TURTLE DAVE

Dave was a turtle who was also a hopeless romantic.

Somewhat bigger than lake turtles, his shell was black and shiny, not the ordinary green of his friends. He was much more rounder than some of his fellow turtle citizens, a fact which was made much more obvious when he stuck his long scrawny neck out of the shell.Quiet but not necessary shy, he was a thinking man’s turtle. Didn’t say much, but when he did, it invariably surprised the listener. It was going to be profound. Adding to the studious effect, he was near sighted, thus requiring the use of eyeglasses. He wore wire rimmed round spectacles that increased the size of his eyeballs, should he look into the face of another.A middle aged fellow in turtle years, he had never married and had no turtle kids.

He was hopelessly in love. He had adored for years the most beautiful pelican in the world. His heart very nearly bursting out of his shell every time he saw her, he watched her day after day as she landed from rock to rock, surveying the lake for her next meal. Her long dark hair hung down to the small of her back, her wings smooth and silky. Her long legs would glide effortlessly against the wind as she flew. Whenever she flew close by him near the shore, Dave thought he might faint, so quick would his heart begun to pound against his shell, rendering him breathless and dizzy.

Romaine. Her name was Romaine.

Romaine was tall and her neck long and regal, her feathering that of a pale blue that shone like sea glass against the light of the bright morning sun. She was different from the other pelicans who were mostly white and grey. She liked to take her breakfast along the shore, flying low to the ground to see if she could spy any small minnows. She was very health conscious and had learned to watch her weight. Minnows would be fine.

Scouring the water, she didn’t see Dave until she came to rest upon a rock closest to the sandy shore. Standing on a rock, one leg pulled up against her abdomen, while standing comfortably on the other as pelicans do, she began her morning meal. Munching and slurping her fill, it took Dave close to 45 minutes to travel close enough through the sand to enable her to hear him. He was, after all, a turtle.

Wiping her beak with her strong left wing, she was about to lift off from the rock she had been dining upon when she noticed him.

She was immediately self conscious and wondered if she looked fat.

There’s that good looking turtle, she thought to herself…. and smart too.

She had heard all about him from her pelican girlfriends, who had noticed him over the years. He always seemed to be surrounded by other good looking turtle girls, which intimidated her greatly. She sighed slightly as he crawled closer to her.

He would never be interested in me she thought putting her head down, resigning herself to being alone for yet another cold winter.

Dave finally made his way as close to the lovely Romaine as his poor constitution would allow. His heart was beating madly and his palms were sweaty. He could barely look at her, his eyeglasses fogged by his heavy breathing.

Oh no! he thought in a panic. She had daintily stepped off the rock and she was coming towards him ever so slowly. He had to grab hold of a nearby sea shell to prevent himself from falling over.

Whatever should I say to him? the nervous pelican thought.

She missed the solidarity of her pelican friends standing behind her. Usually when she was in a crowd she was much more brave when it came to looking for a mate. She was on her own now, no birds frolicking in the sea shore besides her, laughing at every witty joke or small talk that came out of her mouth.

Keeping her head down to avoid his gaze, the pelican was consumed with inadequacies, which of course, no one had ever noticed.

What shall I do? she thought frantically as they inched closer and closer towards each other. She racked her brain desperately for some intelligent conversation opener, something that would make him laugh, thus putting her at ease.

But what the heck do turtles think is funny?

They were but inches apart when Dave stopped to look up at the sky into the eyes of his beautiful princess, his darling Romaine. Golden streaks of sunlight shone through her blue feathers, creating an almost angelic outline of her svelte frame.

He could not speak.

Neither did she.

They looked at each other, a thousand words not spoken, a million thoughts left hanging in the sunlight.

Turtle Dave nodded and cleared his throat.

And said….. nothing.

Romaine the Beautiful Pelican belied no emotion but simply fluttered her eyelashes.

Disappointment loomed big in her heart, but she was too proud to say anything in reply to nothing.

She watched the turtle as he slowly moved his way up the sand, leaving his indentation of his trail behind him. It was the only remembrance of the fact that he had been there at all.

Small tears formed in the corner of Romaine’s eyes as the form of the turtle blended in with the horizon. She watched until it was gone.

“I knew it!”  she shuddered softly to herself.

“I’m too fat. Why would he ever be interested in me?”

“I knew it!” he whispered sadly to himself.

