A Royal Reunion

Early this morning, Coretta Scott King passed from this life into the next, entered into the heaven she had dreamed of and read about all life long, and was greeted by two Kings: first the King of Glory and then her beloved Martin Luther King, Jr. For the four children she left behind, this was a sad morning. For Mrs. King, this was the morning she'd been waiting for since the morning she heard the news of her husband's assassination.

I never knew either of them, Dr. or Mrs. King. But in so many ways, my life is what it is because of them, because of their dream of what this nation could be, and because nothing, not even death, could stop the work of righteousness that motivated Dr. King from being carried forth.

Way back in 1983, when I was a senior in high school in Brooklyn, New York, I entered and won an extemporaneous speaking contest at my school by writing, memorizing, and reciting a letter I'd written to Dr. King thanking him for the life he lived, for his dedication to his belief in equality for black and white people in this nation, and for his insistence that inequality must be battled in the northern states as well as the southern ones. When I graduated from Poly, there were fewer than twenty-five black students in a total population of 500 students. When I returned to Poly seven years later as a teacher, the percentage of students of color there had more than doubled. When I was invited to speak on the occasion of twenty-five years of coeducation nearly three years ago, there were more black girls in the student body than there were black students in total when I was a student there. At Poly Prep in Brooklyn, New York, Dr. King's oft-repeated dream had come true.

At this very moment, I am sitting at my children's homeschool desk in Charlotte, North Carolina, writing this blog. My two bi-racial children are outside walking our dog, playing with their friends in our mixed neighborhood in total safety and peace. As an African-American woman married to a white American man, I couldn't have lived in this house in this neighborhood in this city forty years ago. Truthfully, this neighborhood didn't exist forty years ago, but no neighborhood in this city would have welcomed our multi-racial family with the hospitality we have received since coming here. In fact, college students seeking to live out Dr. King's dream were smeared with mustard, ketchup, and epithets here in Charlotte four decades ago. I wonder if Dr. King thought such drastic change was possible in such a relatively short time.

Two years ago, I drove down to Atlanta with my daughter, and we visited the King Center for Peace. We walked reverently through the displays, watched short videos, and looked deep into the eyes of both the hated and the haters as they stared back at us from stark black and white photographs. We concluded our sojourn with a self-guided tour of the church that Dr. King pastored there in Atlanta. With the exception of a few tourists, the sanctuary was empty. The walls were bare, as was the floor. I wished those walls and that floor could have retold the tales, re-preached the sermons, and thereby re-instill in me the need to stay the course and continue the fight for peace, for freedom, and for equality for all people in our nation and all around the world.

Kristiana and I sat silently in a pew on the right side facing the pulpit about two-thirds of the way back. I tried to imagine the exhiliration, the fervor, the spirit of determination that surged through the crowd of sanctified soldiers gathered there on a weekly basis. Soldiers that fought for true freedom, for liberation from the dictatorship of racism, from the tyranny of Jim Crow. Soldiers that knew that the following week, some of those counted in their ranks would likely be dead or in prison. I tried to imagine the resonance, the power, the urgency in Dr. King's voice as he challenged his listeners to fight bullets with blessings, to protect themselves with prayer, and to march on till victory was won. Together they sang, they wept, and they armed themselves for another week of battles against an enemy for whom the world was broken down into two separate but never equal halves. That old hymn, "God be with you till we meet again" was more than merely words sung to a melodic tune; it was a benediction that could very well be their last.

As I always do when I think of that famous Washington monument speech, I have tears in my eyes now as I picture Dr. King describing for the world of his dream. There is so much still to be done to bring it fully to life. We are still judged more by the color of our skin than the content of our character. Nowadays, however, we have added place of residence, level of income, country of origin, native language, and sexual preference to the standards by which we judge those around us. Segregation still separates our neighborhoods, schools, clubs, and churches one from another. But there has been great progress. Because of those early freedom fighters who were willing to lay down their lives for their friends - some of whom they never met - I can live this great life that I have been blessed to have.

This morning, Mrs. King laid down her life one last time. She stopped worrying about who was being judged about what. She stopped taking her medication. She abandoned her wheelchair. Today the color of Coretta Scott King's skin, the neighborhood in which she lived, the right to vote for the candidate of her choice - today, none of those things matter to her. Today, right now in fact, she is dancing; she is singing; she is laughing; she is shouting in unison with her long-lost husband: "Free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty, we are free at last."

On the road again...

On Jen Gray's blog today, I read the following:
(She's a great photographer as well as an insightful and honest writer.
Check her out: www.jengray.com)

"questions......

why did you move there?
what are you doing?
will you conutinue to do photography?
are you going to stay?
will you go back to teaching?
have you made any friends?

and the answer: I DONT KNOW.

all i know is that each morning i build a fire,
put on my hat while i sip my coffee, and then...
i just follow
the
next
single
thing.

i have never been this slow in my entire life.
but i think somehow i am finally catching up to myself.
and i think i may even like who is showing up."
********************************************************
I could write my own set of very similar questions:
why are you going there?
what will you do?
will you continue writing?
will you ever get back to teaching school?
have you made any friends?

And my answer would be the same: I do not know.

So this weekend, I will go up into the mountains of North Carolina alone.
To think.
To write.
To read.
To walk.
To take some photos of my own.
To try to answer some of these questions.
And who knows? I may meet Jen Gray there; after all, I will be going to the very same town where she is living at the moment. Seeking her own answers. Walking, reading, writing, and taking photographs.

On Saturday and Sunday mornings, I will wake up, make and sip fresh coffee, curl up with my journal, look out over the mountains, and follow my thoughts, my pen, my colored markers, and my wild imagination to the next thought, word, and imaginary place for as long as I want. I will bathe slowly and luxuriously. I will take short and long walks, short and long naps, and short and long writing sessions. I'm looking forward to the slow pace, the complete lack of a schedule, the peace that comes from quiet solitude.

The thought of catching up to myself, of being reacquainted with my own interests and thoughts, sleeping late two mornings in a row, eating and drinking whatever I choose whenever I choose and without having to share, worry about food allergies, do the dishes, or makd sure everyone has everything they need before I can sit down to eat -- these are truly revolutionary concepts for me. The possibility that I will discover a more profound understanding of myself, my dreams, my goals, and perhaps my doubts, fears, and concerns as well - just the possibility thrills me.

I'm off to finish packing, get some sleep, and hit the road in the morning.
Wish me traveling mercies, okay?

Buon viaggio, Gail

My daughter is my hero!

We signed her up to play basketball late last fall. At the tryouts, there were only five girls officially registered, and she was one of them. She began the season with practices on Tuesday evening. which was perfect for us because she has horseback riding on Monday afternoons and junior high youth group on Wednesday nights. Over the next three weeks, 12 more girls signed up, so the league commissioner decided to split the group into two small teams. We asked that she remain on the Tuesday team. No such luck. She was placed on a team that practiced on Wednesday. Again we asked if she could remain on the Tuesday team because of our weekly conflict. No such luck; they told us she could practice with the Tuesday team, but play games with the Wednesday team. Ridiculous! Willing to forego the beginning of her youth group gathering every week, Kristiana decided to make the complete transition to her new team and practice with them. Then the league switched their practices to Friday nights from 8:30 until 10 PM. Their games are on Saturday, sometimes as early as noon! This is how they treat one of only five girls who followed the league-ordained procedure from before the start of the season. Outrageous!

