notesbynora

         It is strange to fathom. I can’t even comprehend the words, but I’ve been told I have a FULL DAY OFF. My memory does play tricks on me, but I don’t remember the last time someone told me I had a day off. What does one do with a full day off?

          My daughter Dory started a list immediately. She had 45 minutes before she needed to be transported to the studio. You can exercise, go to that coffee shop, get a pedicure, have lunch with your friend, then you can…but I stopped her.

          Most of our lives are spent doing exactly what we want to do. We like to protest to such statements but realistically we work because we want money. We clean and decorate because we want a nice home. We mingle with friends because we enjoy them or we want a higher social standard or we need reinforcement. We cart our children from here to there because we want to keep them busy, give them opportunities, keep them out of trouble, or help them make friends. But when do we do exactly what God has in store for us to do?

          I decided to go to my garden musician. Meditation is good for the soul and his music warrants such. Surprisingly, he wasn’t there – maybe he had the day off too. It was then that I noticed a missions home. Earlier in the week, I tripped on the sidewalk trying to walk like a New Yorker and a person who runs a missions home close by stopped to help me. So I went in.

          He recognized me immediately.

          “I have the day off if you need some help,” I offered.

          A homeless shelter/half-way house for people who live on the streets, it reminded me of a place I’d been in Guatemala. Children were scattered about. Several women sat against the wall on a long wooden bench.

          One of his volunteers had called in sick. “Perfect time to stop by,” he said with a wink, “We are taking the kids to the museum today. Will you join us?”

          So much for my day off … and yet I bet it will be divinely orchestrated and therefore perfect.

John 15:5 “I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in Me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from Me, you can do nothing.”

On my walk to the Joffrey Ballet Studio every morning at 9:15, I pass a garden, enclosed by a 7 to 8 foot black iron fence. It is triangular in shape and filled with exotic plants that make seeing inside all but impossible. The area has become a mysterious dwelling for me, and my curiosity runs rampant wondering who owns it. There is a tree, Japanese maple, which grows in the center of the garden and under the tree sits a man in a stadium chair, playing music. He doesn’t sing. He doesn’t collect money; for even if we wanted to throw money, it would be lost in the thick jungle-type vines that grow on the fencing. No, he plays for a different reason.

It is sad, whimsical at times; sometimes, it is rejuvenating and spirit filling. The acoustic guitar resonates above the sound of the moving cars and the bustling of people. It flows through the crowds, enveloping us, inviting us to stop and hear.

I stood and glared through a peep hole in the vines, wondering who could be playing such beautiful music and why? His hair is brown with a slight curl, his skin light but darkening from the sun. He wears shorts and flip-flops and a safari type hat… but the music is mesmerizing.

I sat on the pavement with my back to the fence, not wanting to leave but tired from standing. When 10:00am rolled around, he stopped in mid-song, disappearing into the building which serves as a blockade to anyone wanting to enter the sacred dwelling.

Not far from where I was sitting, a lady began gathering her belongings, “Who is he?” I asked.

She paused only for a moment before walking over to where I was. “I have no idea. I’ve been coming here every day to listen to him for the past two weeks. He plays every day. Even in the rain.”

“Even in the rain?”  

Maybe he plays to God or a long lost lover. Maybe he is in therapy to overcome anger issues. Maybe he is a famous musician hiding from the public. Maybe it is none of my business the reasoning behind what he does; maybe I’m just supposed to enjoy it.

As I started my walk home, I decided not to take the subway. I wanted to think about God and people. Why we do the things we do… I’m a believer that God took time to create every life-form on this planet. Each pedal is counted and placed strategically for our enjoyment and every color of rose chosen to glorify Him. The Bible tells us that He calls the names of the stars in the sky and knows the number of hairs on our heads. The spider’s legs are shaped perfectly so that it can climb and weave its web. The songs of the birds vary because the combined singing must bring harmony to His ears. This world, intelligently designed, is a beautiful place made for us to enjoy by the hand of God.

The familiar quote entered my mind, “Stop and smell the roses.” When I think how many sunsets I’ve missed, new leaves budding on the trees, mountains gleaming in the distance, or light shimmering across a lake.  The butterflies I’ve overlooked or the smiles from people I ignored. I wonder if we all should just stop what we are doing and lavish the beauty of nature.

My grandmother, Mama Dolly, used to say, “Stop and smell the roses and while you are at it, pull a few weeds!”

I think she had the best idea.