“I’m too serious. Why would she ever be interested in me?”

And they never felt the depth of their feelings for each other, never experienced the joy of a union, or felt their warm breath upon their necks.

Because they never uttered a word to each other.

All the inhabitants of the Kingdom of Doolittle knew of the longings between the two lovesick creatures. It never occurred to anyone to take either animal aside and talk to them, because it was so obvious that they were perfect together, they were meant for each other. Surely they would figure it out on their own. Wouldn’t they?

Time will tell. Time is immeasurable in Doolittle.

So is love.

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MY OWN PRIVATE PLANET, OTHERWISE KNOWN AS IDAHO

Here’s another little story you can file under the heading “Why the hell am I living here?”

Already disappointed the local butcher and grocery store don’t carry things like porter house or t-bone steaks, I silently stewed as I ran my other four purchases through the self check out aisle.  Some how, hearing the robotic “blip, blip, blip” sound as the scanner reads the UPC codes is mildly comforting.

The weight of several  corn on the cob has a tendency to rip the plastic bags, so I always double bag them after I place them in the first bag.  It was the last of my items and I leaned over to grab my purse to pull out my debit card.  Keep in mind I hadn’t moved.  This was all done in a twisty-turning movement, courtesy of years of yoga classes.  With my back to the screen and the scanner, I was surprised to hear the robotic “blip, blip, blip” song start up again.

This time I did move, and was surprised to see the back of another woman.  I could tell she was young enough to be in a hurry, but old enough to know better.  Miss Iminahurry ran her items over the scanner just as I had done, tossing them in the bag after each ‘blip’ and then stood up to look at the total when she had finished.

She stared at the screen for a minute, smacking a giant wad of pink bubble gum, moving closer to make sure she hadn’t misunderstood the number.

“Why is it so much?”  I heard her whisper.

She still hadn’t realized I was standing there.  Life had fallen off its axis and she was trying to right it.   Perhaps the amount of hair spray in her jet black curly hair had not only frozen the curls in place, but also decimated some brain cells in the process.   I was in that kind of a mood.

She looked closely at the screen and then stood back on her heels, as if to call for assistance. I could picture her mind saying “This machine must be broken, all I bought was milk, bread, butter and some Captain Crunch.”   

As she turned to call for someone, she saw me.

She looked at me and I smiled.  She looked at the total on the screen and then back at me.

Okay, I thought, I think she might figure this one out.

Then she looked at the screen and back at me again.

Here it comes, the thought is coming to the surface, yes, its almost there……

“Oh. Weren’t you finished checking out?”

Houston, we have contact.

I smiled.  “No, darlin’.”  I decided to answer in my best southern drawl.

They don’t cotton too kindly to New Yorker’s here, I have learned, so I periodically break out in another dialect.  Sometimes I’m even British.   Today, I was from Atlanta.

“I wasn’t.” I  crooned, ever so sweetly.   “But I thought it was right neighborly for you to buy my groceries for me on this right fine day.  Thank you, ever so much!” I smiled my biggest Miss Julia smile I could find.

She looked at me, still confused as to the chain of events, trying to piece together parts of this big puzzle she realized she had missed.

It was at that moment that I realized I was looking into the face of real innocence.  There was no attitude, no agenda, no angry response.  She was just a girl from her own private planet, otherwise known as Idaho, who just wanted to go home and eat her Captain Crunch for dinner.

“It’s okay, darlin'” I said then, relieving her of the burden of this difficult scenario.  “Let’s call the manager and work this out.”

She’s lucky today wasn’t the day I was from New Jersey.

Stupid Is, As Stupid Does

I’m a big believer in ‘everything happens for a reason.’  So is my husband, which is why he took a job nearly 3,000 miles away from everyone we love and anything we ever felt comfortable with.

I’ve been banging my head against the wall trying to get acclimated to this new town which will be my home for the next ten years, to no avail.  The neighbors either ignore us completely (because we are not of their faith) or they are knocking at the door at 8am on a Sunday.  There are no boundaries, no consideration and no tolerance.   Not content to be just my neighbor, the lines in the sand have been drawn.

There’s no happy medium.

I’ve also been trying to find a job, also to no avail.   Even joining Eyelash Nation hadn’t helped, although it did give my eyes the definition it needed, so the interviewers would at least look at me when they spoke.  Two and three return interviews always end with “we’ll call you when we’ve made our decision.”  What it really means is “we’ll call you when we find out if you are Mormon.”

