Her Spirit

A young father talks of this three-year-old child who has just discovered these two words: "That's mine."

Whether the object in question really "belongs" to the child or not (a toy, perhaps), the boy marks it as his by saying those two words over and over again. "That's mine."

"It can be anything," says the father. "His pajamas. A toy. My pajamas. The dog. Everything he touches seems to him to be 'his.'"

Interesting question, that. What, really, can we claim to belong to us and us alone? Anything that matters?

I am not a really physically active person, but I don't seem to like sitting still, either. That's just one of the seemingly conflicting aspects of my personality. Anyway, I've had to stay put more than usual lately, and I'm trying to use my downtime wisely.

I've been sick, with a head cold that will not let me be. My husband, Precious, is trying to teach me that "resting" does not do you much good if you are writing on your laptop, reading your Kindle, and responding to text messages. 

I was several steps behind a family on the staircase at Davis-Kidd in Green Hills Mall when I heard one of the three children begin screaming, "I can't see Mommy! I can't see Mommy!"

Immediately the father picked up the smallest girl and lifted her so she could get a glimpse of her mother, who was ahead of the pack with the other two young ones. The screaming stopped, the tears were wiped away, and the family continued toward the door.

It's been said that confession is good for the soul. Part of me thinks this is true. 

At least I know I (usually) feel better after I talk to a friend about a remark I shouldn't have made, or when I whisper to Precious, "There's something I need to tell you." But watching the John Edwards story tonight on television, the one about his former aide who's written a "tell all" book, is making me feel kind of sick.

Following my dreams during the day comes somewhat naturally to me. Using my nighttime dreams as a way to connect with the Divine, not so much. But Laura Huff Hileman and "DreamPrayLive" may be about to change that.

The church I attend, St. Augustine's Episcopal Chapel, is located on the grounds of Vanderbilt University. Some Sundays you can hear the Life Flight helicopter as it comes and goes from the hospital. It happened this morning, just as we were beginning a time of silent prayer.

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If I’m craving Chinese food, I slide into a booth at Chinatown in Green Hills. When it’s time to replace the Subaru, Precious and I head down Broadway to bargain with Jim Reed. And if we’re talking live music, I prefer the Ryman, balcony, on the end. So I know where to find good sesame chicken, reliable automobiles, and Emmy Lou Harris. Mapping out where I will meet God is harder.