Joanne

Joanne at the ranch --her favorie place when we were younger

Joanne Griffith Amaral was one of my besties in high school.  We shared a locker all those years, remaining friends through a lot of ups and downs.   Years later, she and I had children at the same time.  The relationships  with the kids' fathers did not work out, but the kids saved our lives.  When I returned home to Tracy, Joanne and I reconnected.  We went shopping together (for them), shared mothering tips, and babysitting services.  Years later, when we both lived in suburban domiciles, we reconnected again.  While Mario and I lived in Africa, Joanne and I kept in touch.  Joanne had many ups and downs in her life but loved her career as a nurse.  We both shared intimate secrets about the secret parts of our hearts, just like we did when we were fourteen. 

That was Joanne- my touchstone friend.  Last week –out of the blue—I saw on Facebook that Joanne was sick.  Janet Langley (another friend from high school, and Joanne’s long-time bestie) messaged me that Joanne was in the hospital  with sepsis.  I was in shock…and promised to pray.  The next day I was walking around, praying a lot, but remembering Joanne and who she is to me.  She was a friend to a lot of people.

Everyone has a Joanne story. 

I have several, but the one I will tell you here is a bit dark and (quite frankly) one I think twice about sharing publicly.  When we were very young, about fifteen, Joanne and I were at “the ranch”—her Grandpa and Grandma’s house—when we decided to get drunk together.  We opened a fifth of Jack Daniels (I don’t remember how we got it, but we got it) and drank it all in one afternoon, with me drinking the lion’s share.  Later that night, Joanne held my head as I hurled into her grandma’s toilet, swearing that I would never drink again. 

You all know that promise—many of you made it before.  Like most of you, I lived to drink another day.  It wasn’t until adulthood that I remembered that story, when I was in counselling, sorting through a truckload of emotionally messy baggage.  At one point, I said to my counselor, “It’s like you’re holding my head as I throw up in a toilet!”

Then I remembered Joanne. 

The day we decided to get drunk was an emotionally messy day for me as well.  My boyfriend had just broken up with me, and Joanne’s boyfriend never really was there for her anyway.  We decided that our guys weren’t worth crying about and could go to hell as we drowned our sorrows.  Up until the throwing up part, we were having a really good time.  Joanne was my friend who was there for me during many emotionally messy times.  She was the calming presence in my turbulent teen years.  She was a true friend.  I told my counselor this story, and she smiled.  “We all need those friends who hold our heads over the toilet as we puke our guts out, both literally and figuratively.”

A few days after that counseling appointment, Mario and I saw a stranded female motorist as we exited the freeway.  Her car must have broken down as she pulled over.  We stopped, since she was alone and her hood was up. 

“You approach her,” Mario (ever the cop) told me.  “If she sees me approaching her she may get scared.”

I got out of the passenger side door and walked over to her on the grassy part of the off-ramp.  The motorist got out of the car, seeing me approach.  I heard her say, “Janet?”

It was Joanne.  We hugged, completely in awe about such a strange "coincidence."  After we recovered, Mario and I drove Joanne to a nearby garage and arranged for a tow.  While she waited to rent a car, I told her all about my recent counseling and how I told my counselor the story about us partying at the ranch.

“Oh, Janet,” Joanne said, smiling. “You were so wasted!  I was afraid you were going to die.  You kept saying ‘Just let me sleep!  Jst let me sleep!’ but I said, ‘If I let you sleep you’re going to die.’”

After this side-of-the-road “coincidence” Joanne and I kept in touch.  

Joanne and her friend, Joyce Cunningham--Nursing was so important to her!!

She struggled with many things, but loved her life.  She was flawed, but was genuinely beautiful and grace-filled.  She absolutely loved her children…and those of us with adult children know all the challenges that are attached there.  But most of all, Joanne loved her grandchildren—they made her young again. 

Joanne as a grandma.  Her oldest grandchild is now a teenager!!

When I heard that Joanne had contracted sepsis, I knew exactly what that meant.  I had seen many people die of sepsis in the third world.  It kills people fast—it’s ruthless.  I thanked God we lived in America, where the care is exceptional and doctors usually catch it before it gets out of control.  But this case was a particularly terrible strand that was relentless.  

As hard as the doctors worked, as hard as Joanne fought, and as hard as we all prayed, Joanne left this world in the wee hours of Wednesday morning.  Her beautiful mother and children left behind, devastated. 

Janet Langley and I texted each other (like the fourteen-year-old girls we felt like) on Wednesday morning.  She stayed home from work; I went to school, unable to sit still.  This can’t be happening. I kept thinking.  Joanne was one of those friends who was always there…she was always there.

