2023 Column
Ode to John Jakes: For the love of Charleston
December 2023 - Moultrie News
I will never forget that fateful night back in 1985 when a seed for my future was planted. My parents had just left me alone in our rural New England house to go to one of my father’s work events. I never liked to be alone in our secluded house that was surrounded by woods. So I distracted myself by sitting on the couch, petting my dog, and flipping through the channels—trying my best to ignore the ax murder that was probably lurking somewhere outside. And then I stopped flipping, instantly transfixed by the beauty that came from the TV screen. I had just turned on the premier of North and South, the made-for-TV miniseries written by John Jakes. For the next two hours I was completely transported to another time, to another era in the most beautiful city I had ever seen. When my parents breezed in later that evening, I hardly noticed. For I had just discovered Charleston, South Carolina and knew I had to go there someday. A few years later, when I began applying for colleges, I learned about the College of Charleston. My parents told me to arrange an interview, book a plane ticket and find myself a “reasonable hotel,” a Holiday Inn they suggested. So I called the 1-800 number and booked the closest Holiday Inn property, just a mile or so from the College. When the taxi pulled up to Mills House Hotel on the corner of Meeting and Queen, I couldn't believe my eyes. If this was Charleston’s version of the Holiday Inn then I was sold! With time to kill before the college interview, my best friend and I asked the concierge where we should go. I will never forget her words: “Just turn right and keep walking,” she said. So we did, down Meeting Street, crossing Broad Street, and heading toward the Battery. We passed by cobblestone streets, beautiful homes lit with gas lanterns, and flowers and shrubs that bloomed behind walled gardens or overflowed from flowerboxes. It was October, with a high maybe in the mid-seventies and there was hardly any traffic. The genteel, nostalgic energy of the city wrapped around me like a cloak I would never want to shed. And during my first semester of college, when I discovered the Cathedral on Broad Street, I knew without a doubt that I had found my new home. Thirteen years later, when I met my husband, he asked what brought me to Charleston. “Have you ever heard of North and South?” I asked sheepishly. He had. He even had seen some of it being filmed on his lunch breaks. Which brings me back to John Jakes. I recently learned that John Jakes passed away earlier this year on March 11th at the age of 90. Through his writing John Jakes taught me so much. The way he crafted stories and characters, the way he used tension, and the way he did so much careful research on his subjects was nothing short of brilliant. I never met him, but once as a surprise, my husband sent him a book and asked him to sign it for me. He told John Jakes I was his biggest fan. But John Jakes never knew the extent of it. So at this time of year, as we remember and honor those who have passed away in the prior twelve months, I remember with gratitude the author who introduced me to Charleston, South Carolina. Because from the very first day I stepped outside of its sleepy airport, this beautiful city had my heart. Stories have the power to change lives and I will always be grateful for how God used John Jakes to change mine.
Not all angels have wings: Memories of Elizabeth
December 2023 - Moultrie News
“That is such a funny little ornament,” my husband says almost every year when I take out the angel with the wild hair. I always try to put her in a prominent place on the tree because she reminds me of an angel I once taught at school. As any teacher knows we all have had students we will always remember. Elizabeth was that kind of student for me. And I will never forget a certain incident that happened when she was in my care. Elizabeth was probably about ten years old when I met her. She had been in a wheelchair since she was a child because she had been born with Duchenne’s Muscular Dystrophy. But she was one of the most positive people I knew and was always in good spirits. As she grew older, she loved being on the cheerleading team, being out in the sunshine at recess, and of course—just like all my other students—she loved when we went to the animal shelter. I taught a life skills class each semester and every week a small group of kids would pile in my car and we would go to the shelter to walk the dogs and play with the cats. When Elizabeth was in my class her mother would leave me her van (which could accommodate her wheelchair) and she would take my Honda Accord for the day. One particular afternoon we happily set off in the van. It was me, Elizabeth, and a handful of other children—mainly boys. All was going well until we parked. I let the ramp down and somehow when Elizabeth’s wheelchair made it to the bottom of the ramp, it crashed into the car parked next to us. She wasn’t hurt, but unfortunately the car was. I can’t remember if it was a scratch or a dent, but it was noticeable. The boys scrambled out of the van and screeched, “OHHHHH, Elizabeth, you’re going to be in bigggggg trouble!!! Look what you’ve done!!!” I tried to assess the damage while telling the boys to calm down. At the same time I tried to console Elizabeth who had put her head down and began crying. The next step was going inside the shelter and finding out whose car this was. It was mid-afternoon on a weekday and not crowded so it was easy to locate the owner of the car. Soon we met the young man and told him what had happened. He came outside with me expectantly as the boys trailed behind him. Poor Elizabeth