While walking my dog, Quay, I noticed two Jack Russell Terriers running side by side. They were tethered by a leather strap, with enough slack to let them roam a bit, but not so much that they seemed in danger of becoming entangled. The man with them was not holding a leash, so the pups were on their own, as it were. It made me think about the “buddy system” from my days in elementary school. When planning for field trips, the teacher would pair off the students so that we could look out for one another while on the bus and in the art museum.

I promise not to write about shells again next week. But during my recent visit to the Alabama Gulf Coast, I found myself captivated with what washed up along the shoreline. Some of it was trash, but not so much that I was “grossed out.” A bottle cap here, a piece of a flip-flop there. Mostly, as I mentioned in “In Whole or in Part” earlier this week, I found bits and pieces of this and that: shells, rocks, wood, seaweed.

While walking along the shoreline of the Gulf of Mexico recently, I found myself preoccupied with shells. When not dodging jellyfish or crabs, I dipped my small, hand-held net into the water, anticipating what might come up. Sand dollars? Oysters? Buried treasure?

My father played many roles in the small Methodist church in Mississippi in which I was raised: committee chair, board member, financial supporter, legal adviser. But the role I most remember him for was usher.

A couple of times a month I visit with an elderly woman from my church. I began going through my volunteer work with Stephen Ministries, an outreach program in which laypeople are trained to assist church members who need companionship as they make their way through difficult life situations. We do not pretend to be priests or counselors. Instead, as simple as it might sound, we listen.

A friend of mine works with the National Health Care for the Homeless Council (NHCHC), based in Nashville. She was recently quoted in one of the agency’s publications, Healing Hands (Vol. 12, #5: August 2008). Her remarks are worth sharing here because her insight into the assumptions of language can inform us when we reach out to people in need.

When I returned home from having dinner with my husband at a restaurant the other night, I found my closest Nashville girlfriends gathered around the dining room table. At 47, I had never had a surprise birthday party before. (Unless you count the one at Camp DeSoto when I was about 12. Because I have only the dimmest memory of it, and one blurry photograph, I’m choosing not to.)

Word came this week that Randy Pausch, Ph.D., professor and author of The Last Lecture (Hyperion, 2008), died from complications of pancreatic cancer. You may have seen him on Oprah or watched his presentation on YouTube. If you are not familiar with Pausch, I recommend him to you (http://download.srv.cs.cmu.edu/~pausch/).

As women we hear, and read, a lot of advice about keeping fit, losing weight, and the like. For many of us, our health is the reason we get up off the couch to hit the gym or race-walk around the neighborhood. But another reason you might want to get out is to give back to the Nashville community.

As a middle-aged woman who is concerned about such health issues as cholesterol and menopause, just to name two, I am on the lookout for ways to integrate my spiritual beliefs with my health practices. Although I don't need scientific studies myself, I am glad to see that research is being conducted on prayer as it relates to one’s health.

While my sister was fingering the linens at an estate sale in our hometown of Jackson, Mississippi, she noticed her friend Sally Sue’s mother combing through a pile of National Geographic magazines.

“Please don’t let my daughter do this to me when I’m gone,” she said to my sister before making her way toward a box of assorted Tupperware lids.  “Promise me you won’t let her sell my teacup collection when I’m gone.”

Recently I stood in line behind a young girl who requested two cups from the cashier at a deli.

“What for?” asked the woman behind the counter.

“Just to put water in,” came the girl’s response. She was pigtailed and precious. The woman handed her the clear, plastic cups. No money changed hands. Then the child proceeded straight to the drink machine and filled the cups with ice and soda. She did not look back.

While at the Chautauqua Institution (www.ciweb.org) last week, I sought out the labyrinth at the edge of the 750-acre campus. The weather was hot and dry, the walk long, and I got lost more than once. By the time I found the spot, I was in desperate need of release and reflection.

As the tragedy of 9/11 unfolded, I was in desperate need for companionship. I lived alone, and although my dog, Quay, did what she could to comfort me, I longed for human interaction. After watching hours of heart-wrenching television by myself, I went in search of community. As I made my way to my friend Sheri’s house—several of us single gals had decided to get together to watch even more heart-wrenching television—I stopped off at my church, which was situated between Sheri’s house and mine.

I am not what you call an “outdoorsy” sort of gal. I cannot make fire out of twigs or catch fish with my bare hands. Sure, I went to Camp DeSoto like many of the other girls from my grade school in Jackson, Mississippi. While there, Anna Glen and I managed to get our canoe stuck in the lake and we had to be towed back to shore. Maybe even more humiliating, I burst into tears every time the counselors tried to hoist me on a horse. Not a great start for any future forays into the wilderness.

Mea culpa. Although I am a law-abiding, God-fearing woman, I must confess that I did not go to church on this sultry Sunday morning in June. I wish I could regale you with an impressive list of heart-wrenching excuses, but alas, I cannot. My husband isn’t sick; my dog has not run away. The car cranks right up, and I got plenty of sleep last night. I simply didn’t go.