These days I don’t drink anymore, I live one day at a time—and some of you know what I mean. The news of Joanne passing hit me hard--but I have to confront the pain rather than turn from it.   I am sad that the world lost such a person. I have no doubt that Joanne is in heaven now.  From the conversations we had, most of them pretty deep, I understood that Joanne's faith was in God alone.  She was not heavily religious, but I never met a more grace-filled person.  Never.

My beloved friend…without Joanne I would not be here.  Literally. 

One of Joanne's favorite pictures, with the love-of-her-life, Kevin (KSJ)

Lilli

Lilliana Grace
at Mahaffie’s Historic Stagecoach Stop and Farm in Olathe 

When you love someone, really love someone, you want to know everything about them.  This used to apply mostly to Mario – the love of my life –as I tried to learn everything about him in order to love him better.

The older I get, the more this principle applies to my grandchildren.  It is especially true for Lilliana Grace, my enigmatic granddaughter who is happier to observe most conversations than participate in them.  Because I want so very much to know her, I spy on her.  

To be part of her world, I have researched Josh and Tyler, watched several Jack Septic-Eye videos and know who segue-way Steve is.  I know which emojis describe her.  I know that she has incredible relationships with colors because she is an artist (and how she prefers to wear certain hues while she paints her room dark)  

Because I love her, I want to know everything about her.  

Beautiful Lilliana

The last time we spent significant time together (this past August), I figured out something else beautiful and significant about Lilli: she remembers things.  She can store  details and facts that “normal” kids forget. Random things that we heard in passing, or trivial details about a destination and kept track 

We took a trip to Mahaffie’s Historic Stagecoach Stop and Farm in Olathe on perhaps the most beautiful day of summer.  I sighed as we walked down to the coach.

“This is so beautiful, isn’t it?”  I motioned to the rolling sorghum fields, the red barn in the distance and the Poplar trees, whose leaves were blowing in the warm breeze. 

“Did you know that Olathe means ‘beautiful’ in another language?” Lilli asked, looking up at me. 

“Does it?” I asked, smiling.  The air was so warm and the sky was so blue and that day will forever be etched into my heart because Lilli glowed with summer as she told me. 

It turns out that Olathe does literally translate to “beautiful” in the Shawnee tongue.  When Dr. John Barton arrived in the spring of 1857,  the prairie was covered with verbena and other wild flowers. Barton asked his Shawnee guide how to say “beautiful” in his native language. The interpreter responded, “Olathe.”

Last Christmas!! Lilli in striped shirt in front

Because Lilli lives with her siblings (Max and Lauren) in Kansas and Mario and I live in California, our relationship is not the traditional Grandparent-grandchild type.  My own Grandma lived in the same city as I did as we grew up – she wore only dresses, didn’t drive a car, and hung her wash on a clothesline.  She baked cookies and sang songs in Spanish.  I loved her deeply and still think of her as a driving force in my life, an inspiration.  I want to be that kind of my Grandma to my Grandchildren, but today things are more complicated.  Lilli has four sets of grandparents – and we are the furthest away. 

But love knows no boundaries.  Love has the power to skip over natural barriers as easily as stones skip over water.  Lilli is in my daily prayers and I carry her with me wherever I go.  Because she is so incredibly valuable to me, I will continue to learn about her and find new reasons to love her.

Today, our Lilli will blow out candles on a birthday cake and the glow of her candles will light up her face like she lights up the world.

Happy Birthday, Lilli.  I hope you know that I do see you, even when you think I can’t, I do.  You are amazing, creative, brilliant, and loving.  I am so proud of you, honey.

 Oh! And BTW – did you know that your name, Lilliana means “beauty” in another language?  True story.  

Cisneros

“He said that he would love me like a revolution, like a religion.  Abuelita burned the pushcart and sent me here, miles from home, in this town of dust, with one wrinkled witch woman who rubs my belly with jade, and sixteen nosy cousins.”

~from “One Holy Night” by Sandra Cisneros

Sandra Cisneros

photo by Jessica Fuentes

Sandra Cisneros was born on a Monday – December 20, 1954 in Chicago.  Her father, Alfredo Cisneros de Moral was born in Mexico and met his wife, Elvira Cordero Anguiano in America, where they married . Sandra was the third of seven children, the only daughter in the family. She moved frequently during her childhood and visited Mexico often.  Cisneros found a creative outlet in writing, later earning a BA in English from Loyola University of Chicago and an MFA from the prestigious Iowa Writers Workshop in the late 1970's.  Her unique voice, a working-class, Mexican-American woman with artistic sexuality, was different from everyone else’s at Iowa and writer's workshops were often painful.