But no one returns phone calls in Idaho Falls.  No one.   Even after several interviews, no one calls to tell you anything.  Unless you are of the chosen faith.  I have friends who are Mormon back east, but I have never been exposed to the zeal and cult like responses I have seen here.  Even living 20 miles from the birthplace of Mormonism, I am astounded at the lengths some of the people will go to ‘save’ us from this awful life we live now.

I hate to sound so negative and judgmental, but this has been my experience.   Any attempt at conversation is met with short, tempered answers, be it in the grocery store, Walmart, church or the club.   No warm and fuzzies here, even though the atmosphere is supposed to be family oriented and welcoming.   It looks like that from the outside, anyway.  Everyone smiles at you, but it is an empty smile.

 

Spring has been unusually rainy and unseasonably cool Idaho.  I decided to stop whining about the weather (for just a little while, anyway) and do something about how I was feeling.   After attending my daily yoga class (the one great thing about this place is its athletic club) I noticed a woman who had beautiful hair.  It was cut professionally and I thought to myself she must not be from here either.    Like pews in a church, we all place our yoga mats in the same place every session, and I didn’t dare set up next to hers.  I waited until class was over, and then asked her who her hairdresser was.  I went there immediately after we all whispered the final “Nameste.”

I couldn’t have been happier with the result.  My washed out, over processed blonde hair which was the result of the last salon I had been to (and sat for 3 hours listening to the raindrops since the girl was not very chatty, what a surprise) was replaced with vibrant and shiny red, with a tint of blonde highlights.  I was ecstatic.   I felt like my old self, and was returning to my roots in more ways than one.  I figured if no one wanted to talk to me when I spoke to them, I would have to embrace who I was and make them want to talk to me.

The change was dramatic and instantaneous.  My hair became the conversation opener I needed, and I quickly made two friends –women who were born and raised here but had moved away.  One from the church we attend and another at the club, they both were returning after several years of being away.  Each has their own story to tell, from disillusion with the legal system, the good ‘ole boy sense of justice, to connections in the Mormon church being the only way to get a job.  Moral corruption is rampant, all falling under the guise of religion.   If I hadn’t had decided to get the fukitall attitude, I would never had met them.

 

 

Shortly before I arrived in Idaho Falls last December, I contacted the editor of a local newspaper.  I had hoped to transfer my column and story-telling to this town, in both a way to get to know my new neighbors and for them to get to know me as well.   At
probably $25 an article, I knew I wouldn’t be getting rich, but it was a way to get my name out there.   At best, they had one page of local news, while the rest was all stuff grabbed off the AP wire.

“Sure” he said.  “Send some clips from your portfolio.”   So I did.

Several months later, I still hadn’t heard anything, so I called him again.

“Who are you?”  He asked.  “Have I talked to you? “

“Yes” I reminded him – “you asked me to send my portfolio. Plus, you did a story on my book signing at Barnes & Noble for Mother’s Day.”

“I did?”  Wow, I thought, this guy must be overworked.

“Please send them again.” So I did.

Three more weeks go by, and in between those weeks, I left several phone messages.  Finally, I asked if he would give me the courtesy of a return phone call, to acknowledge he had received them (since he didn’t the first time) and whether I would be considered for a freelance position.

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember who you are.”

Seriously?

I have a very long fuse and I don’t get angry very easily.  But months of frustration with this place, the people and missing my family & friends just got the better of me.

“I am appalled at your unprofessionalism”  I said.  “Not only do you not return any phone calls or emails, but you act like you have never heard from me, when in fact you asked for copies of my portfolio twice.”

“Well” he responded.  “I’m sorry that I have disappointed you, but the truth is, I don’t remember you and had to be reminded who you were.”  This was an attempt to make me feel like my writing was not memorable.  It didn’t work.  I know when I suck and when I don’t, and the stuff I sent him didn’t.

I took a deep breath and then said what I was thinking since I got here.

“If I were Mormon, you would remember me.”

A pause and then the response which told me how he really felt.  Threatened.

“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard of.  You have no clue.”

“No” I ended with a sense of satisfaction and knowing that God does everything for a reason.

“A New York reporter asking for a job in a two bit town in Idaho.  Now THAT was stupid.”