Joe’s Café is just around the corner from StarBucks in Greenwich Village; a nice “home-like” atmosphere with  tables outside to enjoy the morning light. After taking my laundry to the sweetest little lady down the street who cannot speak a lick of English but makes the clothes smell sunshine fresh, I decided to stop in and read. At 7:15am Joe’s is quiet, and there is one particular table that I like because I can see the street in either direction.

I’m researching the civil war for a ghost writing project I will embark in August. While I will be representing the Confederacy, I am currently engaged in a book about the Union. Important to know both sides, I reason.

She sat at the table next to me, joking that I had taken her favorite spot. “Well, if it’s your favorite, why not join me?” I responded…and she did.

We talked about New York; where we were from; why we were here. She said I didn’t sound southern. I told her I try not to.  After asking why, I responded, “Because most people think southerners are illiterate.”

“Well, you’re reading,” she replied, gesturing towards my book, “So I guess that speaks volumes for you.” We laughed.

We discussed whether Obama would have a second term and the economy in Greece. We laughed about pigeons and their thoughts of the city and reminisced about an old Disney Movie that had Doberman Pinchers in it who assisted a couple of bank robbers. What happened to that movie?

I told her about hearing the gospel singers in Time Square and how it rejuvenated my soul. She asked me about my faith; she shared hers. When she had finished her cup of coffee and some sort of Danish, she left a tip for the waiter, thanked me for our conversation, and left.

“How do you know her?” the waiter asked me as he cleared away her plate.

“Who?” I responded.

“Ellen. Ellen DeGeneres.”

The silence that followed answered his question. “You didn’t know you were having coffee with Ellen?”

“Maybe she was just a look-alike,” I murmured to his condescending eyes and shaking head as if he could not believe I could be so ignorant.

I’ve spent the last few hours wondering if indeed she was Ellen and  had I known, what would I have said? Probably that Finding Nemo was my all time favorite and Dory’s phrase, “Just keep swimming, has inspired me on many occassions.” I often use it as a mantra when I need encouragment. Autographs are just too intrusive, so I know I wouldn’t have requested it.

She didn’t say her name was Ellen but neither did I say my name was Nora.

…we simply shared a cup of coffee and maybe that was what we both needed at the time.

I love to be challenged, not in a competitive way, more in a personal way. Challenged by God to give more, to learn more, to see more, to listen more, to understand more, to hurt more…yes, to hurt more.

A friend of mine recently lost her husband in an automobile accident. I say recently although it has been 1 year and 8 months. She requested I clean out her husband’s desk. He kept it under lock and key. The key was attached to his car key chain. No one ever touched his desk.

His clothes had been donated to Good Will months ago; his many books to the local library; his ties to his best friend and golfing partner; but, the desk remained in a mysterious, somber, silent state in his office attached to the garage. She had placed the key in her jewelry box.

Her instructions to me, “If you find anything that could disparage his image in my eyes, will you destroy it?”

“I won’t find anything,” I whispered.

“If you do, give me your word. I cannot accept he wasn’t who I thought he was.”

“You have my word,” I stated confidently, “but I won’t find anything. He was as good as it gets.”

We all experience doubt – doubt in ourselves and in those we love. It is almost a defense mechanism to prepare us for hurt. Raw, open wounds are just too painful, and the inevitable scars that are sure to come from those wounds are the visible symbols of why we doubt.

She left her house not to return until I texted her “all is clear.” I must admit as I inserted the key and turned the lock, I silently prayed, “Please be who we believe you to be.” Sudden death gives a person little time to cover up messy tracks. Were you an adulterer? Maybe a gambler? Did you harbor a past of which she is not aware? A child from another relationship? Were you an international thief?

I tried to imagine why he would have this secret world locked in a drawer. Who does that? A rational person would have to conclude that there was something very bad in the drawer. What could be good?

As I pulled open the brass handled drawer, my eyes fell quickly on its contents – filled with cards and gifts- every anniversary covered – jewelry he had found in his travels with sweet notes attached. My favorite was a pair of sterling silver Hershey’s kisses earrings with the words written on a card, “I found these in Pennsylvania 3/11/07 and thought what a perfect gift for my lady on our 25^th.”

I laughed aloud and cried all at the same time. Of course! Always the planner, why wouldn’t he have such a secret drawer of treasures?