The experience of celebrating how she was different, not only from other students at Iowa but with any author in print, eventually led to her book, The House on Mango Street, which was published in 1984.  It won the Columbus Foundation's American Book Award in in 1985, and instantly became an American favorite.  Also an accomplished poet, Cisneros published two full-length books of poetry: My Wicked Wicked Ways and Loose Woman.   Woman Hollering Creek and Other Stories (my personal favorite) was released in 1991 and Caramelo in 2002.  Her latest work, A House of my Own:Stories From My Life, is a memoir of collected, interlocking essays of  personal stories about family, travels, moving, and the challenges (and delights) of a single woman journeying solo. "So often you have to run away from home and visit other homes first before you can clearly see your own," she told the Los Angeles Times in October of 2015.  

When We Met:  Believe it or not, I just started reading Sandra last winter.  I was at the Sacramento Poetry Center, doing a public reading of one of my short stories, “The Puzzle” when a girl came up to me afterward and remarked how much my story reminded her of The House on Mango Street.  I was nonplussed, and told her I’d never heard of the book. She nearly fell over.  She told me that I had to RUN to buy it and read it.  After that meeting, I vowed to start reading Cisneros and did.  I was moved, on more than one occasion, to tears as I read her well-constructed stories of lives leaning against one another, struggling to find a true identity that s somewhere between Mexico and America.  She has a deep and true voice of a Latina – and she makes me think she is related to me as she tells tells a story.  "You know the one," she says.   "I'm not like the Allport Street girls who stand in doorways and go with men into alleys..." she tells me, and I agree, nodding my head.  "I know, mi amiga, we are not like those girls.  But we have made some bad decisions about love, verdad?" 

Why She’s Good:  Being Latina-American, I can say that there is a piece of myself that lies just below the surface of who I am – and never comes out.  It is too polite.  It has been taught to be subservient.  Sandra gives that piece of myself permission to surface and dance with her as I read.  For a Latina reader, Sandra Cisneros es no apenas escritor, pero ella es mi hermana!  In other words, she expresses my heart in its fullness and makes me feel like I am right there with her.  The moment I started reading Sandra Cisneros I wanted to go hug my Mom.  I wanted to reunite with my Grandma.  I wanted to celebrate being Latina, Latina, Latina - with no apologies!

Plot Variations:  A sister and her loud, noisy brothers take a yearly journey with their parents from Chicago to the "Little Grandfather’s and Awful Grandmother's" house in Mexico City for the summer.  A girl who wants to find significance falls in love with a man who turns out to be a serial killer.  Emiliano Zapata’s girlfriend tells a story of loneliness, understanding, and being constantly abandoned by her lover, who is off “revolutionizing the country.”  A girl living in a poor Chicago suburb seeks out a meaningful life and freedom as she learns to appreciate her neighbors.

Buy One:  While others will try to persuade you to buy The House on Mango Street, I believe that there is greater depth in Woman Hollering Creek, the book that made me howl at the moon and declare Cisneros a sister.  I’m going to recommend Audible for the first time here.  Woman Hollering Creek is actually paired with Loose Woman, a book of amazing poetry, both read by Sandra herself.  You will get to hear the familiar stories in her own voice, and for the way she writes, it is best this way.   If you haven’t used audible yet, now is the time!  It’s awesome! Available here.

Favorite Quote:  "Perhaps all memory is a chance at storytelling and every story brings us closer to revealing ourselves to ourselves."

Trivia:  Cisneros' books have been translated into over a dozen languages, including Spanish, Galician, French, German, Dutch, Italian, Norwegian, Japanese, Chinese, Turkish, Greek, Iranian, Thai, and Serbo-Croatian.

Pain in Motion: Great writers find their voice in deep-seated insecurity or rejection.  Cisneros remembers many childhood moves, which involved changing residences, not only in the USA, but also back to Mexico to be near her paternal grandmother.  She admits that her family’s impermanence affected the way she viewed her life.  “We moved like the tides," Cisneros told Publishers Weekly in 1991.  “From Mexico back to another barrio of Chicago that looked like France after World War II—empty lots and burned-out buildings."  The moving continued for many years. Cisneros noted that her grandmother's Mexican home was the only constant in a series of traumatic upheavals.

11:00 p.m.

At 11:00, in a small coffee house on the outskirts of Paris, France, Jean Sivoya waited patiently for his date, a woman named Louisa who was supposed to meet him two hours earlier. The stone walls and wooden floorboards of the Café seemed to breathe of deep history. The boundaries of the simple meeting place, situated so close to the Sorbonne, were alive with stories.

Jean considered the sidewalk terrace that looked out on to a tiny square, where a couple who had been here for hours danced romantically.  He had switched from coffee to wine twenty minutes ago and paid the eight Euro for the Chateau Morgan, throwing caution into the wind.