Fortunately, Kristiana is a far better person than I am. She plays her heart out every weekend. She gets the rebound and protects it from the reaching, slapping hands of her opponents. Whenever the opposite team's shooters step into the key, she tries to block their shots. She takes as many lay ups as she can. She sinks her foul shots as best she can. She steps out on the offensive players when they hang out near the three-point line. She leaves every ounce of strength she has on the court every time she plays. But at the end of every game, she climbs into the minivan with sweat on her brow and tears in her eyes.

Today her team lost its fifth straight game. They are 0-5.

Later, as she walked into the garage carrying her sneakers and a gift she'd thoughtfully chosen for a good friend's birthday, she slipped and fell, landing hard on her right hip. She earned every one of those tears. After she gathered her possessions off the floor of the garage, she entered the house with so much poise and dignity that Steve and Daniel didn't realize what had happened. Not one to garner anyone's pity, she didn't even tell them what had happened. She's such a brave girl.

What makes me most proud of her strength of character is knowing that what is happening to her this season, what happened to her this afternoon is no anomoly. Kristiana has a long history of doing and saying the right thing because it's the right thing to do. One night last season, her basketball team lost by 30 points to the team led by the man who had coached her for two previous seasons. Not once during the game did he take out his top scorer. At the end of the game as we walked out of the gym, he made a comment to her that was meant to lend humor to the situation. I responded with angry, sharp words. On the way home from the game, through her tears, Kristiana said, "In a game like that, Mom, I'd rather be on the losing team than on the winning team. What they did wasn't right." The good news is that Kristiana's team went on to beat his team twice later in the season. (See how mean-spirited I can be??!!) Her mother ought to sit at her feet and learn from her more often, rather than the other way around.

Tender of heart, soft of voice, compassionate towards all, Kristiana is my hero. She never speaks of quitting the team. She never asks to skip games or practices out of frustration. She likes all the girls on her team and speaks highly of each one, even the ones whose performances on the court contribute to the team's dismal record. I know that when they play again tomorrow afternoon, she will play as hard as ever. (Yes, you read that right; they had practice on Friday night, a game on Saturday, and another game on Sunday of the same weekend! These people are absolutely nuts!)

Me? I want to clobber the refs when they miss calls. I want to yank the bricklayers on her team off the court and leave the best girls on the court all game long. And most of all, I want them to win the rest of their games this season. Unfortunately, that is highly unlikely.

I hope that when I grow up, I will be like you, Kristiana.
I love you, sweet girl.

Back in the High Life... again!

I don't get out enough. I don't get together with women friends nearly enough. I am a full-time, at home, homeschooling mother, and I don't get out enough. So this morning I got out. I went out. I worked out, showered, got dressed, put on my boots, climbed into my new car (Happy Birthday to me!), and drove to the home of a complete stranger to spend two hours with women I barely know.

Sounds odd, I know, but I'm a member of a group here in Charlotte called the South Side Sisters. It's a group of about 40 black women that gathers one Friday morning each month to talk, laugh, tell stories, recommend doctors, gyms, and great places to shop. We tell each other's what's going on, who's doing what, and whose husband has changed jobs. We tell stories of our recent travels, travails, and triumphs. Some of us are real estate agents, Mary Kay ladies, doctors, teachers, computer consultants, jewelry designers, volunteer fundraisers, and professional shoppers. Now that I think about the fine threads we all were wearing, I suspect that we all fit into that last group.

We are all married women. Most of us are mothers, and all of us are determined to make the best of the blessed lives we lead. Every month there are newcomers, new residents of Charlotte, or newly moved into South Charlotte - which I why I know very few of them very well. The women in the group invite their new neighbors, friends from church, fellow parents at their children's schools, and we come together simply to celebrate our lives. No agenda. No political discussions. No religious debates. Just sisters on the South side of Charlotte befriending other sisters. Eating good food, drinking good coffee, and having a good time.

Adrienne, the woman who hosted the Sisters this morning, lives in a beautiful home overlooking a beautiful golf course and is the mother of three beautiful children. She has a scrapbooking room in her basement (there aren't many basements in Charlotte... they must have paid a sizeable chunk of change for that house!) that inspired us all to work harder to make the time and claim the space to do what we love. One woman told of numerous volunteer opportunities in and around Charlotte. Another woman asked for help in planning a middle school social event so that our pre-teen children can get to know and care for each other just as we, their mothers, know and care for each other. The computer consultant of the bunch and one of the real estate agents approached me and asked if I'd be willing to do some freelance writing for their businesses.

More than once during the course of the morning, I looked around at the women there. Manicured nails. Meticulously made-up faces. Carefully coiffed hair. Nearly every earlobe, neck, wrist, and finger glittered with something. Leopard print bags and pointy-toed boots. Chanel. Ralph Lauren. St. John. Eileen Fisher. Leather this. Suede that. Diamond the other. Fur trim abounded. In the driveway and on the street was yet more bling: BMW. Jaguar. Land Rover. Escalade. Decadent. Rich. Lush. It was over the top. The sum total of the wealth represented there this morning had to approach $50 million. And there I was, soaking it all in, listening, joining in with the laughter, telling stories of my own, and awash in gratitude.

I am grateful to live in a place where such extravagance is the norm. I am grateful to know so many strong, intelligent, and strikingly beautiful women. I am grateful that every one of those women was black; it may sound strange, but before coming to Charlotte and joining this group, I had never been in a room with so many black women who were so well off. I really like not being the "only fly in the buttermilk." On yet another gorgeous January day in Charlotte, I am grateful to be alive, healthy, strong, and surrounded by so many women who look and live a lot like I do.

I was honored that before we ate, they asked me to pray. To give God thanks for the bounty that we take so much for granted, to ask Him to keep us mindful of all that He has done and all that we can do because of all that we have. My prayer was and is that we never lose sight of what is possible when we work hard, when we are good stewards of what we have, and when we take the time to enjoy the benefits of work well done and a life well-lived. May we never lose sight of the inestimable value of new and old friends, of shoulders to lean on in tough times, of ringing, loud laughter in the good ones, and of the great pleasure of living well through it all.

In a world that is being torn apart by war, poverty, hunger, pain, and fear, for a few hours this morning we came together in the pursuit of peace, fullness, jubilation, relaxation, exhiliration, and getting a glimpse of the magazine-worthy home of yet another South Side Sister.

I definitely need to get out more.
Here's to a great life!

Do you hear what I hear? Part Two

On the good days, on the days when the sound of silence is golden, when peace reigns in my heart rather than discontentment, when hope springs eternal, on those days I hear another Voice. I read and meditate on other quotes. These are some of the words that bring me comfort and strength, not only on the bad days like the one I wrote about yesterday, but also on the good days, like the one I'm having today.
******************
I lie down and sleep; I wake again because the Lord sustains me.

You have filled my heart with greater joy than when their grain and new wine abound.

The Lord has heard my cry for mercy; the Lord accepts my prayer.

Those who know your name will trust in You, for You, Lord, have never forsaken those who seek You.

But I trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation. I will sing to the Lord for he has been good to me.

You have made known to me the path of life; You will fill me with joy in your presence, with eternal pleasures at your right hand.

The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge. He is my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.

He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul.

You turned my wailing into dancing; You removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.

How priceless is your unfailing love. Both high and low among people find refuge in the shadow of your wings.

Why are you downcast, o my soul? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise Him, my Savior and my God.

My soul finds rest in God alone.

************************
I am not alone in seeking rest for my weary soul, for my tormented mind. I am not alone in my wailing and in the wearing of emotional and spiritual sackcloth. I am not alone in having a downcast spirit or disturbed soul. Nor am I alone in finding rest in God, in His Word, and in His unfailing love and presence in my life. The Psalmist David and his fellow singers and writers wrote these words and many others that have been of great sustenance and support for me.