I let it sink in for a few seconds and then added “I won’t waste anymore of my time.”

“Good” the Perry White wannabe replied.  Good?

 

I still haven’t figured out why I am here, except of course to be with my husband.

I may be given the gift of advocating for some of the wrongs done to people here, although I would remiss to think I could do that by myself with all the odds stacked unevenly against me at every turn.  People are hesitant to say what they really feel, as it won’t be easy to get to the truth.   I don’t know what my role will be and if it will every really be played out.  He is the one with the job, and I can’t jeopardize that reality.

I have embraced the fact that I am an outsider, and always will be.   It is something I have never had to deal with, even suffering through the angst of adolescence and single parenthood.  I have always fit in, wherever I went.

But at least now I don’t have to wait for return phone calls.

 

 

 

 

My Mashed Potato Daddy

I first wrote this in February of 2003. Since then, I have run it various times as a tribute to my father.  Sometimes I need to see it on Father’s Day, other times I like to see it again on his birthday (July 9).  It’s hard to believe he has been gone 8 years, but comforting to realize he and my mother are now cooking together again.  

This appeared in my first book “Rhythm & Rhymes of the Heart 2002-2004” and also my latest book “The Book of Stories From the Lake” released last September.  I’ve read it aloud at different book signings, appearances and workshops. It never fails to get a response from the audience, and I am very proud of the fact they allow me to touch their hearts and awaken memories of those they have lost. I am humbled when they share their experiences, when they cry and give me a quick hug, for I know this is not an experience unique to me. Grief is universal; it knows no language or recognizes any social standing.

I can’t help but smile as I imagine my father, rolling his eyes as I read/post/send this little column again, in all it’s mushiness and love. I am the oldest child, so God willing, I will be the first to see him when it’s time. We all miss you, Dad. See you when we get there, and save me a seat at the stove.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Since my father passed away two days ago, I have had time to think about my relationship with him over the past few years. It seems my dad and I never saw eye to eye on anything. We didn’t have the same politics, we didn’t agree on religion, and we certainly never talked about sex, except for him to tell me that I shouldn’t have any. In fact the only thing we agreed on was that we loved to laugh and tell jokes.

One thing I am sure of, however, is that he loved me, and that I loved him. He was my daddy.

I am the oldest of six. When I was little, one of the ways my dad showed my mom how much he loved her was to let her sleep late on Saturday morning. He would make breakfast. Eggs over easy, bacon and toast, with a side of hash browns with onions, I have never been able to duplicate the recipe. He could whip up french toast, sausages and pancakes with the ease and finesse of any chef, and not spill a drop, not drop a dish.

My father had a lot of different interests, many diverse talents and hobbies. But to me, the thing he did best of all was make mashed potatoes. Creamy and light, whipped high with Land ‘o Lakes salted butter and whole milk, it was something we had every night with dinner, seven days a week. We never tired of it.

I realized in the plane over Chicago on the way to his funeral that was how my dad said goodbye to me, the last time I spent time alone with him. My folks live in Texas.

Living in western New York and away from everyone, I didn’t start travelling until very recently, as I didn’t leave my own family much, and airline tickets were too expensive. Now that I’m older and my kids are grown it has become a priority in my life to visit my siblings, who live all over this great country.

It was the last trip to Texas in September, where we all gathered to visit with each other. I was being chauffeured around to visit my brother’s new house, when I thought about how my father’s condition had deteriorated from when I had seen him two years earlier. He sat at the kitchen counter most of the day, watching tv, reading, or looking out the window. He sat there, alternating between his “breathing machine” (nebulizer) and smoking a cigarette. He rarely went out anymore, and was resigned to spend his days in this peaceful prison he had created for himself. Dying from emphysema, he had accepted his fate, a slave to his addiction, and was content to live out his last days in this way. He would sit there, patiently waiting, until my mother came home from work. Then she would cook dinner and they would share the rest of the evening together.

One morning, it was decided we were all going to my brother’s house for dinner. As the day wore on, I started to feel a little queasy.

“Oops” they told me after a while. “Your stomach might be upset from the tap water, just drink the water out of this store bought jug. Sorry! We forgot to tell you that might happen.”

In all the excitement they forgot to mention it, something about too much chlorine in the water, but by that time it was too late. I spent most of the afternoon in the lavatory and was not feeling up to par for a dinner party. My stomach was raw and all I wanted to do was lay on the couch and sip some hot tea.