The night of Christ’s arrest and later crucifixion, His followers must have felt so defeated. Everything He’d promised defied – everything He was about held in the limp, lifeless body covered in blood and despair. He was their God, their savior, their deliverer. Even though He told them Sunday was coming, that word, that insecurity, that hurt filled their souls. Doubt must have consumed them. There was no rejoicing but complete resolve – their King was dead.

Ahhhh, but Sunday came.

Faith is challenged and learned only when our doubt wants to consume us but we do not allow it. There is no obstacle, no problem, no struggle, no pain that God cannot handle. It is our unwaivering belief that He is in control and will turn it for good that buries our doubts and builds hope in the possibilities ahead.

His arm is long enough, strong enough, comforting enough, gentle enough, and secure enough to rescue us  from any situation in which we find ourselves.

Believe…your Sunday is coming.

          There is something about New York that is different from any place I’ve ever been. It is a beat, a rhythm that resonates along the streets, questioning who you are – challenging you to fit in. There is a walk that distinguishes the New Yorker from the tourist, almost instantaneously. Even the dogs on their leashes strut in like fashion.

          It isn’t hard to master once the ebb and flow connects with your feet and the pavement. I felt it when the gait finally kicked in and a person stopped to ask me for directions. “Ahhhh,” I thought, “I’m walking like a New Yorker!” It was about the time I stepped in a pothole and fell. Although I didn’t hear the word “tourist,” I’m sure it was uttered by someone.

          When I was in my early teens, my best friend Laurie Vinson and I used to ride our bicycle-built-for-two all over Sea Island, Georgia. Laurie had shorter legs than I did, so I took the front and she took the back. The front was hard to steer, which forced me to concentrate so that I did not hit an acorn and have the two of us sailing over the handle bars. It wasn’t so much the injury that concerned us as the appearance of a bicycle accident. We were one acorn away from total humiliation, if the right person was looking. No, I kept my eyes on the pavement, scanning for possible wipe-out disasters. We rounded a curve on the sidewalk and found ourselves face-to-face with a six year old boy on training wheels. He swerved left, I swerved right. He made it in the clear; I hit an acorn and flew over the handle bars.

          There is always someone or something lurking in the shadows to throw off our “walk.” Always some unexpected pothole or acorn thrown at just the right time to make us feel derailed. It is usually at a time when we are trying our hardest or putting forth our best efforts.

          In the Bible, several men are mentioned as people who “walked with God.”  Enoch, Noah, and Abraham are some who visibly walked with God on a daily basis. In my morning prayer I often ask God to place each step that I take in the direction He wants me to go. So, where do the pot holes and acorns fit in?

          The more I study the Bible I have come to realize that life here on earth is actually preparation for eternity. This “earth journey” is the cover page and table of contents – the chapters begin when we cross that finish line. We are here to learn compassion, empathy, obedience, trust, submission, forgiveness and humbleness. Those pot holes and acorns are tools to redirect us and allow Him to use us for a much bigger plan of which we are totally unaware.

          Surprisingly, that pothole, on the streets of New York? At the time I tripped, I was actually talking to God wondering where He was in this big city of millions of people. I guess He answered me. Five people stopped to help me, one of whom runs a missions home for people who live on the streets.  

          Asked and answered.

        My Dad had a red Ranchero back in the early seventies. He bought it about the time we moved from the only home I’d ever known to a colonial styled 1906 two-story brick, in desperate need of remodel, on 20 acres. “Chapter 3,”  as my Dad liked to call it  He paraphrased life changes as if writing a book. (The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, for I do as well). 

          We were waiting in the driveway for a herd of Dairy Cattle to arrive one muggy summer night in 1973. I was sitting on the edge of the bed of the truck listening to the bullfrogs sing when he uttered, as if delivering a soliloquey, “You know bug (my nickname), every seven years something difficult happens in a life and it changes us dramatically.” He paused as if in deep thought and then walked away, leaving me to wonder what he meant. As I’ve grown older, I’ve found there is truth to his words, at least in my life..

          Seasons, Chapters, Cyclical Rotations, Redefining stories, whatever term one might use to describe the process, unexpected changes are an inevitable voice in everyone’s life – sometimes by choice and other times arriving as unexpected as a violent storm.

          That’s where I find myself today in my life. Ending a very long, tough season. Oswald Chambers noted, “Faith is deliberate confidence in the character of God whose ways you may not understand at the time.” I’ve often wondered if Chambers meant to say “change.”

