on all grade levels.

What an empowering experience it was! How validating to know that our work stands up!

Blizzard of '78

Twenty-nine years ago today "the grand-daddy of them all" blizzard buried New England under more than two feet of snow. Thirty-three hours of straight snow. It was enough to paralyze the region for days. I was in college at the time. I remember when it started. It was beautiful. The air just filled with pretty snow flakes. I remember skipping across campus with my boyfriend, happy at the sight of a beautiful snow fall. Little did we know how that snow would develop. When it finally stopped and Main Street was plowed, the snow was so high on either side that houses could not be seen. I remember being able to step out of our second story window and fearlessly jumping into the snow not too far below us without fear of injury. Our dogs got lost in the snow, sinking out of sight as soon as they stepped outside. Snowmobiles were sent out to take doctors and nurses to hospitals because they couldn't get there by car. It was terrible, but in many ways very cool. And beautiful.

Today, barely a whisper of snow. We had some Friday night and a bit of it is still around because it's been too cold to melt. I'm missing it even more remembering the blizzard of '78.

Tarantelle

Some music just gets your heart racing. Mendelssohn's Symphony No. 4 "The Italian" last movement makes me want to all but yell (in a good way). It's based on the tarantelle, a traditional dance 6/8 or 4/4 time characterized by the rapid whirling of couples. I'm listening to it right now and my head nods wildly and impulsively, my feet beat their own tattoo and my fingers itch to fly over my clarinet...fingers that know this piece intimately...fingers that have played it in smoke-filled concert halls and marble-floored hotel lobbies...fingers that have slowed down in recent years from a reluctant but unavoidable musical idleness on my part thanks to the additional responsibilities in my life. As I listen, my mind is a whirl of memories as well. Shutting my eyes, I see myself on stage somewhere in China...Hangzhou maybe, or Xi'an, or...where doesn't really matter. I feel the adrenaline that comes with playing a piece like that, full of runs and twists, and you're the only one on your part, and you don't want to mess up...catching the eye of the violist who sounds like a huge rumbling bumble bee...trying not to lose your place in the midst of the sheer enjoyment of being surrounded by sound...such a sound...what a rush...

And now it's done...before I can write a good paragraph, the melody races off to be heard only in my inner ear, mostly likely for hours to come. Music like that stays with you...

To Be or Not to Be

I'm just finishing up a unit on Hamlet with my seniors (tomorrow, in fact). I've been teaching this play for some 20 years, although I change up what I do each year to keep it fresh for myself. Some things don't change, though. For example, I always have the "to be or not to be" discussion at some point during the unit. I'm always prepared for the discussion because it usually happens when I decide it's going to happen (dictated, of course, by when we arrive at that particular scene in the play).

What I'm never prepared for is when I have that discussion with a student...for real. Three times this week, I've found myself on the listening end of students who wanted to kill themselves. It's not a new experience. It's been happening since my first year of teaching. But it does not get easier with each time like some things do. It is always shocking, always frightening, always unspeakably sad.

It doesn't happen often in the small Christian schools I've worked in. But it has happened in each of them, and somehow, for some reason, the question seems to come my way, more often than not. This week, three different times I was helping kids wrestle with the age-old question. What was new about the first two times is that it was a six year old posing the question. What do you tell a six year old who says he wants to kill himself, who says "I don't want to be in my life"?

Faced with that question first thing Monday morning somehow shifted my whole focus, not only of the day, but of the week. I've not been able to shrug off the unbearable sadness of that little voice saying to me that his life was miserable and he wanted out. At the time, I just put my arm around him and told him that I loved him, and so did Jesus, something that I couldn't do with the 17 year old boy twice in my office today with the same question, "what's the point of living"?

I have no handy philosophical conclusion to this entry any more than I've had one all week long. Except this one thing that I know for sure. Kids need someone to listen to them. They need to know there are adults who respect them and care about their present and their future. I don't always have answers, but I do have time. Time to let a kid know they matter to me...and to God. I can't take away the pain and misery from their lives, but I can give them a moment's respit. For the six year old, it was enough for that day. For the 17 year old, it was a start. For me, it was a reminder of why I am where I am, doing what I do.

Useful Mess

I was watching CBS News Sunday Morning today and saw a great piece Bill Geist did on the benefits of mess. He cited a new book called A Perfect Mess and used the offices of CBS reporters and producers to support the book's theory that there is such a thing as "useful mess."