As a fan of Oprah Winfrey, I have followed the recent controversy about the last book she assigned to her world-wide book club. I haven't yet read the book, but I will pick it up soon I'm sure. Apparently the author of the book, James Frey, has been accused of wildly exaggerating the stories he tells in the memoir entitled A Million Little Pieces. Critics, broadcasters, and insignificant people like me have discussed it, written about it, and wondered what our expectations ought to be of memoirs. How much embellishment is too much?

I am the first to say that I am not surprised or dismayed by the possibility that Frey stretched the truth in order to sell his book. I am also the first to say that I embellish details in my own writing. Just a few minutes ago, I confessed to a friend that I carefully craft these blogs to keep readers interested, curious, and most important of all, coming back to read more of my rantings. I endeavor to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. But the truth I tell is only mostly true. It's my version of the events of my life. My husband, children, friends, and other innocent bystanders would most certainly tell the story of my life quite differently than I do.

But there is one Book in my life that I have no doubts about, even though I know that there are millions of people who think this Book is even more wildly exaggerated and overrated than Frey's. There is one Book in my life that I turn to more than any other when I need guidance, comfort, and wisdom. I know that I am not alone when I say that I don't understand it all. I don't even agree with all of it. Yet no matter how disputed, maligned, or reviled this Book may be, no matter how uncomfortable it makes me feel, no matter how difficult it is to defend at times, I have never doubted the truthfulness, the relevance, or the indispensability of The Bible in my life.

Do you read what I read?

Do you hear what I hear???

It drives me to drink.
It drives me to teetotaling.
It drives me to laughter and to sorrow.
It fills me and leaves me cavernously empty.
It drives me to shop ceaselessly and shames me into frugality.
It makes me overeat and tempts me to starve myself.
It drives me to jealousy and chides me to be grateful for what I have.
It motivates me to seek solitude and drives me into crowded rooms.
It urges me to connect with friends and cautions me to steer clear of everyone.

What is "it"? It is most definitely not anything available on Ebay.

I will quote one of my favorite books.
"Some years into our spiritual journey, after the waves of anticipation that mark the beginning of any pilgrimage have begun to ebb into life's middle years of service and busyness, a voice speaks to us in the midst of all we are doing. There is something missing in all of this, it suggests. There is something more.

"The voice often comes in the middle of the night or the early hours of morning, when our hearts are most unedited and vulnerable. At first, we mistake the source of this voice and assume it is just our imagination. We fluff up our pillow, roll over, and go back to sleep. Days, weeks, even months go by and the voice speaks to us again: Aren't you thirsty? Listen to your heart. There is something missing.

"We listen and are aware of... a sigh. And under the sigh is something dangerous, something that feels adulterous and disloyal... We sense a passion deep within that threatens a total disregard for the program we are living; it feels reckless, wild. Unsettled, we turn and walk quickly away, like a woman who feels more than she wants to when her eyes meet those of a man not her husband."

Have you ever heard that voice? I have heard that voice all life long. But the first time I heard it, breathed that sigh, and panicked was in 1994 when my daughter was about a year old. In my mind, I'd "arrived." I had graduated from college, married a generous and loving man, and worked for four years as a teacher and college counselor. We had bought our first house. I had gotten pregnant without any difficulty, given birth to a beautiful daughter, and was taking graduate classes when I heard it. I didn't just hear the question; I felt it in my inner harbor, that safe place that no one has access to but me. I shook it off as selfish discontent. How dare I want more? How dare I think that there was more than what I had? What was I supposed to do with those feelings? I wondered if they were worthy of attention or if I should simply ignore them, hoping they'd go away.

It was at that point in my life that I began to look at other people, at couples, at families, and wonder if they too feel that twinge of emptiness, of loneliness, of longing that I felt so profoundly. But I never had the courage to ask. I didn't want to "give men the wrong idea" and I didn't want women to think I was after their husbands. I couldn't ask my pastor or anyone else at church because I was so deeply involved (I taught Bible studies, for goodness sake), that I thought everyone would wonder about the truth and seriousness of my faith. Heck, I wondered about it myself. Fast forward to 2006...

Nowadays most of the time I feel grounded; the answers are clear, and I have no doubts about who I am, what my purpose in life is and where I am going. But there are other times when I feel that feeling again. I hear that voice again. As I write in my journal, as I read book after book, as I explore friendships, relationships, and my faith, and even as I walk Maya up and down our street, I hear the voice and feel the shift in my life's foundation. Is it cracking a little?

I often respond to the questions I hear with questions of my own. Questions that deserve not only serious consideration but also acceptable answers. How do I, how do we answer that call? Whose voice am I hearing? Since I am not the only one wondering about these things (and it is my firm belief that every person on the planet is asking themselves similar questions), will I find safe, patient, loving people who are willing to tell their stories, ask their questions, and together seek answers?

Sometimes the answers I hear are a little too pat. A little too simplistic. "God said it, and I believe it, and that settles it." "We are right, Gail, and they are wrong. Don't allow these frivolous questions to cloud your clear judgment." "If you have any doubts, that your problem." "You have always been too open-minded and liberal for your own good." Sometimes they are a little too dreamy. "I'm going to try a little bit this and a little bit of that, and whatever feels good, I'll do that until I find something better." "Just pray, Gail. Clarity and peace will come."

I know I'm being long-winded today, but this is a never-ending inner conversation. What I'm sharing here is merely today's chapter. By the way, the quote about the voices came from John Eldredge's The Sacred Romance. A fascinating read. Today I began The Holy Longing. Similarly intriguing. In different ways, both books tap into the source of The Voice and how we hear it, recognize it, and spend our entire lives responding to it.

After all, it is that holy longing for sacred, true romance,
for deep fulfillment, and for lasting connection that
drives us to marry and then to divorce.
It drives us from one job to another.
From one car to another, one house to the next.
From one meal to the next.
From one book, movie, CD to the next.
One church to the next.
One friendship to the next.
From one continent to another.
Perhaps we will find the answer, the lasting peace, comfort, and whatever that thing is that we can't quite name, in the next paycheck, bonus, award, promotion, relationship, rendezvous, or whatever that thing is that we can't yet identify. But we'll know it when we see it, find it, buy it, own it, sell it, or get the newest model of it.

Do you hear what I hear?

You? Yes, you.

Have you told your loved ones that you love them lately?
Have you read a book to a child lately?
Have you sent an unexpected card, letter, or care package to anyone lately? I'm not talking about email, chain letters, and requests for money or favors. I'm not talking about mass-produced Christmas letters or photos of the children and the dog. I mean a real letter, sent via snail mail, with a handwritten note.
Have you called a long lost friend and reconnected lately?
Have you contacted a former teacher, mentor, or coach and thanked them for the influence they have had in your life?

I once bought a book that consisted of nothing but thank you letters. The author decided to thank her childhood busdriver, her rabbi, the makers of Lactaid pills (for those of us who are lactose intolerant) and sent copies of that letter to Ben & Jerry's, Good Humor, and Baskin Robbins. She thanked Bic for their pens, the CEO of Boeing for not hiring her, movie stars, people who sat next to her in restaurants... you get the picture. Many of the letters were mailed, and many of them weren't.

I met Pam Janis, the author of Thank you, Everyone, at a library reading and book signing way back in June of 1999. I was moved by her desire to thank not only everyone who had made a positive impact in her life, but also those whose decisions and actions may have hurt her at one point, but in the end brought about change and advancement for Pam. So I ask you, and I ask myself, who have I thanked lately? Whose words have encouraged me lately - and have I thanked them? Whose criticism has stung me lately - and have I thanked them?