was so upset. But I will never forget this young man and the sweet and tender look that came across his face when he saw Elizabeth. He knelt down so he was on her level and smiled. “Oh Sweetie, it’s nothing to worry about. Please don’t be upset. I care more that you are okay than about the car.” I honestly don’t even think he looked at the car. He was more concerned about making Elizabeth feel comfortable. And right then I realized that there are so many wonderful people in the world—truly angels all around us. He cared more about her well-being than his car. He just didn’t want her to be upset. That man never got our information, and never even gave us his name and number, he simply left and went about his day. And we went about ours, playing with the cats and walking the dogs. I hadn’t thought about that incident until I ran into Elizabeth while out shopping about eight years ago. Though I could tell she was struggling, she looked beautiful and excitedly told me that her 30th birthday was coming up. We enjoyed reminiscing about all the fun times we had at school. “Remember when we used to go to the animal shelter?” I asked her. Of course she did. Positive energy radiated from her heart, as it always had. Elizabeth passed away one month after her 30th birthday. But I will never forget her—nor the man at the animal shelter who so kindly ignored the damage to his car. Both he and Elizabeth chose their attitudes about the circumstances in their lives, and that made all the difference in the world. So this year when my husband asks me about the funny little angel ornament, I will remind him that it was once given to me as a Christmas gift by a beautiful young girl named Elizabeth. And as it hangs from the tree it will always remind me that there are truly angels all around us.
'Soul Kitty' living on borrowed time
December 2023 - Moultrie News
Fifteen minutes. I would know my 19-year-old cat’s fate in fifteen minutes, once the results of her blood work came back. She wasn’t eating and had barely drank any water in the past 24 hours. There also was what looked to be blood pooling in the inside bottom part of her eye. If the news wasn’t good, a very tough discussion might have to happen that same day. But if her kidney numbers were stable and hadn’t changed much since her yearly exam four months ago, we could wait it out. The whole episode took me by surprise, because just a few days prior Sweets had been eating and playing as normal—walking around with a big yellow tube sock in her mouth and letting everyone know she had just made a kill. Those big yellow kills—made multiple times per day—were always announced with great fanfare. Then they would wind up either on our pillows or at the front door when we left home. She was always letting us know just how much we were loved. So I was praying like crazy as I sat waiting in the car. (One of the rules during COVID times; we couldn’t go inside with our pets.) I prayed the results would be clear. That the vet would know just the right thing to do. And probably the hardest part—I prayed for God’s will to be done. That the outcome would be what was best for everyone involved—most importantly, for Sweets. I didn’t want her to be in pain if she had no chance of recovering. Earlier in the day, I had asked God to feel his presence. I also asked for wisdom, guidance, and encouragement. I hadn’t received anything yet, and I felt like I needed it now more than ever. Then I looked down to a piece of paper I was holding in my hand. I had torn it out of a notebook I kept in the center console of my car. On it I had written down some questions for the vet. That’s when I noticed a quote at the bottom of the page. It was a famous quote from St. Teresa of Avila. It said this: Let nothing trouble you. Let nothing frighten you. All things pass away. God never changes. Patience obtains all things. Nothing is wanting to he who possess God. God alone suffices. For the past few years, I had been asking God to prepare my heart for the eventual passing of Sweets. Though I’ve had a handful of pets in my life, Sweets could only be described as a soul kitty. Her brother and littermate often gave me many “love” bites, but Sweets teeth had never once touched my skin. She loved to be rocked on a rocking chair, or sitting on my lap when I was writing. She insisted on sleeping pressed up against me every night. I completely dreaded the day I had to say goodbye to her. I looked down and reread the passage over and over. Everything passes away. I let those words sink in, bracing myself for the worst. Shortly thereafter the vet came outside carrying Sweets in her little cat carrier. She had good news: the blood work numbers had barely changed from four months ago. On this day I could bring Sweets home, with a new regime of giving her a tiny blood pressure pill going forward. She was by no means out of the woods yet—I still had to see if she would begin eating again. But at least she was being offered a fighting chance. That evening Sweets ate. She actually licked her plate clean! It seemed as though her new blood pressure medicine was already working. And that evening as we cuddled together, I heard purring again, which for the past 24 hours had completely stopped. Eventually her eye cleared up, too. She even resumed playing with her big yellow tube sock. As I went to bed that night with Sweets by my side, I thought of how I had been praying about my heart being prepared. That day had been like a test run for the inevitable. I think that is probably the hardest part of having a pet, the fact that we might outlive them and have to say goodbye. However, on this particular night, all was well. I had been given a gift. A little bit more time with my precious Sweets.