The Barnes and Noble editors say of the book: "At long last, a retort to the neatniks! A Perfect Mess can be read as a sound rejoinder to all those "cut-the-clutter" arguments, but it serves a far deeper purpose than settling family tiffs over closet space. Columbia University management professor Eric Abrahamson and writing partner David Freedman have constructed a book about the beneficial implications of disorder in nearly every aspect of our lives. Their lively, anecdote-rich narrative draws on examples from business, parenting, cooking, retail, and politics. A heterodox thesis; a groundbreaking book."

Now given the state of my three offices (at home, at school, and in the classroom I now share), you can imagine that the piece at least piqued my interest. The publisher says "A PERFECT MESS will help readers assess what the right amount of disorder is for a given system, and how to apply these ideas onto a large scale--government, society-- and on a small scale--in your attic, kitchen, or office. A PERFECT MESS will forever change the way we think about those unruly heaps of paper on our desks." And Bill Geist's humorous approach to the subject helped me gain some perspective on the stress I usually feel on Sundays to gain control of the things I've not had time to do during the week.

If you're single and you work in a job that is anything but 9 to 5 as I do, it's difficult to keep a handle on household chores, never mind the clutter that naturally accumulates with every day living. By the sounds of it, though, there is help...or hope...on the horizon for people such as me. I think I just may head out to find that book and see for myself. Meanwhile, Geist closed his piece with this: "If, as Albert Einstein said, 'A cluttered desk is the sign of a cluttered mind.' Of what, then, is the sign of an empty desk?"

Photos: Things I use to distract from the useful mess in my house: flowers, interesting dolls, bears, and funny cats. =)

Playa del Carmen, Peru, and some Pondering...

A few years ago, I went on a Mission Trip with our senior class to Playa del Carmen, Mexico, a city about 45 minutes south of Cancun. Originally the town was established as a temporary place for workers to live while they built all the luxury hotels along the gorgeous Cancun beaches. These workers lived in poverty while they built exquisite hotels and mansions for the wealthy to party in. As the years passed, the temporary worker village became permanent and the worker huts became home to thousands.

I and two others took about 20 seniors to this now full-blown city to work mostly in the barrios surrounding our hotels. Beautiful restaurants and hotels lined the even more beautiful beach, while blocks away people lived in treated cardboard and stick huts with no electricity, water, windows or bathrooms.

Some of our group worked in the Red Cross clinic, some in the dental clinic, some built cement block churches, and some (my group) visited in the homes, bringing clothes and trinkets for the families and children.

The living conditions were shocking to most of our group. None of us could imagine living in such situations. And yet over and over our kids were struck with how happy everyone seemed to them. At the time, I thought our students were being a little naive. After all, why would anyone be happy in such conditions. If they were, it was only because they didn't know anything better.

It was the same thing I thought when, five years later, I took another senior class to Peru for a mission trip. Again, we saw people living in the most extreme poverty. One day we took a boat ride out to the middle of Lake Titticaca to the Indian tribe that live on floating islands (yes, they float). Now truly, I think those were the poorest living conditions I've ever seen. And yet we were totally charmed by them, they were so different from anything else we'd ever seen. But again, there was no electricity, no running water, no plumbing, just straw (reeds) and lake water. And the people seemed happy. Not being fluent enough in the language of these Pereuvians or the Mexicans, I was unable to have enough conversation to discover their happiness on any level. We only had their surface joy at meeting and mingling with us.

Looking at their faces, they seemed happy. Comparing their living arrangements to what we know, it didn't seem possible that they were content. Faces were chapped and burned to cracking. No shoes. Raggedy clothes. But beautiful smiles, loving personalities (I was kissed so many times by children with the dirtiest faces!).

The answer, I suspect, lies somewhere between the two extremes. Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say, "It is well, it is well with my soul." Put another way, there is something to be said for finding a way to be content with your situation in life, especially if you cannot change it (providing it is not dangerous or harmful to your life and health). Both times, my young friends left those impoverished places with a new respect for their own lives, but also a healthy suspicion of the dangers of materialism. They questioned their need for things after seeing so many seemingly happy people who did without what we consider necessities.