I begged off. “I’ll stay here with Dad” I volunteered.

“We’ll watch t.v.” as if this was a new activity for him. He just smiled.

After the 6:00 p.m. news was over, he looked down from his perch at the counter and said to me “Hungry, kid?”

 

He called everyone “kid” even his own mother when she was alive.

“How ’bout some mashed potatoes?”

“Sure” I told him. “I’ll make them, you stay put.”

Having made them since I was a kid and watching his technique, I could prepare them with my eyes closed.

So I took out the potato peeler and began to peel what must have been my nine millionth potato, having carried on the tradition with my own family. Potatoes every night, except when we had pasta. I was an Irish girl who had married an Italian boy, after all.

I cut them in quarters the way I always had, but he pointed out to me know they were too big.

“A little smaller” he directed from his command post.

“Measure the milk” as I began to ready the hand mixer.

“Let me cut the butter” he added, “because you never put in enough.”

Before I knew it, he was up off his stool and standing right next to me at the stove, his frustration getting the best of him.

“You can beat them with the mixer as I add the milk” he instructed. So I stood there, standing at the stove like I had a hundred times before, and I waited as he poured the milk.

Standing next to me, I suddenly realized that my dad was now as short as me, having shrunk several inches over the years. He seemed to realize it too, as our eyes met in an instant, with the recognition of the loss of his stature.

“Hey shorty” he smirked, the twinkle in his eyes still sharp, “go sit down.” So I did.

As he folded in the last chunks of butter into the pot, he absentmindedly hummed a tune that I couldn’t place the name of, but remembered from my childhood.

As is the tradition, he removed the beaters from the hand mixer. In our family, the cook gets the first lick of mashed potatoes off the beaters, presumably to taste and see if it needs any more salt. But we all knew it was because they tasted so good and he couldn’t resist.

He handed me the other beater, and we clicked them together like wine glasses at the conclusion of a toast announced at a fancy dinner. He looked at me and said “you first.”

So I did, and they were as I remembered. Delicious and potatoey with just the right mix of butter and salt. Sitting at the kitchen counter, we ate the whole pot, just me and my dad. He hummed that song every now and then. After a while, I was humming along.

I’ve thought about that moment a lot since September, and the significance of it. The turn of events that led me to stay home with him that night. The song that I couldn’t remember the name of, but recognized so quickly.

It wasn’t until much later I realized the song he was humming was “Goodnight, Irene,” but he always changed the name to “Eileen.”

He made the mashed potatoes because he knew that I loved them, and he knew that was all he had left to give me. I am so grateful to God for giving me that brief, silly moment with him. It was a wonderful gift I will remember always.

I know that he has shared himself with my sisters and brother in ways that are special just to them. I know that he said goodbye to my mother, the love of his life for 50 years, four months and 16 days, in a way that will warm her heart and keep her going.

But I will be forever thankful that I had that night in the kitchen with my dad, eating mashed potatoes out of a pot and humming “Goodnight, Eileen”

Goodnight, Daddy. Rest in peace.

Definite Maybe

I am in the rejection business. I always have been.

But I was prepared. Never allowed to utter the words “I can’t” any disappointment was met with skepticism and distain with the “reminder to get out there and try again.” It would become part of my character and molded my outlook on life. NEVER take “no” for an answer.

When I was young and wanted to be an actress, I would attend casting calls, hoping to get the coveted ‘call back’ to read again. Never a leading lady, I was typically asked to read the part as the quirky friend, the girl next door, or some other non-descript character.

But most of the time, I was rejected. It helped me to develop a tough outer layer, as well as a protective secondary skin. There wasn’t anything you could say to me that would make me burst into tears, and I began to think that maybe my tear ducts had dried up all together. So traveling into other career venues was not that worrisome at all.

I’ve written tongue in cheek as to the variety of positions I’ve held in the past, some eliminated due to down sizing, some because I moved on. There were a few non-consequential in between jobs that had us parting ways, the total rejection of my very existence upon their property.

I’ve been semi successful at comedy, telling jokes unique to me and expressing my sense of humor. More of an experiment than a career move, I don’t know what is worse – total rejection or a ho-hum response. It’s one more thing to cross off my bucket list. No matter.