Tending to those in our midst
November 2023 - Moultrie News
I encountered Jesus this week. He came to me through a friend who rang my doorbell at just the right time. She knew my husband and I had been under the weather and came bearing a pot of home-made lentil soup. “But I’m sick!” I said when she leaned in for a hug. “But that’s when you need a hug the most!” she replied. I asked her if she had time to visit and she said yes. We sat in my backyard and spent a few minutes together. It was so nice to have some company, especially since I had been stuck inside. I told her about some things that had been going on in my life and she leant a listening ear. She reminded me of God’s tender love, that He knew all I was going through and that He would never leave or forsake me. Before she left, she prayed that not only would God heal me completely, but more importantly, I would feel His presence at this time. I ate my friend’s soup over the next few days. It was chock full of garlic, ginger, turmeric, vegetables and lentils. And not only was it the perfect get-well food, the fact that it was made with love only made it that much more healing and nourishing. The very next day, this was a quote from one of the daily Bible readings: Do not hesitate to visit the sick, because for such things you will be loved (Sirach 7:35). My friend had lived out this bible passage beautifully. The funny thing was she said she felt guilty that she did not bring the soup sooner! She was being hard on herself when really, her soup came at just the right time. What if she decided that too much time had passed and decided not to bring it at all? That would have been a missed opportunity. I can see in my own desire to do good for others that I have had plenty of those missed opportunities. Sometimes wanting to do something just right, gets in the way of doing something “good.” I will never forget how when I was a new mom so many people brought hot meals to the house. I even remember what some of them were—one even included a homemade apple pie for dessert! Now I try to always bring meals to new moms. But there have been times when life was busy and I didn’t have time to cook something. So I put it off. Then so much time would pass that I wondered if it was pointless to still bring something. But is it ever trivial when we have the opportunity to show someone our love and care? But it is in those exact moments that I need to remember the time my husband and I had just returned from church with a fussy new baby. We came home exhausted and hungry and saw that a neighbor had dropped off a roasted chicken from the supermarket on our porch with three containers of sides—mac and cheese, green beans, and banana pudding. We tore into that meal, all the while marveling how God knew exactly what we needed, exactly when we needed it. It was such a beautiful, concrete example of God’s goodness and provision. A deacon at my church recently told a story. He is part of a prison ministry that visits the imprisoned. He was sharing how he had passed out cookies to some of the men who were behind bars and how so many humbly took the cookies and thanked him. He said he saw Jesus in their faces. Visiting those in prison is such a unique and beautiful ministry. For a few moments that day the prisoners experienced God’s love—through something as simple as a cookie—handed out by someone who cared. So whether we are on the giving or receiving end of such kind acts, let it be a reminder that we are called to be the hands and feet of Jesus—ministering to those who God has put in our paths. And whatever we do doesn’t need to be perfect—it only needs to be done with love. Because like St Theresa of Calcutta says, “Not all of us can do great things. But we can do small things with great love.”