That's not the reason we go to such places for mission projects, necessarily, but I do think it's an added bonus...to wind up appreciating your blessings but also realizing that there can be happiness with less...far less.

Read Any Good Books Lately?

That was the title of our sermon this week. When I saw it in the bulletin I had to smile, I just couldn't help myself. That's one of my favorite questions to ask...and to answer. I always have something to say to that, and am always interested to hear what others say.

The pastor chronicled his love affair with the written word as he told of evenings as a child, sitting around the fire, listening to mom read; of the excitement of getting his first library card when got older and of trips to the library to stock up on reading material for the week; of the joy of finding a good book at Good Will or a used book store. He talked of the floor-to-ceiling stacks of books in his study, of the need to read every night in bed before falling asleep. He talked of the wild rush of first hearing beautiful poetic works like William Cullen Bryant's Thanatopsis and of the appreciation he had for those who urged him to make their acquaintance. Do you remember, he asked, where you were when you first heard those words "So live, that when thy summons comes to move to that mysterious realm where each shall take his chamber in the silent halls of death, thou go not, like the quarry slave at night, scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed by an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave like one who wraps the drapery of his couch about him and lies down to pleasant dreams."? [I do. I first learned them in 11th grade. I've never forgotten them, nor had to relearn them. When I teach American Lit. I make my students learn them, too.]

All that I know and identify with. There is nothing like a good book, in my mind...unless it's talking to others about that same good book. I, too, have cherished memories of cuddling in front of the fire while listening to one or the other of my parents reading to us, or of the books my grandmother read to my cousin, my sisters and me on our annual summer visits to her home. A Spy in Williamsburg, Litling of Gaywood, the Little House books, Anne of Green Gables, and so many more. My introduction to the library was a Book Mobile that visited our neighborhood weekly before I was even in school. It would stop just outside our house and we'd run down to trade in last week's books for new ones. And then discovering Lois Lenski at the public library and taking boxes of books on vacation to while away the hours riding in the car.

I love going into a book store--used, independent, or (sorry) chain (Barnes and Noble, Borders, Waldenbooks, etc.)--and just walking by the tables and looking at titles, smiling to see the hundreds of books I've already read, greeting them as if they were long-lost friends (they are!). I love giving books to others, knowing they, too, will make new friends with my friends. I love teaching a good book and hearing my students say, sometimes grudgingly, that was a good book.

Of course my own home is crowded with books. Everywhere you look, there's a pile of books, or a wall of books. I love when my nieces or sisters come over and just stand in front of the book shelves looking for a "good book to read." Lately I've been sharing Elizabethan books with my oldest niece. She fell in love with the Renaissance period in our English Literature class together last year (I taught it). And my other niece loves the same mystery series on Egyptian archeology that I enjoy. As long as there are books, we will always have common ground.

There really is nothing like a good book! And yes, I've read many good books lately. How about you?

The Library Restaurant and Writers on a New England Stage

I took my mother out to dinner last night in a beautiful restaurant in Portsmouth, NH. She lives about 45 miles from there and I'm about an hour away, so it was a nice half-way meeting place. The real reason we were town was to attend a lecture by a favorite author of ours, Anita Diamant. But we thought we might as well make a full evening of it. Hence, the dinner prior to the "real" event.

In searching out places "within walking distance" (of which there were many), I saw "The Library Restaurant" and knew we had no choice but to go there. I was even more intrigued when I went to the website and read its history:

"The Rockingham House occupies the site of the home once owned by Judge Woodbury Langdon. When this mansion was built in 1785, it was one of the most handsome brick houses in New England. It was first opened to the public as a hotel on Nov. 1, 1833 by Thomas Coburn. Frank Jones became the owner of the Rockingham in 1870 and greatly enlarged it. In 1884, there was a disastrous fire which destroyed all but the octagonal dining room. Mr. Jones rebuilt the hotel around this room, sparing no expense. His payroll for the project was more than the entire Portsmouth Naval Shipyard. Much of the Rockingham's original elegance and grandeur has been well preserved, and it is still very much in evidence. The most significant historic event to take place at the Rockingham was the signing of the Russo-Japanese Treaty on August 8, 1905, for the press. Just a few of the noteworthy personages who have eaten or stayed at the Rockingham include presidents George Washington, Franklin Pierce, James K. Polk, Theodore Roosevelt, Chester Arthur, William Taft and John F. Kennedy." And now, my mother and me!!!

