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I sighed on seeing the candle she lit in the chapel while her beloved was with the doctor, alone. I know zillions—the list is too long—who are the Ones for their other halves. Surgeries, ICU stays, a straight-forward (as they say) procedure must be born on the outside of the four walls. Blessings on the healers who shepherd our dear Ones through and return them to us in one piece. For now.  

Now I know another reason we women prefer the terms “marida” or “marido” in Spanish to signify “a married one, female or male.” “Las esposas” are handcuffs. To think we esposas would ever tie up another’s wrists and agency.  

I brought three books with me while away in Mexico: 1) The Message (the physically smallest version of the Bible I own; I wanted to keep up with my study mates), 2) Crazy, Cracked, Warm and Deep (freshly published memoirs by my sister) and 3) The Church Cracked Open (for book group gathering when we get home). Yesterday I finished Susan B. Clarke’s memoirs. Today I read 1 Corinthians and the Introduction to Stephanie Speller’s treatise. I am in tears. These are exactly the books for me now.

*Japanese art of repairing cracked or broken pottery with gold.  

Driving the I-90 bridge, I tighten. My heart constricts. Drip, drip—calcium deposits in another joint, building my armor of protection. I remember when we were young and driving East. Wild and carefree. The mountains were magnetic. Traffic moving, at breakneck speed. I was driving the orange Datsun. Flying along, weaving between lanes. When BANG!…the little vehicle tilted around me, still plowing along but now sparks were shooting from the back left side. What the hell?!

No wonder I am vigilant.

Here I am, decades later. The nuts on this car are tight; the wheel won’t come off. Still, I tense, remembering. Now, my friends are the magnets. I whizz through fog to the lake’s edge, then the forest. The chance to ponder and write on this gorgeous morning shines, like a jewel. Sharing splendor is compelling. Deep joy is worth any risk.

The other day I took cookies to a friend. She and her sisters are clearing out the home where they grew up. Their 96-year-old mother has moved into a retirement home. Um, hard and loving work.

I can relate. I am one of three girls too. Our mother is old.

Recently I resurrected this chart about clear communication (©pd Seminars). Maybe I will put the diagram beside my computer when I talk with my sisters via Zoom on Monday nights. Just to remind myself how important clarity and the hard work of loving is.