          Many of us find ourselves in unchartered waters at times. Over the last few months I randomly murmur at any given moment,  “Ok Lord. Here I am…now what do I do?” A family home burns to the ground; a car accident takes a life; a marriage of 26 years ends; the nest becomes empty; the job of 15 years terminates; it all finds us standing in the middle of the grocery aisle, wondering, “What do I do now?”

          It isn’t so much the depth of the heartache or the adjustment of lifestyle as it is the direction of movement – and movement must occur. Somedays I have counted the steps I made the entire day and written them in my journal just to prove I actually made it through 24 hours. I’ve found the people in my life that I appreciate most are those whose words are neither cruel nor nice but real. And while change is daunting, scary at times, and painful, it can be positive if given the opportunity to be by those who are experiencing it.

          What my Dad failed to mention to me however is how we deal with the changes of our lives, probably because there are no clear cut answers.  Job put it best in 29:3, “By His light I walk through darkness.” 

         That rod and staff is not just for comfort, sometimes it is the only thing left to grab…and I’m holding on tight.

I once read about an experiment with a frog in a kettle. The idea confirmed that if a frog is put in a kettle of boiling water, he will quickly jump out; however, if he is put in a kettle of cold water over a flame, he will acclimate himself to his environment and boil to death.

How many of us are like the frog? Conditioning ourselves to our surroundings, accepting the heat, until destruction overtakes us?

Very few times in my life will a person hear me say, “I’m angry because…” Well, today I am angry.

We have become a society of over-users of a particular word “inappropriate.” I’m guilty. The phrase “inappropriate behavior” blurts from my vocabulary quite often. What happened to the words, “that’s just wrong.”

The divorce rate is soaring. Infidelity is rampant. Our political and governmental officials use their power abusively. There are increases in hate crimes. Abundance of harm to animals. Cheating, stealing, hatred of others…I could literally wallow in all that’s bad for the next three paragraphs, but I won’t.

For the record, inappropriate means “not suitable or proper in circumstances.” The definition of wrong is “an unjust, dishonest, or immoral action.”

As parents, citizens, spouses, friends, children (put yourself in any category), we’re gradually boiling in a pot of hot water simply because we no longer distinguish between two words.

Well, today I’m angry. I’m leaping out of this kettle. What about you?

In Alaska each year, thousands of athletes take the extreme challenge of running a marathon over mountainous terrain, in a stressful environment, against varying weather conditions. The runners will experience miles of isolated areas, rocky trails, and untraveled territory. It is not a race for just any athlete and the numbers from start to finish dwindle as the hours tick away.  The winner last year crossed the finish line in 4 hours, 1 minute, and 51 seconds. Few marathons can compare with this one.

My son Will loves to run. He probably gets his love of running from his Dad who enjoys the challenge of a good race. Recently, Will entered his first 1/2 marathon. As a Mom, with 18,000 participants involved, I was nervous considering he is only 13 years old. On the flip-side, I argued, he is 13 years old and will do fine. As you can imagine, it was a struggle for me. He started out in the dark of the morning to cheers of onlookers. Men and women of all different nationalities filled various starting corrals – from A to Z – waiting for the sound of the voice that initiates the race.

1 Corinthians 9:24 – “Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one gets the prize…”

The pounding of the feet against the asphalt echoed in my ears as I imagined the number of steps each would take to reach the end. At the seven mile mark, the race course splits. The half-marathoners run one way and the marathoners run the other. It is a difference of 13 miles as opposed to 26. “You are going to have to pay attention Will so that you don’t go the wrong way,” I heard myself repeating the instructions over and over to him, only to hear the typical 13-year-old response, “Mom! I know.”

 When I was thirteen years old, I had such a crush on this senior guy. He was handsome, funny, athletic, sweet, and he loved the Lord. Of course, to him, I was like a little sister. I entered a  6 mile race because I heard he was running and I envisioned the two of us stride to stride, breath to breath, mile after lonely mile…typical thirteen year old girl stuff. I still remember what he was wearing, gold Fighting Irish Football shorts and a white muscle shirt that said, “Hang in There, Baby.” Even though I was a great runner, at his pace, somewhere around the 4th mile I gave up on trying to keep up with him and frantically focused on trying to finish and not throw-up. To run and not complete the race without such an excuse as a loss of limb would be detrimental to my thirteen year old society ranking; however, to vomit would require my moving to an island off the coast of Cuba. By the time I crossed the finish line and witnessed congratulator hugs from his girlfriend to him, I decided there were other reasons to run besides him.