A mother's adjustment to new chapters of family life
November 2023 - Moultrie News
I hit a setback on my empty nest journey—fall break. Who knew it would have been so sad to see my son leave again? Now I am getting a little anxious about Thanksgiving—and come to think of it—every hello/goodbye after that, God willing. This wave of grief surprised me because in September we visited him at college, and I did not leave in tears. So why was him coming home so hard? I actually didn’t even think I’d be seeing him again until Thanksgiving. So I was pleasantly surprised when he called a week prior and asked me to book some appointments. He needed a teeth cleaning and to have his retainer repaired. It felt good to do this—like I was needed again. And I was excited as I went food shopping and bought all of his favorite snacks. But then I began to feel anxiety. Because it hit me that I had been doing pretty well the past couple of months. The time has actually flown by as it always does between September and Christmas. But all of the sudden I sensed that the scab that had been forming over my heart was about to be ripped off, before it had a chance to heal properly. But looking at the tears my mom still sheds when we part after our long-distance visits, I am left wondering: will my heart ever return to normal? A wide range of emotions hit me the four days he was home. The first was sheer happiness and gratitude that he arrived safely and we could sit down and enjoy a meal together. The next morning it was anxiety, as he left to go surfing practically before the sun had risen. “Watch out for the coyotes on the beach path,” I said, practically chasing him out the door with a banana. “Coyotes, Mom? Seriously, Coyotes?!” But those weren’t the only emotions I experienced. There was also relief—like on the nights he went out with his friends and my husband and I finally had the couch and T.V. back to ourselves. Or annoyance, because the house was not as tidy as it had been. But the hardest day for me was definitely the last day. Why? Because it felt so normal. I was sitting in the orthodontist waiting room again, and we were riding in the car together. We even shopped for some pants he needed. Past memories and routines made it feel just like old times, almost like he had never left. But then the afternoon came and it was time for him to be getting back on the road. The hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach began to form. This time he would be driving away as we said goodbye, not me driving away from him. Another first, just like it would be as I went back inside the house alone. And when I did, with tears streaming down my face, it felt so quiet. All the energy had completely evaporated. And I didn’t want to go in his room and begin stripping the bed, but I knew eventually I would have to do the inevitable. “Was it hard for you?” I later asked my husband. “Not as much,” he said. He was so busy at work he didn’t even have time to think about it. But I was a processor and needed to digest all that had happened, all that was happening. My child was no longer at home. So I went for a walk. I thanked God for the good times and then let the tears flow. All the stages of his 18 years were passing before me and I let them, knowing if I stuffed them down and ignored them, they would only fester in some other way. The quicker I felt my emotions, the quicker the grief would pass, and the quicker I’d go back to normal. My new normal. And then I remembered something my husband had said when my son was born—and had to be rushed down to MUSC at just two days old when he spiked a fever. “He’s not ours,” my husband had said, “He’s God’s. We’re only his custodians while he’s in our care.” Those words comforted me then, when I was so distraught, and they comforted me again now. So each time my son visits and then leaves again, I will remember that life keeps marching on and how the sadness does eventually subside after a couple of days. As long as I keep turning him over to God—again, and again, and again—and trusting in the one who loves him infinitely more than I ever could.
We are the precious children of God
November 2023 - Moultrie News
Recently I was flipping through the channels and came across a reality T.V. show. I was immediately sucked into the scenery and the drama. The show also reminded me of when I was young and single. Both the good times and bad. In one particular scene, a beautiful young woman was talking to a friend. During the conversation, she was saying that after a painful breakup she had been contemplating a relationship with someone else, even though she wasn’t ready. Through tears she began saying something along the lines of how she had been leaning on another person, instead of leaning on God. Wow, I thought. How wise and insightful. This young woman, probably one of the youngest on the show, was making such a powerful statement. It reminded me of the saying from St. Augustine of Hippo: Our hearts are restless until they rest in Him. But how often do we try to fill that restlessness with other things—alcohol, food, sex, shopping, our phones. Especially our phones. It seems as though every free minute is filled with them. When I was in my twenties, I fell in love with a man while living in another country. His Australian accent had me from day one. I will never forget walking outside of a Sydney bar and asking one of my friends what she thought of this new guy I was dating. Her answer: “He seems very…charismatic.” And though I don’t remember the exact words that followed, they were something along the lines of, “But you are worthy of any guy. Don’t fall for the first one that sweeps you off your feet.” But back then, did I truly feel worthy? For I hadn’t yet internalized that I was enough just because I was in existence, because I was a child of God. I had been too busy intuiting the importance of looks, the ways of seduction. Years of Cosmopolitan, Mademoiselle, and Glamour magazines had molded me with their words, with their pictures. Truth be told, I wasn’t even ready to be in a serious relationship. I was simply passing through, unsettled and unsure of what I wanted to do with my life. I was latching onto his identity instead of figuring out my own. Plus, my relationship with God needed to be strengthened. For though His still small voice was always present, it was dulled and drowned out by the world’s voices, or even my own negative thoughts. But in many ways that Australian man was a gift. For he held a mirror up to my face—reflecting to me the good, the bad and the ugly. Things in myself that desperately needed changing. Because in many ways I was looking for the relationship to fulfill needs only God could fulfill: that I was worthy, that I was esteemed, that I was valued. That I was “enough.” Isaiah 43 begins with a beautiful verse. “Do not fear for I have redeemed you. I have called you by name, you are mine…” It goes on to say, “Because you are precious in my eyes and honored, and I love you.” How I wished that I had written that down and placed it in a prominent place or committed it to memory. Wrote it on a sticky note and slapped it on a mirror. I have heard before that the mind is most impressionable right before you fall asleep or when you wake up in the morning. What perfect times to read encouraging words—and tell them to our children—that lift us up and remind us of the tender love of God. So to the girl on the reality TV show… your sensitivity, your insight, your heart—they are beautiful. Be encouraged that one day you will heal, and you will take all those gifts you learned from that person who you loved and you will grow and be better for it. And most importantly, never forget just how worthy you are, simply because you are a beloved child of God. You are precious in His eyes.