As we are vegetarians, and we really were there for the ambiance more than the food, we ordered several of the sides and a salad. Those and an incredible strawberry cheesecake more than satisfied us. Then, it was on to the Music Hall for the icing on the cake, as it were.

Anita Diamant--author of The Red Tent, Good Harbor, and The Last Days of Dogtown--was the speaker for the evening. As her work mostly appeals to women, the audience was largely women. Only a handful of men had the "courage," as she put it, to come. Speaking about her writing process, Anita held her audience captive, hanging on every word. She was witty, funny, charming, fascinating. When she finished her talk, the host of New Hampshire Public Radio interviewed her and presented questions from the audience. In all, it was a wonderful evening.

The Red Tent is the story of Dinah, daughter of Jacob and Leah, found in Genesis 35. The story is just a few verses long there, so Anita's work is more a product of her imagination than anything else. Still, it is a real as if Dinah had left a detailed diary behind for all to read. I could not put the book once I started it. And I did not want it to end. That, in my mind, is the sign of a good book!

Good Harbor is a contemporary work set on the North Shore of Massachusetts at a beach my family has often visited. I like reading books about places I know, so this book caught my attention for that reason first. Well, perhaps the author's name was the first reason. So, second. Anyway, this was another attention-capturing work exploring "the lives of modern women, considering the precarious balance of marriage and career, motherhood and friendship."

I've yet to read her most recent book, The Last Days of Dogtown, but I now can't wait to read the copy I purchased for my mother--after she finishes it, of course. It was this work that Anita mostly talked about. It is, according to her, "set in the early 1800s in rural Massachusetts. In it, I set out to imagine the lives of people who have been left out of history: the poor, widows and spinsters, orphans, New England Africans - both enslaved and free. Marginal and voiceless, these folks fascinate me because so little is known about them."

Anita Diamant lives not 15 miles from me. I've been reading her column in the Boston Globe for years. To hear her speak was not only interesting, but inspiring. I am hoping that inspiration will drive me to action to write something substantially more than the little pieces I do each week. Someday, I will just need to stop everything else and just do it!

Next up, Cokie Roberts. This time my dad will join my mother and me to hear yet another favorite writer of ours. This was our first experience with Writers on a New England Stage, but I am betting we'll be back for more than just these two now that we have enjoyed our first taste.

The Content of our Character

One of my favorite works of literature to teach is Martin Luther King, Jr.’s I Have a Dream speech. We usually hear all, or parts of, it at least once a year around this time—the time of his birthday. I’ve studied and taught this speech many, many times, and each time I do, I hear/learn something new and important. This year, I’m not teaching freshmen or American literature, which is where I teach the speech, and I missed it. So I thought I’d do my annual musing here this year instead. My favorite part is nestled in the several lines that begin with the phrase that gives the speech its familiar moniker: “I have a dream.” You know how it goes. King is talking about his vision for a dramatic change in the way we treat each other, the way we look for quality in our fellow human beings. He says that he has a dream that one day his four little children will be “judged by the content of their character rather than the color of their skin.”

The content of their character. Maybe because one of the things I try to do is teach character, but those words all but jump out at me. There are so many implications for us in that little phrase. First of all, it demands that we look beyond the surface when we look at each other. It says that superficial qualities are not what’s essential in a life. It implies that we need to be more like God, looking at the heart rather than at the outward appearance, the color of one’s skin. That much is obvious, I think. What may not be as obvious, but which is equally important, if not more so, is how imperative it is that there is something of quality inside to see if and when others get beyond the surface. In other words, Character Counts. The quality of our character counts. If we want people to see and know us for what we are inside, shouldn’t what’s inside be worth seeing and knowing? A rhetorical question, I think. The answer has to be “Yes.” But it’s not so academic or easy to actually accomplish. And yet, it’s something that we absolutely must accomplish if we want our lives to be the best of times instead of the worst of times. And we need to get it done right now.