This morning I was publicly humbled, humiliated really, by someone who had been upset with me for several months apparently, but hadn't said anything about it until today. At church. In front of other people. I offered no excuse, no explanation, and immediately said I was sorry. Needless to say, I've spent a lot of time since then thinking about what she said and how hurt she has been all these months. I didn't remember having wronged her, but my forgetfulness doesn't matter. She remembered. She was in pain. I was sorry. I am sorry still.

Here's the thing: after the initial waves of anger, shame, and vengeful thinking passed, I was thankful to her for telling me the truth. I am glad she was able to unburden herself and feel better for having told me. And I am thankful for the lessons I have learned today about myself, about my fallible humanness, about how careless and thoughtless I can be. I am planning to write her a note and thank her for the lessons she taught me.

I left that meeting feeling drained and went to my local drug dealer for a $4 hit of caffeine mixed with chocolate, otherwise known to us junkies as a mocha with an extra shot. The kind young man behind the counter greeted me with a smile, took my order, and then handed me two free drink coupons because he liked my hair. I will head back over there in the next couple of days to thank him again for his kindness and generosity. And get another hit.

So what are you waiting for?
Sign off the internet and go thank somebody for something.
What the heck? Give them a hug while you're at it.
You? Yes, you.

What is the Greek word for "fear of basements?"

I grew up in a house with a basement. Two of my three brothers lived down there. The washing machine and dryer were down there. So were the ping-pong table, my father's workbench, the oil tank, the oil burner, the electric meter, two very musky, mildewy, and over-stuffed closets, and countless shadowy creatures I never actually saw, but was convinced lived down there.

During all of my growing up time, I hated that basement. Rare was the time that I ventured down there without loudly beating heart, a well-marked escape route, and deeply-treaded shoes tied securely on my growing feet. Plus there were the occasional NYC sized waterbugs that would scamper from pillar to post right when I was at the narrowest part of the hallway at the greatest distance from both exit doors. I hated it down there.

With all the lights blazing, the windows clamped shut, doors locked from inside and out, even then I was terrified. Every sound triggered a new round of heart palpitations. Every shadow a shudder. Every movement a moan. It was that basement that taught me how to count stairs on the run, how to get up them two or three at a time, and never to turn my back on the light source. Keep the light between me and whatever is unknown. Darkness had to be avoided at all costs. When in doubt, sprint for the stairs, and take them in pairs.

Two years after I graduated from college and returned to Brooklyn to teach at my high school alma mater, I asked my parents the unthinkable: I asked if I could rent the basement bedroom and bathroom and make it my home for a year or two. They agreed. Before I moved any of my belongings down there, I made a thorough inspection of the entire space. I opened the closet doors and discovered coats that my parents had worn in earlier, thinner days - coats that would later catch the eye of my vintage-hungry students. I found books that I'd read as a child, books I'd been forbidden to read (Letters to Karen, A Hiding Place, and Arnold Schwarzenner's books about working out among them), and the carcasses of many dead bugs that never had found water. I swept, vacuumed, cleaned, organized, alphabetized, replaced old bulbs with newer and brighter ones, and made myself at home.

I learned to enjoy the flickering shadows created by scented candles, the minute but irresistable glow at the end of the stick of incense, and the hypnotizing glow of the television screen there in my new basement hideaway. And darkness, especially when Steve came to visit and spend the weekend, became a welcome friend.

Right around that same time, back in the very early 1990's I was learning to rattle around and make myself at home in another dark place: the recesses of my own heart and mind. I'd climbed out of the dungeon of a suicidal depression after breaking up with my first serious relationship during my sophmore year in college. I'd scampered out of the cellar of serious loneliness during a six and half month stint in Europe as a senior in college. It wasn't all about me though; I'd looked on in horror as college friends and alumni drank themselves to death. I watched one friend agonize over the decision to have an abortion; on the one hand, she so longed to carry the child to term. On the other, she knew that her parents, her friends, and her college professors would be so disappointed with her decision not only to be physically intimate with a fellow student but also her desire to live with the consequences. Those were dark days indeed.

But in that basement where I lived, in the classroom where I taught, on airplanes when I traveled for business and pleasure, during the lonely walks back and forth to class in Madrid, as I held hands with a hospitalized friend who'd attempted suicide because of boyfriend troubles, even as I sit here at the homeschooling desk in tony South Charlotte, I have learned that I no longer need to fear the darkness. In fact, in the darkest times I have learned the most about myself, about my friends, and about the God I love and praise.

Sitting next to the hospital bed in North Adams, Massachusetts, as a frightened undergrad trying to comfort another frightened undergrad whose stomach had been emptied of the poison but whose heart was still groggy with terror, I reached out for her hand and found the darkness a little less eerie. While a student in Madrid with only enough money for a one way busride every day, I learned to appreciate the architecture of that grand city as none of my other classmates did. Walking home in the wee hours of the morning after public transportation stopped running, the darkness was a reminder that I'd spent all evening and far into the night with new friends. In that Brooklyn basement, the darkness provided cover for my tears when I heard the news that a beloved, perhaps over-loved, college professor had died in a plane crash.

And now years later, living in a house that has no basement, I am no further from the shadows. In fact, I now believe that when all of life is lived above ground, the inner darkness can be even deeper. Without any physical place to hide away from the prying eyes of family, friends, and neighbors, the emotional, relational, and spiritual hiding places abound. So I am learning to love the darkness. When others look at me askance and tell me to "just snap out of it," to enjoy the new clothes, to be thankful for my friends, and to take myself and my navel-gazing tendencies less seriously, I wonder what's rattling around and taking up residence in the basement of their lives. I wonder if they are as afraid of the dark down there as I used to be. I want to tell them: buy some new light bulbs, a good broom, and some strong garbage bags, tie on good running shoes just in case, plan an escape route, and take the plunge. Who knows? They may very well find long-lost treasures and family heirlooms worthy of display.

In truth, I've become enamored with venturing into the shadows. I want to know what's driving me to fill my closet with new clothes and Wonderbras; it's not just the fabulous sales at Hecht's department store. What parts of my life are feeling naked, too visible? What parts are feeling flat and need to be pumped up a little? I want to know the real reason why I'm obsessed with losing ten more pounds. I already weigh less than I did when I got married. What parts of me feel excessive and need to be trimmed? Why do I go to such great lengths to feel paralyzing guilty for every good and beautiful object I own, for every caring friend I have, and for every hug and kiss my family gives me? Why do I feel so unworthy of love and blessing? Why do I make up so many excuses for not submitting my work for publication? What happened to me to make me so unsure of my gifts and talents and so afraid of failure and rejection? Why do I clamor for the attention of people who seem to care nothing for me but ignore the advances of those who demonstrate their love freely and frequently?

I ask myself these questions - and so many more just like them - on a regular basis. I journal about them. I blog about them. I read books that claim to answer these questions. I expect my insurance company to pay my therapist so I can explore them further. And I talk to friends about them.

One fellow seeker, traveler, and questioner told me to stay right where I am: to take up permanent residence in the darkness. It is there, she assured me, that I will find both The Light of the World and myself. She sent me the reference to an obscure Old Testament verse that deserves prolonged scrutiny, but here it is with none whatsoever.

Exodus 20:21 - The people remained at a distance,
while Moses approached the thick darkness where God was.

Speaking of Deuteronomy...