'Young lass' in the old country
October 2023 - Moultrie News
When I was in 10th grade my parents decided they needed a vacation. The year prior I had become sick with a mysterious illness. I had been, quite literally, walking around with a body part that had decided to go rogue. My dad had told me to stand up straight. I couldn’t. We had been visiting my sister in Boston. I thought it must have been the baked beans. Once all the dust had settled, the trip was planned. The only problem was we would be overseas for almost three weeks—during the school year. Right before the big Homecoming dance. Now the chances of me getting a date would be very, very slim. So I piled on all the reasons why I thought going away wasn’t a good idea. But the trip to the motherland was already in motion. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. We were going to Italy. Once there, as we rolled through the many beautiful towns and cities, I tried to remain grateful, but truth be told, I was often wondering what I was missing back home. Did all my friends already have Homecoming dates? Were they buying their dresses? Did they even remember me—the person who had currently been nicknamed the “young lass” on a bus tour filled with mostly senior citizens? “How are you this morning, YOUNG LASS?” This was how I was always cheerfully greeted as I staggered bleary eyed on the tour bus every morning. Yea, um actually not that great since my watch says it’s still 2.a.m. My entertainment on those bus rides was probably a couple of mixed tape cassettes. Madonna, Sting and Van Halen would be playing on a loop. No cell phones or social media to keep me in the other kind of loop that I desperately wanted to be in. But I had a mission in Italy. I would light a candle in every church we visited and pray for the same thing: that the boy I liked would ask me to the Homecoming dance. Oh, I’m sure I prayed for other things too; but this was my main concern. Who cared that when I returned there would only be one week until the big event? There was still hope. Always hope, and plenty of candles glowing around Italy for my special intention. Back then I had the bold, child-like faith that my prayers would be heard and answered. For isn’t that what I had been taught? As I listen to the prayers of the young now, I am always struck by how simple and straightforward they are: to do well on a test, for their team to win the big game, or for their pets. Always for their pets. I think the ears of God are especially in tune to the prayers of the young. But somewhere along the lines we tend to lose that expectant faith that the young seem to innately possess. Maybe it’s because we become beat down from all the suffering in the world. Hearing about all those experiencing the horrors of war, or learning that yet another person we know has cancer or some other terrible illness. Lack of hope can leave us wondering: do my prayers really make any difference? At times like this I have to remember not to give up, but rather double down on my efforts, digging deep to regain that child-like trust that God will hear and answer my prayers—in his way, in his time. So after riding on a gondola through Venice, climbing up the stairs of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and watching the elders enjoy wine in Tuscany, (Isn’t this just great, YOUNG LASS?!) we finally got on that Alitalia flight and made back to the States. As we drove up the driveway, I saw that my friends—the same ones that just the year prior had given me joyrides in the hospital wheelchair—had now decorated the front door of my house to welcome me home. And while I had been in Italy, they had been talking to the boy they knew I liked. And it just so happened that he asked me the Homecoming dance. Who cares that he was a freshman and I was a sophomore! He was gorgeous! The dress I picked out, not so much. There were slim pickings left over at the mall. But in the few pictures from that night my date looks stellar and I look happy. My parents, I think they were just relieved. Relieved that God had answered my prayers, just as he had answered theirs the year before. Because that illness I had? Well at that time we were all none the wiser that I had been suffering from a ruptured appendix. But at least it hadn’t been the baked beans.