“Run in such a way as to get the prize.”

We waited for Will close to the finish line. My son Bo wanted to run the last mile with him and stood further down the course. The winner was a 28 year old, extremely fit male, who seemed to effortlessly round the corner toward the finish line. His goal, the announcer shouted from the loud speaker, had been 1 hour, 5 minutes and he came in just under that. Closely on his heels were others, rounding the curve, some faces grimmacing in agony, others panting, some joyful. I witnessed one lady lift the cross from around her neck up to her lips. Each person finding their way to endure, finish, and receive some form of reward – 1st female; 1st 65 year old and over; 1st non-adult. Two college age girls ran in fairy costumes with wings. One man ran in a spider man like body suit which covered his face. Another rounded the corner with a beer in his hand. Somehow, I missed my son. Bo ran the last mile with him. He crossed the finish line and while I stood nervously trying to spot his grey Nike running shirt, Will snuck up behind me, metal draped around his neck, with a smile from ear-to-ear – 1 hour 45 minutes and an interview with 11 Alive News.

“Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training. They do it to get a crown that will not last; but we do it to get a crown that will last forever.”

Will later told us he knew God sent him encouragement. He explained that a man named Apollo took him under his wing around the 6th mile – Apollo had a son near Will’s age. The man had run in many marathons before, advising Will of his breathing and pace. Around mile 9, a female runner named Holly cheered Will on as they approached a hill, challenging him to the top.

How are you running this race? Maybe it is for the wrong reason, chasing after something that isn’t for you; maybe it is carefree, not interested in the outcome, just simply finishing; maybe it is without recognition or enduring obstacles or masked as someone else. Some of us have courses similar to the mountainous terrain of Alaska while others the paved streets of Atlanta with cheering onlookers. Whatever distance you are running, however steep or flat, whether alone or among friends, the victory that lasts is in how you run your race.

“Therefore I do not run like a man running aimlessly; I do not fight like a man beating air. No, I beat my body and make it my slave so that after I have preached to others, I myself will not be disqualified for the prize.”

1 Corinthians 9: 24 – 27

I think of Mary Magdalene quite often. In a culture where women mattered so little, Christ, the King of kings and Lord of lords, sought her to deliver His good news – the news  He had arisen from the dead, just as He promised. “When Jesus rose early on the first day of the week, He appeared first to Mary Magdalene, out of whom He had driven seven demons” Mark 16:9. Realistically, if I were Him, I would have probably chosen John or to have a little fun with it, maybe the high priests or Pilot. But for some particular reason, He chose Mary. Maybe it was her loyalty or her ability to believe that allowed her to be chosen to deliver the news of His resurrection. In actuality, I imagine it was her heart and her passion for Him that brought Christ to her. When we have passion for something, we will stop at nothing to convince others. This amazing woman stood at the foot of the cross when all the others ran. She witnessed Jesus’ last breath. Why wouldn’t He reveal Himself to someone who fearlessly devoted herself to Him? Can you imagine how fast she ran to tell the others she had seen Him,  her feet pounding against the stone filled roads, rejoicing that her Lord was alive?

“How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news” Romans 10:15.

As a writer I contemplate the use of words. Words bring images to life. They are the photographs of the soul. It is unusual to me that Paul would use the term “feet” in this passage. Who has beautiful feet? Feet are ugly and sweaty; they smell; they are blistered and calloused. No, I would have chosen “eyes” – How bright are the eyes of those who bring good news. Or arms – How welcoming are the arms of those who bring good news. Even a tongue would make better sense – How melodious is the tongue that delivers good news. Maybe he was connecting Jesus’ washing of the disciplines feet with their carrying His word to others. Maybe Paul used feet because they work the hardest of all our body parts or because feet are not regarded as “beautiful” but actually something we tend to hide. Have you ever heard a man say, “I am so attracted to her. She has the most amazing feet” ?  The use of the word “feet” in this verse probably symbolizes our daily walk with Christ. Preaching the gospel is not just about a week of missions in the rainforests of Brazil and we’re finished, although that is important. Preaching the gospel is an everyday interaction and representation of our relationship with Christ.

My grandmother used to say, “Pretty is as pretty does.” She loved to sing the childhood song, “O be careful little eyes what you see…O be careful little ears what you hear…O be careful little feet where you go, for the Father up above is looking down with love, so be careful little feet where you go.” Our actions, our movements, our responses speak louder than any words could ever be heard about Christ. We could shout from the highest mountain our love for Christ but destroy that message by our acts of anger or our greed or our malice toward others.