Of all the books of the Bible in which to find a personal theme verse, Deuteronomy would be the last one I'd expect to be The One. With all the dietary, social, and religious laws, with all the accounts of past travails, and promises of future battles for the land the Lord had promised the Israelites, Deuteronomy offers few upbeat, twenty-first century insights. Or so I thought...

The children and I were reading the second chapter when I found it. In plain language, in clear prose, Moses composed the verse that elevated my 40th birthday to Biblical import.

Here it is, Deut. 2:7 -

The Lord your God has blessed you
in all the work of your hands. He has
watched over your journey through this
vast desert. These forty years the Lord
your God has been with you, and
you have not lacked anything.

I am a forty year old woman who spent only six years "working outside the home" before making the decision to be a full-time, at home, homeschooling mother. During the few years I worked, I interviewed for five jobs. I was offered all five of them. I worked in college admissions and alumni relations at Williams College for two years. I taught junior high and high school Spanish and did college counseling at Poly Prep, my alma mater in Brooklyn, New York. Then I taught Spanish and did college counseling again at The Taft School in Watertown, CT. During the spring of my second year at Taft, I "found myself with child" and resigned my position at the end of that academic term.

Carrying two children through full term pregnancies, giving birth to two healthy children (without the aid of any pain medication, I add with great pride), raising them to the best of my ability, and now teaching them to be noble, hard-working, fun-loving, God-honoring people gives me both pleasure and pain that are nearly indescribable. Nothing I accomplished, wrote, taught, counseled, or advised during my brief tenure as a teacher or college counselor compares to what I have learned, written, or come to the believe in the years since becoming a mother. And in all these situations, in my travels as a teacher and counselor, in my travels as a wife and mother, in my armchair journeys as a reader and writer, I know that God has blessed me in all the work of my hands.

We live a life here in Charlotte that is beyond all we could have asked or imagined for ourselves and our children. God has blessed us with faithful friends, with generous neighbors, with beautiful homes, with active churches, and with great prospects for much more of the same in the months and years to come. We have been able to support needy family memebers and friends, causes that matter to us, and missions groups that serve people here and in other parts of the world because God has blessed the work of our hands with financial gain. I have befriended immigrants, translated documents into English and Spanish, served as an interpreter in legal matters, and God has blessed the work of my mouth. I have listened to people in crisis, laughed at humorous episodes, and written countless notes and postcards, and God has blessed me with numerous and treasured friends.

But this life of ours hasn't always been easy. Many days feel like treks in the vast desert with no oasis in sight, not even on the most distant horizon. Death in our families. Serious illness. Health scares. Nightmares. War. Job loss. Job changes. Dryness of spirit. Dryness in our marriage. Longing for days when I could put the children on a school bus and sink into a long morning of talk shows and mugs of coffee. Churches fall apart, as do relationships. Some nights I lay in bed, sleepless, fearful, wondering how and when the empty places will be filled. Wondering how and when the anger will subside. Wondering how and when the many irresponsible and unresponsive people in my life will get their comeuppance. Wondering when I will stop feeling guilty for the anger, the wishes for revenge, and the unrelenting lust to leave all this behind and live a life for which I must give absolutely no accountability to anyone.

It is through this vast desert that God has watched over me. On this long journey, His hand has kept me safe. On the back and side streets of cities like Milan, Barcelona, New York, San Francisco, Portland, Chicago, Boston, Rome, Madrid, Salamanca, Savannah, Charleston, Stamford, Norwalk, Florence, Bologna, Paris, Waterford, Amsterdam, London, York, Bath, and so many more, I am never truly been alone, for the Lord my God has been with me. On the back and side streets of fear, desperation, depression, loneliness, disappointment, resentment, and abandonment, the Lord my God has been with me. No, I cannot explain it. Nor can I prove it. But I know that I know that I know that He has watched over me on this journey, this my life's journey.

During these forty years I have lacked nothing. I have never missed a meal - except by choice. I have never missed paying a bill - except when I have forgotten to send it in on time. I have never been without love, support, encouragement, and the presence of people who love me. My closet, my pantry, my sock drawers, my shoe shelves, my book shelves, my pen holders, my cosmetic baskets, and right now, my eyes are full to overflowing.

So you see, there is personal wisdom and application even in Deuteronomy.

Here is a favorite stanza from a poem by Ruth Forman called "The Journey."

"Let the journey continue
let us speak the same language in our many tongues
may the path lead us home may the journey lead us home...

"The journey long y'all the journey long
but we got company
pray we find it
know it like our hands..."

Thank you all for being my company on this journey.
May the path lead us home.
May the journey lead us home.

Blessings on your journey,
Gail

The Year in Review

Last week I embarked on the monumental journey of reading through this year's journals. I got the idea from an online group in which one of the women told of the great benefits of reading her entries, and I decided to follow her lead.

I began with volume 41 which had as its starting date the 11th of December of 2004. For those of you who are keeping score, that would be the 41st volume since the year 2000. I began numbering them at that point because of another journaling buddy who said she's been counting hers for years. Someday I hope to go back to the very first journal begun in 1984, and not only count but also read all of them.

Coming to the realization that I had filled 40 journals in four years served as a clear illustration of how prolific my journaling has been. I do not allow many days to pass without filling a few pages with thoughts, questions, complaints, concerns, prayers, hopes, dreams, anger, lust, fear, discontent, joy, jokes, quotes, and whatever else comes to mind or has been collected recently. I have enjoyed the rediscovery of stickers, collages, newspaper clippings, magazine articles, emails that moved me towards rage and others that inspired deeper thought - all of which are now glued into my journals. (Acid-free glue, of course.) I simply cannot imagine not writing.

While reading, I have made a few noteworthy decisions and discoveries.

Decision #1: I will never again include email or articles in my journal that are upsetting to me. I remember one particular email exchange early this year that actually caused me to yell out loud at my computer monitor. I don't often get highly incensed, but certain topics elevate my blood pressure and I wade into the fray with both fists pumping. For some unknown reason, I decided to print out those missives and glue them into my journal. A few days later, I already regretted that decision. At the time, I was working through a book called Being Peace which challenged me to seek peace, pursue it, and "be" peace in every situation of life. There is far too much strife, anger, revenge, and self-righteousness in the world already; I need to do my part to turn the tide towards peace. So why did I memorialize those feelings in my private papers? I do not know. Nor will I repeat that foolishness any time soon.

Decision #2 follows naturally after #1: Instead of immortalizing the bad stuff, I will make a determined effort to bring news of good cheer, of peace, of grace, mercy, and restoration to my journal in the days and months to come. There is far too much bad news on television, in the newspapers, on the Internet, not to mention all the tales of sorrow and suffering that come from the homes of people near and dear to me. The least I can do is make my journal a place of rest, of rejoicing, and of indomitable hope.

This year has been a year of hurricanes, earthquakes, fires, war, tsunami, racism, sexism, homophobia, divorce, death, and "four more years." This has been a year of tragedy at the SuperDome in New Orleans, in the subways of London, and in the privacy of our own broken homes. But it has also been a year of new babies, marriages, friends that make me smile, surprise visits, anniversary celebrations, trips across the ocean and across our nation, children that make me laugh, and a grand entrance into the second half of my life. I have written about all of these topics and many more here on the blog. I have discussed them with friends and enemies. I have wept over them. I have laughed because of them. I have changed and grown as well. I will write about "the bad stuff" elsewhere, developing articles and essays and blogs as well as pieces for other genres, but in the future, I'm going to try to keep my journal free of the worst of times and full of the best of times.