Goal-setting and growing older
October 2023 - Moultrie News
My 50th birthday fell during Covid. My mom, dad, husband, son and I celebrated by simply eating a meal around the kitchen table. It was almost identical to my 40th birthday celebration. That year I had given everyone a piece of paper and a pen and asked them to write down their goals, to be opened and read the following decade, God willing. Ten years later I took out the pieces of paper and passed them out. There was one leftover. Someone was missing this year. I would read that one later, by myself. Since my dad was the oldest, I had him go first. “On this day I am currently 69 years old,” he began. “In ten years I want to be…,” he squinted, trying to read what he had written ten years prior… “playing for the LA Lakers.” “Dad!” I said, “this was supposed to be serious!” I snatched the paper from his hand to see if he had written anything else. Underneath it said: I hope to be alive, in good health, and watching my grandson play sports. As the evening went on and we began to write goals for the next ten years, I questioned my parents further. Did they have any more goals yet to reach, any big dreams they still hadn’t accomplished? My mom, a few months shy of 80, said. “At this age, we just take each day as it comes, dear. Our goal is to simply make it through each day.” Hmmm. Recently I heard a saying. It goes like this: The forties are the old age of youth. The fifties are the youth of old age. “What does that make the eighties?” my dad asked when I told him the saying. Blessed. That’s what makes the 80’s, I thought. I was so grateful my parents were still alive. My husband always reminds me how lucky I am. As the evening continued, I asked my dad what he looks forward to in his daily life. He told me one of his favorite things to do is to play golf with his high school buddy, Ronnie. He said that out of all his groomsmen, Ronnie was one of the only ones still alive. Almost all his friends have passed away. Even two of his brothers, one eight years younger, one eighteen years younger, have already died. “Every single day, I read the obituaries in the paper,” my dad said. “Sometimes, half the people are younger than me. I’m very fortunate. I thank God every day.” Where I am now—the early 50’s—is a time of transition. In one way I’m looking back and saying goodbye to things: friends and family that have passed, my youth, my fertility. But it is also about looking forward to where my parents are, and thinking about how I will spend the in-between-time, if God so wills. There are so many goals I still want to accomplish. There are still things from my thirty-year-old list that are—almost word for word—identical to the things written on my 40-year-old-list. I hope and pray I still have time to see these goals come to pass. When everyone left that evening. I pulled out the piece of paper that wasn’t read over dinner. It was that of my best friend in Charleston. The only non-family member at my 40th birthday celebration. She passed away, quite unexpectedly, six years ago. Six months after her 40th birthday. In her list she hoped to be married, with children, and in a beautiful home. She hoped that her parents would be alive and healthy, and that her nephews, the joys of her life, would one day be great role models. I brushed away the tears that fell from my eyes as I read her list. She truly had been an angel. I was happy to see she had reached some of those goals. God knew her list. And one of them, that of a home, well, he had been preparing for her the most beautiful home of all. So as I stand in this place, I will try not to look backwards too much, nor forwards too much. But rather strive to look towards God and be thankful. For it is he who holds my portion and my cup. If it is His will for me to accomplish those goals still on my list, then he will give me the grace and strength to do so. And though my dad may not be “a pitcher for the Red Sox” in the next ten years, maybe, just maybe, he will be “dancing at his grandson’s wedding.”
A guardian angel's guiding light
October 2023 - Moultrie News
One of the first things I noticed when I pulled up to Mepkin Abbey was the dog. She looked exactly like my childhood dog, a medium-sized mixed breed with golden brown hues. I soon learned Abbey had “appeared” on the property of this Monastery. When a dog catcher couldn’t trap her, the monks let her stay. I took an immediate liking to Abbey, along with most of the other visitors who, like me, had traveled to see the many handmade nativities of Mepkin Abbey’s annual Crèche Festival. Six months later, I decided to do a three-day retreat there. When I pulled into the parking lot, I was immediately comforted by seeing Abbey lying at the check-in center. On the first night I sat outside writing in my journal. Abbey must have sensed I needed a little companionship and lay beside me for at least an hour. As the other guests walked by, they smiled. I smiled back sheepishly. I guess she really likes me, I thought to myself. However, Abbey did not just have a fondness for me. This special dog went where she was needed and had an inner sense of where that was. The next morning Abbey lay by a woman sitting on a bench in front of a statue of Jesus. Abbey didn’t move until the woman finally did. Later that same morning I went inside the chapel to pray. When I came out about an hour later, guess who was lying right outside on the steps? Abbey! I reached into my purse and got my phone out, eager to take a picture of her. As I got closer, I saw her red hearted name tag. It read: Abbey ‘Guardian Angel.’ The next day as I wandered the beautifully manicured grounds I headed along the trail between two small ponds of water. As I walked along, out of nowhere, Abbey appeared at the top of the hill and dashed toward me. Her body language said: follow me. She got in front of me and began walking quickly. I noticed a baby alligator on the edge of the water and shortly thereafter heard a loud splash. Momma alligator was heading our way! But Abbey and I were already racing up the hill. Once we were out of harm’s way, we continued to walk together. But Abbey dropped me like a hot potato when we walked past an outdoor mausoleum where people were gathering for an internment. She ran over to place herself in the midst of the somber crowd and instantly their faces brightened. As I headed back to my room without Abbey, I sensed God speak to my heart. Abbey was Mepkin’s guardian angel; she was for everyone. She went where she was needed. But my guardian angel was solely and uniquely my own! I had never really thought too much about my own guardian angel, but I knew there were many references to guardian angels in the bible, and had even become familiar with the Guardian Angel prayer. And coincidently, on my one hour drive out to Mepkin Abbey that weekend, with thunderstorms threatening, I had specifically prayed to my guardian angel to protect my coming and going. Abbey has since passed away, but I was reminded of her again this past weekend when my husband and I were hiking in the upstate. A friendly dog appeared—what seemed like out of the blue—and walked by our side the entire mile and a half trail. This gave me comfort since once, a couple of years prior, my husband and I had encountered a black bear when hiking. After talking to the park ranger we learned that this brown dog, “Fudge,” was a stray who had been in the park for over a year and was well known to staff and campers alike. We also learned that Fudge did not want to be adopted, as much as people like us wanted to take him home. And just like Abbey, a dog catcher could not catch Fudge, either. I don’t think that either Fudge or Abbey “showing up” at their respective properties were coincidences. They were meant to be where they were—to give hope, comfort, and protection to others. A reminder of our own guardian angels who watch over our coming and our going, and making sure we never walk alone. Angel of God my guardian dear, To whom God’s love commits me here, Ever this day be at my side, To light and guard, rule and guide.
A healthy dose of encouragement
October 2023 - Moultrie News
She was traveling alone. I was spending the night at the hotel with my husband for our twentieth wedding anniversary. But our paths crossed and we talked easily together. She was a young woman, maybe in her mid-thirties. She shared with me that she had been to Charleston before, as well as a few other places in the Southeast. Even when her friends or family members couldn’t come along with her, she didn’t let that stop her from being adventurous and traveling solo. Later that evening, after my husband and I finished our celebratory dinner and were about to go inside and listen to some live music, I spotted Katie having dinner by herself. I asked my husband to go inside ahead of me. Something had prompted me to go over to her and say hello. Katie welcomed me with a huge smile on her face. I told her how much I admired her traveling alone and we started talking again. Then, just before I was about to go inside, I said, “Katie, do you need prayers for anything? I feel maybe God made our paths cross for a reason.” Immediately Katie’s eyes teared up. She told me yes, she did need prayers. She had been battling a serious health issue and even though she had seen many doctors, she was not getting any better. I told her I would pray for her and then paused, wondering if I should dare to ask her something else that had come to mind while we’d been talking. “Katie, do you hope to be married one day? Because if you do, I can pray for that, too.” I was not by any means implying that being married was better than being single. They were simply different vocations—each with their own unique set of both hardships and blessings. But I just couldn’t help but sense that Katie wanted to be married, and I always had a soft spot for women who wanted to be married or who struggled to have children. “Yes!” she said. “More than anything.” She told me she had a wonderful job, but what she always wanted—to be a wife and mother—just hadn’t happened yet. “I recently was engaged,” she continued, “but we broke it off last year, and I am not getting any younger.” And then I realized maybe that’s why we had met. Katie needed a little encouragement and I could give her some. “I was engaged once too, Katie. It didn’t work out, and thank God it didn’t because God had something better planned for me.” Katie was eager to hear how my husband and I met. I couldn’t help but think back to the time in my own life—during my thirties—when I too wanted to be married. I actually thought at one point that God wanted me to be a nun, just like my aunt was. But ever since I was a young girl God had planted a desire in my heart for marriage, just as he had planted a seed in my aunt’s heart about becoming a nun. When I was in the same spot Katie was, wondering if marriage was in my future, I would often ask God how I would meet him, if there even was a him. God never gave me a specific answer. He only asked me to trust him. In the end I ended up meeting my husband simply by going about my daily routine. “I met him at church,” I told Katie. “I used to always leave Mass quickly, right at the end, but one day an usher asked me to stay and hand out bulletins. When I later handed one to my future-husband, he simply said. “Ah, so they finally found a way to make you stay and not leave early.” I went on to tell Katie that things fell into place very quickly after that initial meeting. Years of prayers were followed by only a few months of courtship before we were engaged. The timing was right, and my heart was ready. I also shared with her that I knew several people who had naturally conceived healthy babies in their early and mid-forties. I don’t know if God’s plans for Katie’s future include marriage and children. But I hope I gave her just a little bit of encouragement. Just as God has placed certain people in my path, at just the right time, to give me some encouragement when I needed it the most, when I felt my fervent prayers would never be answered. So I will continue to pray for Katie, that God heals her health issues and that one day he will fulfill the desires of her heart. Just as he has graciously fulfilled mine, some twenty years ago.