I love to get pedicures. There is just something about the removal of dead skin from my feet that rejuvenates me. Picking a unique color for my toenails and maybe (if I have $5.00 extra) getting a floral design to go on top of the polish is a “pick me up.” I feel beautiful again – instantaneously. Is it possible we might all need a soul pedicure? Where are your feet taking you?

Today as you interact with others,  purposefully examine what message you bring. Is it beautiful? Does it represent Christ? Would He have chosen you to deliver His message that morning, the message He had arisen from the dead? One of my favorite church billboards states, “Always be a witness for Christ and if necessary speak.” 

How BEAUTIFUL will your feet be to others today?

A grey cat came into our lives 4 years ago, independent and alone. Even after all the time she’s been with us, she refuses the affection we offer. Although I’ve tried, she rejects my open  acts of love which I extend to her daily. She tolerates my other cats as long as they eat from their own bowl not hers,  if they do not glance in her direction, or sleep in her bed. Life for my grey cat is on her terms, and her terms only. 

In the mornings she waits for me at  my kitchen window to  follow my footsteps as I feed the other animals – including her of course. Like a dog she is at my heels when I retrieve the mail at the end of the driveway or take the trash for collection,  and when our car pulls into the garage, she runs to greet us. Woe be unto any of us if we should kneel to pet her – we each claim a few scratches for such acts.

Smokey, as we call her, makes trips to the vet a glimpse of Armageddon. The kids and I have to start at least an hour in advance to entice her into the carrier and the noise she makes, one would think we were torturing her. Our vet gears up as if administering aide to a lion and affectionately calls her “the shark.”

But of  my cats, she is my favorite. There is a sweetness about her I cannot explain only to say it is there. I love to watch her wait under the bird feeder or balance on the porch railing in hopes of catching a squirrel off-guard.  She refuses to come in the house even during the cold spells.  I forced her in once which resulted in a pure panic attack, requiring me to set her free. She spends most of her day, perched in the window, watching us from the outside. 

Romans 8:38 “For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

Several years ago I worked with a group of people administering aide to children who live on the streets. A grueling life for these teenagers, most spend their nights working in prostitution or selling drugs as the ‘grunts’ for middle men, and their days underground trying to find a dry spot to sleep. If the night brings enough money to pay-off the pimps who control them, they like to jump on the freight train and ride across the countryside. One young man who once lived that life told me, “It is a momentary escape from hell.”

I was asked to help a girl around 15 who was sick from infections caused by cigar burns on her legs. My job was to clean her wounds and apply an antibiotic ointment – nothing too difficult – and yet when I saw that she was bruised from her knees to her hips, my heart was torn in half. She looked at me inquisitively. “They told me you were from the States,” she stated without emotion, “but you look Russian.”

I smiled at her, suddenly very embarrassed by my nice  clothing and showered appearance.  Before I ventured out with this group, I believed I understood the plight of these people but at that moment, I struggled understanding just where God’s love played a part in this young girl’s life.  The flash light I had asked her to hold for me caught the reflection of the cross that dangled around my neck. Against the underground cemented walls, it seemed larger than life. Her fingers reached up to stop the gold cross from swinging and she looked away. “How long before I can return to work?” she asked taking a deep draw on something I was told resembles glue.

“You know there is a place for you at the mission’s house. You’d be able to go to school and you’d be protected,” I began slowly, knowing my friends had tried for sometime to bring her in.

She gathered up her things and without another word, moved back to the cemented “cubbie” she called home. My interpretor helped me gather up my supplies. “She’s a tough one,” he whispered.

“…neither death nor life… neither height nor depth…”

Before we left I removed the chain and cross from my neck, a gift from a special friend when I graduated from high school, and took it to her. For what seemed minutes, she pondered whether to take the offering I extended to her, before quickly grabbing it from my hand and shoving it in her bag.

“…neither the present nor the future, nor any powers…”

No thing. No lifestyle. No hardship. No struggle. No sickness. No drug. No sin. No stubborness.

The leader of the group prayed for the teenagers and then offered his home, as he does each time he leaves, for them to come and be a part.  “We wait for you to join us.”

“…not anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God.”

My son asked me recently if I considered Smokey a part of our family. “Yes, I do,” I responded, “but we are waiting for her to join us.”