One funny journal reading moment: Two nights ago, after I put on my pajamas and slippers, I sat down on the floor of my study room to read what I'd been thinking and writing about eleven months ago. Here's what I read: "Monday, Jan. 10: I am on the floor of my study room. Purple robe. Blue slippers. Red sweatpants. Black socks. Burgundy top." I howled. At the moment I was reading those words, I was wearing my purple robe, blue slippers, black socks, burgundy top - and black pants. The outfit was almost entirely the same as it had been a year earlier. Some things haven't changed much.

One thing that has changed this year is my attitude towards homeschooling. I see traces of anguish and concern about what they were learning and how I was teaching in journal entries I made earlier this year. Are they learning enough? Do we spend enough time reading, writing, doing science experiments, and the like? Are they ready for the California Achievement Tests in April? What if they aren't doing enough? What if they are falling behind? What if going to England in March and Spain in May take too much time away from school?

What???????? Gail, get a grip. Taking them to the land of great literature, lengthy monarchies, fish and chips, and the broadest range of potato chip flavors on earth for 12 days comprises one of the best history, geography, social studies, and phys ed unit studies ever planned. A month in Spain, speaking, listening, watching game shows, living, shopping, exploring, eating, drinking, and making friends - all in Spanish - I couldn't teach them all of that here at home if Spanish were the only topic we covered for an entire year.

My response to those earlier episodes of concern: take a deep breath, relax, enjoy. We read plenty; this year we read the entire Chronicles of Narnia series. We talk about nearly every topic under the sun. The other day, we discussed labor unions and their influence on the workforce as a result of hearing about the transit strike in New York City. Last week we talked about whether or not it matters what greeting people use at this time of year. When we are bored with the lessons I prepare, we do an oral review of the state capitals. We do math problems in our heads. We play Pict-ades, our homemade combination of Pictionary and Charades. During our Christmas break from the regular schedule of schooling, both children have asked when we would continue with reading through the book of Deuteronomy in the Bible. Some people think those early books are dense and uninteresting; my kids have found them quite interesting. (We wonder who could possibly keep up with all the necessary sacrifices and laws recorded there. We thank God for Jesus who is the once and for all Passover Lamb!) Okay, so I have infected my kids with the virus of geekiness, but I make no apology. We enjoy ourselves tremendously. (And, of course, they passed every section of the CAT with flying colors.)

Speaking of geekiness, I have to sign off now because my daughter just asked if we can continue watching the "Pride and Prejudice" series we began yesterday, the one with Colin Firth. Yum, yum. But lest anyone think we are all work and no play, I can hear Daniel downstairs in the family room with a friend making really weird noises while they play PlayStation. It all evens out in the end. And it's all good.

This year in review can be summed up in a phrase oft quoted and ever true:
It was the best of times.
It was the worst of times.

May 2006 bring more of the same.

So this is Christmas...

Last minute shopping.
Wrapping gifts. Realizing we don't have the same number of gifts for the kids.
Still more last minute shopping.
Baking sugar cookies, peanut butter and Hershey's kiss cookies, lemon cake, key lime pie, and butterscotch squares.
Dusting and mopping the floor.
Doing laundry.
Calling a friend overseas to pass along Christmas blessings.
Sitting next to the tree.
Recalling where and when ornaments were purchased or made.
On our honeymoon. At Disney World. At Kwanzaa celebrations back in Connecticut.
At home on our chaotic, art-covered dining room table.
Listening to music.

And remembering this John Lennon song:
So this is Christmas
What have you done?
Another year over, a new one's just begun.
For weak and for strong
For the rich and the poor ones
The road is so long.

I ask myself: What have I done this year? Who have I loved? Who have I lost?
Have I remembered the near and the dear ones, the rich and the poor? The weak and the strong? I remember the sorrow of the tsunami, the horror of the hurricanes, the earthquakes, the bombings, the ongoing war. I also remember weddings, births, travel, lessons learned on foreign shores and right here at home.

But since this is Christmas, it's not about me. It's about Him. For me this year, many of my Christmas ponderings and wonderings have been about his pregnant mother, Mary. I know that many of my Protestant friends don't think about Mary very much: too bad for them. Mary gave birth to the One I call my Savior. She carried Him in her womb for nine months, nursed Him for at least nine months, weaned Him, watched Him, marveled at His very existence. She pondered many things in her heart.

On Christmas Eve, which, of course, was not Christmas Eve to her, Mary was weary from her travels. Dusty. She probably had a backache and swollen feet. She must have felt that common nesting instinct, but there was no nursery for her to decorate, no wardrobe of newborn pajamas for her to wash and fold neatly, and no cradle for her to prepare for her newborn child. There were no aunts, sisters, or grandmothers by her side to massage her swollen abdomen, prepare food, or assure her that all would be well. There was no midwife to instruct her and encourage her as she moaned and groaned her way through labor. Sure, she knew that her child was different from all the others. Sure, she knew that what was conceived in her was not of this world, and that must have been reassuring. Life-sustaining. But on one dark night, alone with her husband, surrounded by no choir of angels, Mary gave birth to Emmanuel, Jesus, the Messiah, the Shalom of God. Born a child and yet a king. Born to reign in us, in me, forever. It makes me weep just to think of it: She gave birth to the Christ Child.

So this is Christmas. What have I done? I look around the house, around the living room, and my answers to that question are obvious. The tree is heavy with ornaments, brightly lit and crowned with a star. The gifts under the tree are wrapped and ready to be torn open. But since this is Christmas, none of what I have done matters at all.

Since this is Christmas, then Mary's willingness to be the handmaid of the Lord matters far more than my meager contributions to our family holiday festivities. This year, this Christmas especially I thank Mary for allowing her body to serve as the package within which the greatest gift ever brought to earth was borne. I join in the chorus of all the generations before me who have heeded the early refrain of her song as recorded in the book of Luke: I call her Blessed, and blessed is the fruit of her womb, Jesus.

But what makes this Christmas is what God did.
For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son.
Joy to the world, indeed.

Have a very Merry Christmas!

There was room at the Inn...

but I think that is because Steve had made reservations several weeks ago. We checked in at 4 PM. I slipped into a warm bubble bath at 5 PM before pre-dinner cocktails in the enormous library and a delightful dinner in The Dining Room downstairs. A candlelit stroll through the Biltmore Estate filled my head with visions of sugar plums, parties, and horse-drawn carriage rides in decades gone by - all hosted by the Vanderbilt family. Of course, being moved along at a not-so-leisurely pace by earphoned security guards, ruffled and crushed by fur-coat wearing blue-haired ladies woke me from my celebratory stupor and spoiled the mood a tad. No matter. We picked out a few postcards for the children, a gift or two for family and friends, and made our way back to the Inn. We awoke at 9:20 on Saturday morning, quickly showered, packed, and made our way down to The Dining Room for breakfast before our 11 am check-out. The twenty-five minute wait was more than we were willing to endure, so we headed into downtown Asheville for breakfast, shopping, and lunch before heading back down the mountain into the Piedmont of North Carolina. It was a splendid way to enter a new decade of life.

As we walked the chilly streets of Asheville, as we shivered between shops there, as we listened to accounts of war, poverty, loss, and injustice on public radio in the car, as we drove through towns that had no power as a result of a recent ice storm, we became increasingly mindful of how blessed we are. We and our children are healthy while so many suffer with asthma, diabetes, and cancer. Steve has a job for which he is well-compensated while there are so many who are out of work and homeless. I am able to stay home with our children, homeschool them, travel widely with them, and plan future jaunts, while so many simply long for a reliable car to get back and forth to work and school. Ours is a favored life indeed.