Launching and letting go
September 2023 - Moultrie News
I am sure it is not a coincidence that I am undertaking a bathroom renovation as my son is leaving to go off to college for the first time. Since he is our only child, his departure feels abrupt—launching us straight into an empty nest. So in between packing for sheets, mattress pads, towels and flip flops, I’m also searching for toilets and tile. I needed a project and the bathroom was falling apart. I also needed something to look forward to. Because unlike when I was pregnant with him and he was two weeks late, this time I’m not sure if I am ready to have him leave. In many ways I am blessed in this season of my life. My son is excited to go to college. He makes friends easily, is organized with his schoolwork, and has a fair amount of common sense. I don’t even have to worry about him being far from home because he has decided to stay in state. So my go-to-cry-song—Half a World Away by R.E.M—doesn’t really apply. I can also see how God has been preparing us for his eventual departure all along. Half-days at preschool school gave way to full days. Saturdays filled with soccer, or scouts, eventually became filled with part time jobs. And then during his senior year I hardly ever saw him, even less so this summer. Work, his friends, and surfing kept him busy and away from home. So why is this so hard? I think what it boils down to is this: I will no longer be a mother with a school-aged child still at home. The period of my life that I have enjoyed so much, with all its ups and downs, the one that I have dreamed of since I was a girl, has come to an end. And that is why on this past Sunday, when the deacon at our church told the soon-to-be-college-students to keep their faith and come back to us safely, my son turned around, looked at me and said, “Why are you CRYING?! What is WRONG with you?” Because wasn’t it just yesterday I was pushing him on the swings at Saint Andrews pre-school, or craning my neck to see if he was playing on the Christ Our King field whenever I drove down Coleman Boulevard at lunchtime? Will he really not be at Lucy Beckham High School anymore, when I pass by there on my trips up and down Mathis Ferry Road? Does anyone ever think the time will actually come when their child leaves home? My parents recently sold the house I grew up in. Even though it has been over 30 years since I graduated from high school and left home, my mom said one of the best things about moving was not having to walk by my old room anymore. She said that she still, after all these years, would sometimes feel a ping in her heart when she passed by my empty room at the top of the stairs. I never understood that. Until now. My son’s room is also at the top of the stairs. Right across from the bathroom. Which brings me back to the bathroom renovation. There are many things about both my son and the old bathroom that I won’t miss. In the bathroom I won’t miss the mold, the broken vanity, or the perma-drip from the faucets. With my son, I won’t miss the arguing, seeing the amount of time he spends on his phone, or how he inhales entire sleeves of crackers or cookies at a time—and then stuffs the wrapping in between the couch cushions; (actually, I think that might be my husband). Soon my son will be off and shortly after the bathroom will be completely ripped apart—a pretty messy transition—six to eight weeks my contractor tells me. No such time line for when my heart is gutted. Though I do know I need to allow myself to feel all my feelings and to grieve and honor the magnitude of this life transition. I will also do my best to go easy on my husband who will be grieving in his own way, most likely with a giant Italian hoagie. But in the end, after all is said and done, there will be something new and transformed. Because John 12:24 says this: Amen, amen, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a grain of wheat; but if it dies, it produces much fruit. Seeds when planted appear to die, but it is only so they can become what they are meant to be. And isn’t that what launching our children into adulthood is all about? All our lives we have strived to plant seeds in our children—seeds of faith, hope and love. Yes, we have to let them go, give them roots and give them wings as the old saying goes. But we can still hold them close in prayer—praying that one day all those seeds that we have carefully planted and nurtured along the way, will one day bear fruit. So now the time has come for me to envision Jesus taking my son’s hand—the very same one that once eagerly grasped mine as we walked into that first day of preschool together —into his own. I can trust Jesus will be with him as he ventures off into new, unchartered territory. Just as he will be with me as I say goodbye to such a sweet and tender season in my life, one that I don’t really want to let go of just yet. And at the end of the day—or rather “six to eight-weeks”—I am sure there will be plenty of tears (mine), hoagies (my husband’s), and dust, plenty of dust. But at least I have Thanksgiving to look forward to…and hopefully, a new bathroom as well.