In Chaim Potok’s book The Chosen, (another literary work I love to teach and share) Reuven’s father talks with his son about making his character count and the importance of doing it now. He says “Human beings do not live forever. We live less time than it takes to blink an eye, if we measure our lives against eternity. So—you may ask what value is there to a human life? There is so much pain in the world. What does it mean to have to suffer so much if our lives are nothing more than the blink of an eye? Actually, the blink of an eye in itself is nothing. But the eye that blinks, that is something. A span of life is nothing. But the person who lives that span—that person (you)—is something. You can fill that tiny span with meaning, so its quality is immeasurable though its quantity may be insignificant. Do you understand what I am saying? You must fill your life with meaning; meaning is not automatically given to life. It is hard work to fill one’s life with meaning.”

So. What kind of meaning do you think you are supposed to fill your life with? The Bible has a number of answers for us. You’ve probably heard them many times, in Sabbath School, in church, in worships, in sermons. Maybe even in some of the books you read. All of those answers take us back to Jesus, though, to putting Jesus first in our lives. In Matthew 10:24, 25, Jesus is in the midst of a conversation with his disciples. He’s been showing and telling them about the meaning of discipleship throughout the book of Matthew, and here, he brings us to the crux of the matter. “A disciple is not above his teacher, nor a servant above his master. It is enough for a disciple that he be like his teacher, and a servant like his master.” Jesus’ statement implies that His disciples need to be like Him. In essence, Jesus and Mr. Malther are saying the same thing, that as Christians, as disciples of Jesus, we must fill our lives with meaning, that we must make our characters count.

But it takes time and effort to fill our lives with meaning. And listening—LOTS of it. It takes doing things we may not think are enjoyable . . . but doing them anyway because it’s the right thing to do. It means realizing that we are responsible for our words and actions —that there are risks involved in being a part of humanity—and consequences too. It means being honest with others, but more importantly with ourselves. It means being vulnerable—to hurt, yes, but also to life—and to friendship and the wonderful strength that it can bring to our lives. “If you cannot do these things,” Mr. Malther tells his son, “your life has no depth, no value. Merely to live, merely to exist—what sense is there to that? A fly also lives.”

The apostle Paul has a lot to say about the meaning we should fill our lives with, about the content of our characters. In 1^st Corinthians 13 he suggests that we need to be patient and kind, that we should not be envious or conceited, that we should not be rude or easily provoked. He says we should think no evil, and should not rejoice when others are in trouble. In Galatians 5 he reminds us that if the Holy Spirit is directing our lives, we will be filled with love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. In Philippians, he tells us that we should fill our minds with whatever things are true, noble, just, pure, lovely, good, virtuous, and praiseworthy. And in Colossians 3, he tells us to demonstrate tender mercies, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience towards others. He says we should bear with one another, forgive one another, love one another and let the peace of God rule our hearts. He says to be thankful, to teach and encourage one another, and to sing with grace in our hearts.

So, there you have it. As you go through your busy days, I would like to suggest that you slow yourselves down a minute—long enough to examine the direction you are racing in. Look at your lives. Is there quality in you that you can be proud of? Is there meaning to your present—and direction to your future? See if there isn’t anything you can do to make yourselves the best you can be. With God’s love and protection, and the encouragement of friends and family, how can you help but find meaning in your life—and add quality to all who meet you?!

To close, I’d like to go back to a quote I shared a week or so ago—I have it posted next to my computer to remind myself each day of the only way I can fill my life with meaning so that others will judge me by the quality of my character rather than anything else they may notice about me. It comes from M. L. Haskins’ book The Desert and it says this: “I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year: ‘Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.’ And he replied: ‘Go out into the darkness and put your hand in the hand of God. That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way.’”

Uncle Tom's Needlework

My father's uncle was an artist...but not in the typical way I think of a man being an artist. I don't know of anything else he created aside from this one piece, but it's a masterpiece, at least in my mind. For as long as I can remember, the picture hung in my father's parent's home. When they had to leave their home in the Catskills Mountains and come live with my parents, the picture came with them and was hung over the fireplace in the room they shared there.

When first one, then the other passed away, my parents gave the picture to my sister who had it over her fireplace until three years ago when my parents moved from their home of nearly 30 years back to Maine. The picture now hangs over the sofa in their living room.

What's so interesting about the needlework is that it is a contracted view of two places very important to him: his home and the family church. I used to look at it and wonder what the real places looked like. Then a year and a half ago, I saw for myself. The home has the most incredible view I can imagine for a home...on the side of a mountain looking down on a lake. The church is one of those beautiful old family churches crammed full of history. Now, when I look at the needlework, I see so much more than amazing craftsmanship...