When I compare the way I celebrated the 40th anniversary of my birth to the birth of Christ, the contrasts are glaring. It hardly seems fair that the One for whom all this Christmas hubbub is named was born into a temporarily homeless family to an unwed mother, at a time when promiscuous behavior was punishable by stoning. It hardly seems fair that the One whose glory the angels sang to shepherds in the field slept in a most ignoble place normally inhabited by beasts of burden. During the early years of His life, many of which were directed by the wisdom gleaned from dreams, this Holy One was spirited off to Egypt as an infant, brought back to Nazareth as a toddler, raised as a carpenter to adulthood, then died nailed to a cross made of the same kind of wood He had most likely carved into cradles, tables, and doorposts. His was not a favored life, at least not by today's standards.

I have heard many sermons that attempt to explain the Christmas story too simply. Some pastors say that He was born poor so that I can be rich. His simple birth paved the way for my rebirth. His humble beginnings parallel His humiliating death. I'm forgiven because He was forsaken. I'm accepted; He was condemned. I believe all of that is true, and in my head it makes sense. But my heart, my soul, the truest, hungriest places in me yearn for something more than that which can be explained logically. In fact, I am glad that it's not as simple as a three-point sermon of phrases that all begin with the same letter. Spare me the superficiality.

This story of Christmas is truly a mystery. May I never fully understand it. May I never be able to diagram it, parse it, conjugate it, and explain it away. May the wonder of this wonderful holiday always outstrip and overwhelm my small imaginings, my meager ponderings, and all the simple analogies my mind can conceive. The Love that Christmas embodies outshines all the glittery jewels I will ever own, is sweeter than all the cookies I will ever bake, and is deeper than any affection I now have and ever will have for everyone I know and claim to love.

Yes, my birthday celebration was special. The shopping was fun. The milk chocolate pecan frogs (The name "turtles" is owned by Nestle!) we found at The Chocolate Fetish were well worth the wait. Steve's company was much enjoyed, as was his remarkable generosity. But beneath, above, and beyond all of the tinsel, the lights, the trees, the food, the Frangelico, and the new earrings, there remains the quiet hum of anticipation, the undeniable expectation of something inexplicable, something that never changes, but is ever new.

Rob Mathes says it best in what is still my favorite Christmas song:
Bundled up, I know what's waiting for me
More than a pretty package next to the tree.
Something else, a gift far greater I know
Born in Bethlehem long ago...
To us is born
Every December anew
A love that's unbelieveable
Given to me, given to you...
I'm waiting here for Love again to be born.

May Love be born in your heart this Christmas.
All over again.
For the first time.

Oh Happy Day!

I'm one of those people who loves to reminisce. I often begin thoughts like this: "Thirty-two years ago at this moment, I was sitting in Santa's lap at the mall asking for..." "Three years ago last Thursday, we put our Christmas tree up for the first time in this house." "Two weeks ago right now, we were waiting for the results of the pregnancy test." That sort of thing. No, I haven't waited for the results of a pregnancy test in more than nine years, but I bet you're paying attention now, aren't you?

Seriously, yesterday at this time, Steve and I were enjoying a fantastic dinner at Campania, an Italian restaurant in our area with a well-deserved reputation for excellent food, fine wine, and impeccable service. The salmone aurora melted in my mouth, and the insalate caprino had just enough goat cheese and pine nuts to balance off the vinagrette superbly. Cake, candles, and lots of presents back here at home rounded out the perfect night. I managed to put my hand over Daniel's mouth to keep him from blowing out my candles just in time, little rascal. "Tonight it's all about me," were my exact words. Generous and kindhearted man that he is, Steve put only four candles on my cake - one for each delightful decade of my life.

Generous and kindhearted man that he is, Steve also made sure that every item on my wish list ended up in wrapping paper in the kitchen. Everything, except for the milk chocolate turtles which are out of stock at Dean and DeLuca, much to my deep dismay. I'll survive, I'm sure, but I had been looking forward to them for quite a while. I'll just have to wait until the chocolate case is filled again in order to indulge that whimsy of mine. (It occurred to me as I typed the last sentence that if the unavailablity of those sweets is my greatest birthday disappointment, then mine is indeed a good life.) Plus he more than made up for the missing pecan turtles by adding a true work of art to my collection of cross pendants with an ornate piece made by an Israeli artist. It is sterling silver encrusted with Swarovski crystals in various shades of blue and green. He also chose a sparkly snowflake necklace for me that will offset the red of the turtleneck I am planning to wear to tomorrow night's dinner perfectly.

Yesterday at this time, I was rereading emails and ecards sent by thoughtful, witty, fun-loving friends and family members whose greetings added to my good spirits on my big day. I will not soon forget your kind words and gestures. Today I received a gorgeous bouquet of yellow roses and calla lilies from my dear friend, Kim. To all of you who remembered and thought enough of me to send your warm wishes, I send my thanks, and I wish you great blessing in this Christmas season and beyond. May your days and nights be merry and bright.

Tomorrow at this time, we will be beginning our tour of the Biltmore Estate up in the North Carolina mountains. Apparently, the Biltmore is at its finest at this time of year with candles lit, carolers strolling around, and elegantly dressed visitors pretending that the massive estate is their own. I'm planning to let my imagination run wild as I traverse those wide corridors, glide up and down curving staircases, and welcome the guests to their stately guestrooms. Even though we will have only 30 hours away from the kiddies (but who's counting?), I am looking forward to dinner, a tour, and a night at the Biltmore Inn tomorrow, followed by breakfast at the inn and a lazy stroll along the streets of Asheville with my generous and kindhearted husband on Saturday. All alone. Just the two of us. What a concept!

No, I guess "Oh happy day" doesn't fit this description too well, does it? Perhaps "oh happy week" is better.

Am I really 40? Is that even possible?

My Top Forty...

Here I sit, on the eve of the first day of the second half of my life. In the words of the immortal James Brown, "I feel good." Tomorrow will be a busy day: breakfast at my Mom's house, Wednesday worship at noon under the teaching of my dear friend, Katie Crowe, followed by lunch with the kids, dinner with my husband, and an entire day threaded through with thoughts, prayers, journaling, and pondering the entirety of my life thus far, and wondering about what lies ahead.

One of my favorite songs by Billy Joel is called, "I've Loved These Days." In it, he recounts friendships, loves, and other highlights of his life to that point. In my own life, there are many friendships, loves, and highlights to be grateful for. I have loved these days, these 40 years of life on the planet. As I listened to Daniel play basketball on the driveway with his friends earlier today and realized that he's been building these friendships for over three years already, as I looked into her room and watched Kristiana set up her favorite toys for visit to imaginary worlds I cannot even dream of entering, as I stare into this computer screen and try to summarize what I am feeling right here right now, then I can truthfully say, "I've loved these days."

Sometimes when I think about the things I write here on the blog, in the essays I craft, and on the pages of my journal, I criticize myself for being a little too optimistic, for seeing life through rose-colored glasses a little too often, and skimming over the more serious events too lightly. Perhaps I am too cheery for some people, but my goal in life for several years now has been to find the light at the end of every long, dark tunnel, to find the lesson in every difficulty, and to look at the world around me with eyes full of compassion, peace, and love. It's not easy sometimes, I must admit. But with all the bad news, abuse, scandals, murders, wars, and mayhem that fill the airwaves and newspapers, I cherish this outlet where I can be positive, grateful, and hopeful on a regular basis.

Looking back on my life in the past few days, I have shed tears and laughed aloud at memories that have come back to mind. In no particular order, I'd like to share 40 of my favorite people, places, events, and remembrances.