As the years flew by, I kept plugging along, trying on this job and that, like a pair of shoes in a gallery. Never really finding the right fit or style, I walked a few miles before they were removed, as they felt too tight, pinched my toes or made me too tall for my own internal balance. Luckily for me, I tripped into writing.

Admittedly, I am still sharpening my heels as well as the pencils. In the beginning I wrote all the time, in journals, in diaries, on napkins and scraps of paper found in the bottom of my purse. My life was an open book to anyone who cared to read the words I so readily shared. I told story after story, I jotted poems and threw them against the wall to see what would stick. My books sell, but not yet to the extent of ending up on a bestseller list. I try not to think of them as rejections because I’m not finished, not yet having kicked off the heels.

My life has been a succession of the definite maybe, a cornucopia of we’ll see and try again later. I often wonder if this is how my demise will play out. The Angel of Death will hover beside me and I will be ready with a snarky response to the ultimate rejection of this life into the next.

I will continue to search for the perfect shoe, to try on the ones that won’t chafe and remind me never to waste the time I have left. I guess I wouldn’t recognize success any other way.

Seeing and Believing

Well, the Rapture came and went and I’m still here.

I knew I would be.  My faith tells me that no man can determine when the end will come.  [Matthew 24:36    36 “But about that day or hour no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son,but only the Father.”]
It has been an interesting few weeks.  My husband recently went under the knife and was required to stay hospitalized for two days, which meant I got to stay in a hotel every evening.   We went to the Veteran’s Hospital in Salt Lake City, Utah about a three hour drive from Idaho Falls.  I’ve never been to Utah and wanted to check out the scenery. Plus, I wanted to view the holy land for the Mormons, somewhat akin to being in Rome and visiting the Pope.


The day before his scheduled surgery we took a walk downtown and had a great meal of steaks and fish.  Our hunger satisfied, we headed towards Temple Square.   We saw the Mormon Tabernacle Choir (although didn’t stay to hear them sing) and looked at the pretty flowers surrounding the entire area.   Beautiful stone statutes and monuments create a very interesting tour experience, and the buildings house a variety of educational and spiritual infomericals.  I thought it might alleviate some of the angst he has towards this group, but not sure it did anything.  He still freaks when he sees the white shirts and black pants coming his way, so imagine his anxiety at seeing an entire city full of walking advertisements.

Don’t get me wrong:  I have dear friends who are Mormons and we have always respected each other’s religious differences.  But I have to admit it is a bit overwhelming to live in a place where 80% of the population is one religious denomination.  We have found a church, and even though it is not Roman Catholic, it is Christian and feeds our intellect as well as our soul.   I am content to watch my Mormon brothers and sisters walk to church every Sunday, bibles in hand and eager to proclaim.
While staying at the hotel, I ran into (literally) a few hundred participants in the National Association of the Blind Conference.  To say these people are amazing is an understatement, and I am sure they would be offended if they heard me carry on about them out loud as much as I did inside my head.
White canes and guide dogs filled the hallways, crammed on elevators and standing outside doorways.  Seeing guides called to them as to what seminar was being held that day as they helped each other find their way.  It was clear who was an old pro, confidently tapping their long white tipped canes to the left and then to the right ahead of them, and those who were one step away from grabbing onto the walls as they proceeded down the corridor.  I have the utmost admiration for them and not sure how brave I would be if I were in their shoes.  They are courageous, but what is the alternative?  To stay locked in a room, afraid to find out what the world has to offer?  I would no doubt be a wall grabber for a long time, but know my curiosity would eventually win out.
“What floor do you want, Miss” asked a smiling young man, no more than 25.  He waited patiently as I maneuvered to the back of the elevator, not wanting to be in anyone’s way.   I gave him my floor number and watched as his fingers deftly looked for the correct button to push.
“Don’t worry” he continued, grinning wide.  “Have faith.  You’ll get there.”
So, with the passing of the Rapture and my ever increasing thirst for learning about different faiths and cultures, I was treated this month to that and more.

For what is faith but believing without seeing, and I was privy to view a world this week where every movement is done with faith and danger lurking around every corner. [ John 9:25   25 He replied, “Whether he is a sinner or not, I don’t know. One thing I do know. I was blind but now I see!”]

For I, too, was blind, but now I see.   Faith gets us through many things, like finding the right button on an elevator.
I appreciate the lesson.