Her Spirit

"Don't forget me," said my precious, 89-year-old friend from church. For a while she and I had been visiting regularly when I would drive to her home and we'd talk and read books together every two weeks or so. Then she had a medical issue and went to be with her family in a nearby town for several months. Although our visits stopped, I still saw her at church on occasion. On a recent Sunday, she told me she was doing fine. And then she added those three words.

I was raised by volunteers. By that I don’t mean strangers took shifts packing my lunches and teaching me right from wrong. I do mean that my parents were often at nonprofit board meetings or helping with charity efforts instead of catering to my every whim.

“Those people needed us more than you did,” said my mother years later when I asked her about this. “It’s not like you were a toddler left unattended to play with matches.”

Please be proud. I survived my thirtieth high-school reunion. (The only reunion I've attended since graduating from high school in 1979.) Although I've wiped many teenage indignations from my memory, several of the more horrifying ones came roaring back Saturday night as I slapped on a nametag and tried to remember what's her name's name.

I'm just back from presenting a talk at the Ministry of Writing Colloquim at the Earlham School of Religion (ESR) in Richmond, Indiana. In 2000, ESR introduced me to the concept that writing can be a form of ministry. I had never considered such, and the invitation changed my life. In 2003, I had the privilege of serving as the writing fellow at ESR. It was during that time that I met Tom Mullen, a man who became my editor, my friend, my mentor--my father figure (my own father died in 2000). Tom died in June, and when I got the news I bawled like a baby.

My 24-year-old stepdaughter returned recently from a trip that took her out of the country for ten days. When she arrived in London on that first day, she sent her father and me a text message saying she was safe and happy. It was her first such trip, and we were excited for her. (Her mother died several years ago, so the three of us comprise our family.) We, as in the ones who worried when they didn't get another message--or voicemail, or email, or tweet, or FaceBook post, or smoke signal--for the rest of her trip.

My quest to "get in shape" continues. Toward that end, I've been working with a personal trainer for several months. I'm not, um, vigilant about it, and Sweet Stephanie lets me go at my own pace, for the most part. When I told her I couldn't come twice a week for a while, due to an unusually full travel schedule, she encouraged me to consider coming once a week. I think she said something about that being "better than nothing."

I guess I should be used to it by now, but I'm not. I haven't even gotten the moth ball smell out of my fall clothes. I haven't carved the pumpkin or roasted any chestnuts. Precious hasn't started bringing in logs for the fireplace. And yet, there it is: The premature presentation of Christmas.

Cards, decorations, recipes. Gift suggestions, wish lists, blow-up snowmen. Reminders of things I haven't done. Oh yeah, wait. It's not time to do those things.

My trip to New Hampshire was "supposed" to be full of golden leaves and ripe opportunities. Things did not go as I had hoped they would, although the scenery was swell, and had it not been for the presence of a new friend, a woman I have known for four months, and the appearance of an old friend, a woman I've known since the 1970s but hadn't seen in 13 years, I would feel legitimate in labeling the adventure a personal disaster. Okay, maybe not disaster, but a honkin' disappointment for sure.

First off, let me say that my fear is not of the Erica Jong variety. Instead, it's just me, a middle-aged woman getting on a plane--two of them, actually--for the first time in several years and freaking out about it.

Although I have long been a nervous flier, this was the first time I had felt almost immobilized. I like to say I'm not afraid of death, just that I'm afraid of death at 30,000 feet crammed next to an insurance adjuster from Omaha. Probably, though, I am scared of a lot of things.

I do not like to talk about politics. It rests solidly at the top of my list of topics I’d rather not discuss. Come to think of it, it’s just about the only thing on that list. Oh yeah, and finances.