1. Giving birth to my two children.
2. Earning my Master's degree from Wesleyan University with all A's.
3. Taking Kristiana with me up to the podium to receive that degree. She was 4.
4. Being with my father when he passed away in March of 2001.
5. Meeting and marrying Steve.
6. The decision to grow dreadlocs.
7. Discovering the literature of Alice Walker.
8. Being inspired by her to begin the practice of journaling.
9. Attending Poly Prep from the 7th grade until the 12th grade. Teaching there for two years after graduating from college.
10. Running the anchor leg on relay teams both in high school and college.
11. Going to Europe in 1986, especially Ireland, England, Amsterdam and Spain.
12. Learning Political Science and so much more from Carlos Egan.
13. Learning to speak Spanish fluently.
14. Going to Italy for the first time in October 2001.
15. Sitting alone in the cloister at the Santa Croce church in Florence.
16. The double rainbow in Bologna in 2002.
17. Moving to Charlotte.
18. Finding this house on the first day of house hunting in October 2002.
19. Sending and receiving email.
20. The first five minutes of being in bed on a cold winter night after a busy day.
21. Experiencing God by Henry Blackaby.
22. Beth Moore: her Bible studies, poetry, and contagious energy.
23. Teaching Women of Hope in Wilton, CT.
24. Resting my head on Steve's right shoulder.
25. Sinking into a warm bath, candles burning, music down low.
26. The way Steve proposed to me: "Gail, I love you. Will you marry me?" on a hotel marquis in Reading, PA.
27. Karen's visit this past weekend: what a fabulous surprise!
28. Being present for the births of all three of Karen's children.
29. Pinnacle 2000: seeing Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro, and many ports in between.
30. Traveling in New York, Massachusetts, Vermont, Spain, and beyond with my children. They are such intrepid, trusting, willing, open-minded, wide-eyed adventurers.
31. Meeting and befriending Antonio Allende, my favorite Jesuit priest.
32. Listening to and singing Christmas carols with my kids while I play the piano.
33. My entire book collection: it's hard to pick a favorite.
34. Sunbathing, reading, and looking at the water off Palomino Island, Puerto Rico.
35. Settling in at a table in a restaurant or coffee shop, alone, pens and journals spread out before me.
36. Kim Hooker's trip to Spain in early June to hang out with me: so very cool!
37. Having my own bedroom and bathroom for three years of undergrad life at Williams College.
38. Explaining phrases like " the phone was off the hook" and "I must sound like a broken record" to my technologically advanced offspring.
39. Standing in front of Velazquez' painting of the Crucifixion of Christ in the Prado in Madrid. It moves me to tears every time I see it. Every single time.
40. Knowing that I could write 40 more highlights and not even skim the surface of the many blessings I have known in this life.

I have loved these days. I look forward to the days that are yet to come.
Yeah for me!

Only four shopping days left...

until the Big Day! Yes, I am turning 40 on the 14th! Steve and the kids are out shopping even as I write. For the first time in many, many years, I made a list of the things I'd like for my birthday. Like most mothers, I am accustomed to receiving lists of desired gifts for my children's birthdays and for Christmas, but I have not made a list, actually written one down for decades. (It's strange that I can now use the word "decades" in reference to a time period within my own lifetime. A sign of the times, huh?) Last night I sat at my desk, pen in hand, paper before me and did a quick mental inventory of my study room, bedroom, closet, and secret stashes all around the house. I don't need more shoes, more skirts, more shirts, earrings, necklaces, or makeup. I've got plenty of pens, journals, books I haven't read, and enough bottles of cream, perfume, and nail polish to last until the next major birthday, I'm sure. I don't need a thing. Quickly, I sent up a prayer of thanks for this life that is beyond all I could ever have asked or imagined.

Forty. 40. Cuarenta.

Every few days, Steve takes my emotional temperature in relation to my birthday. The other day, he asked me what it feels like to no longer be able to say I'm "thirtysomething." I laughed. I've never referred to myself as thirtysomething. I've always freely told me age and will continue to do so. I will never be ashamed of the years I have lived. Each has brought its own set of joys, victories, and good memories. Each has also brought its own set of sorrows, pains, and losses. But each year has been a blessing, a gift, and each has transformed me and made me into the woman I am today. Last night, my daughter said that she's glad I'm not someone who is ashamed of my age. That meant a lot coming from my twelve year old daughter.

In the middle of our laughter about the "thirtysomething" reference, both Steve and I stopped middle snort and began to babble profusely about the show by that name that was on television in the late 80's or early 90's. Does anybody else remember that show about the two married couples and the two single people who were great friends in suburban Philly? One couple had two kids and was getting ready to be divorced. The other had two young children and a large house that was in constant need of repair. The two married men worked together at an ad agency that eventually went belly-up. The single guy was a college professor who slept with his students too often and wondered why he was never taken seriously by his colleagues. The single woman desperately wanted to meet the man of her dreams and wondered why her desperation was a turn off. Steve and I loved that show. We watched it with fascination. We were still in our 20's at the time with no children, or perhaps had only Kristiana but she was still a baby.

We couldn't imagine being so old, so mature, so engulfed in home ownership, advising friends with marital problems, and single friends who wanted to be married. We never thought we would ever be like them. I find it quite interesting that an entire decade of my life has passed and I don't recall thinking about that show once during our "thirtysomething" years. But I know exactly why I never thought about the show during the past ten years: We were living it out. Both of the homes we have owned during our 30's have demanded constant attention: cracks, leaks, painting, sanding, caulking, replacing, hiring workers to climb ladders and reach the things we don't dare to repair. We have cried with divorced friends, comforted their broken-hearted children, attended funerals at an increasing rate, and watched our children spring to new heights on a daily basis. Heck, we even have a dog! We really are adults now.

Almost three years ago, I made the promise to myself that when I reached my 40th birthday, I would be in the best shape of my life. At the time, I set a goal to weigh 15 pounds less than I did when I got married. I wanted six-pack abs, chiseled arms, and a sculpted back. I wanted a super modern dreadloc hairstyle, new makeup, and the best clothes money could buy. I wanted to make Steve proud to say that his wife was 40.

About three months ago, I realized that I wasn't going to weigh 15 pounds less than when I got married; ten pounds less would have to do. My arms are slender and strong. I've got nine-pack abs. And my back still supports my rather large, thickly dreadlocked head. I wear modest makeup, and I don't think I'll ever be able to justify buying a $275 pair of jeans. But I have still reached my goal of being in the best shape of my life.

I am happier with who I am now than ever before. I love my husband and children more than I ever have before. I have let go of old obsessions, fears, doubts, and worries in the past few months, all of which I thought I'd just have to live with forever. I am learning to release dying friendships, welcome new ones, and have arrived at a level of contentment with the relationships that I didn't think was possible. I am better able to listen to the problems and dilemmas of friends without taking on the responsbility to fix it all. I am more comfortable with and accepting of my body as it is than I have been for many years. I am strong of mind and spirit. I have a more fulfilling, joy-producing relationship with God than I have had before.

My greatest wish as I approach my 40th birthday is that all of these trends will continue.

In case you were wondering: A gift card from Caribou Coffee (a place kinda like Starbucks), a few colorful scarves, funky tights to wear with my skirts, and milk chocolate pecan turtles.
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To my UTTER SHOCK: My husband and children just returned from "shopping" with Karen Powell - my best buddy in the world. She flew down from Connecticut to be with me for the weekend. After I screamed and fell on my knees, she said, "You only turn 40 once. I had to come!"

Please forgive me for typos and grammatical mistakes. I've gotta go hang out with Karen!!!!!