He had taken a taxi three hours earlier, not wanting to be late for his first date to the Café. Now Jean was getting ready to call another. He would have done so had he not been interrupted by the clacking of high heels running at an ill-advised speed, straight toward him.

He looked up and saw her, a vision of loveliness wearing a gold chiffon dress that billowed as she ran toward him.  Her face was an inverted triangle; her legs, two spindles in high heels and her arms steadied her like wings as she approached. 

“Are you Jean?” she yelled, trying to slow herself down. The romantic dancers released each other and turned toward them, gawking unapologetically at the young woman who disturbed the ambiance of their romantic evening.  Jean rose to his feet, arms positioned to catch her, lest she fall of trip. 

“I am Jean,” he said, nervously.  He bit his lip, embarrassed.  The entire café was staring at them now. 

She was breathless; Jean saw that the beautiful girl was flushed from her exercise; she must have been running for some time. She wore no makeup, but never had he seen such amazing eyelashes.  The color of her eyes was watery green; her skin, pearlescent. 

“You’re not going to believe what happened to me,” she said, trying to catch her breath.

“Please,” Jean motioned to a black steel chair, hoping the girl would be seated. 

She sat quickly, placing both of her hands on her heart.  He saw her delicate white hands settle like doves against the plunge of gold chiffon; she suddenly leaned forward and took his hand.  With intimate speed, she placed it between her breasts.  “Feel my heart beating,” she whispered.  

“Honestly, you will not believe what just happened.”

Jean’s lips felt numb; his own heart raced at the feel of her skin.  He couldn’t think of anything to say, and when she released his hand it fell, limply to his side.  He was embarrassed.  Her mouth, a cupid’s bow, moistened with a gleam of gloss, asked him if he would mind if she told him her story.  “It is the story, after all,” she said.  “That led me here.  Poor darling, did you think I wasn’t coming?  I am two hours late!  Nevertheless, I am here now, am I not?”

Jean nodded in agreement and looked over his shoulder for a waiter.  A tall, aproned man  dove behind a curtain, trying to pretend he wasn’t staring.

 “I was in Los Angeles just yesterday, you know,” she began.  “The city is very difficult to understand.  It has quite a lot of people living there and none of them seem to care much for one another.  Nevertheless, I was there.  Might I have a sip of your wine?”

Jean forced himself to stop watching her mouth.  “Yes,” he said, sitting up straighter.  “I was just trying to summon a waiter…” He looked around again and saw the waiter at another table.  Jean cleared his throat in an attempt to call him over.  The waiter walked toward them, but turned back to the bar when Jean signaled for another glass of wine to be brought.

She put the wine glass down and exhaled.

“That is just what I needed,” she said.  “You must think I am mad, carrying on like this.  Did Philippe tell you I was mad?  I might guess he did!”   She covered her mouth with her white fingers and giggled into them.  Jean smiled.

“Anyway, Los Angeles.  I was there yesterday.  There are so many things happening there.  I actually saw a talking hot dog, but that’s a whole other story!”  Jean smiled, catching sight of himself in the mirror and seeing a ridiculous look of smitten foolery.  He tried to wipe the look off his face, picking up the glass she just put down and lifting it to his own lips.  He could see the faint imprint of lip gloss on the rim; it made him fantasize about kissing her.

The waiter returned with a tall glass of white wine and placed it in front of Jean, who was staring again.  “Oh, it is for the lady,” he said, motioning to his date.

“I’m sorry,” Jean said to her, as soon as the waiter disappeared.  “I don’t even think I introduced myself,” he said, leaning forward with an extended hand.  “I am Jean.”

“Yes, silly,” she said, smiling coyly.  She had two dimples; one was deep set in her right cheek.

“And you are Louisa?” he asked her, knowing the answer already.

“Yes,” she said, picking up her own glass of wine and drinking.  She never took her eyes off of him.  He could see her mouth take in the golden beverage through the clear crystal.   He could smell the roasting of coffee beans, but he knew it would be the wine they would remember.  They would tell their grandchildren about the wine- the crisp beautiful Chateau Morgan that would bring them together.  He would speak into the microphone on their wedding day and tell their guests that he knew the moment he saw her, flying over the tiles in high heels across the tiny square.

“What happened?” he asked her, almost as an afterthought.  In truth, it didn’t matter what happened; it was all over for him.  He had arrived at his life’s destination. 

“Well,” Louisa said, with a dimpled glow.  She extended her lovely white hand to him and he held it in his.  The action stunned her; confused her. 

“Look, darling!  Look at my hand!”

Jean took his eyes off the green pools of water and into her delicate white hand; it was there he saw the ring.  A brilliant white diamond on a gold band rested freshly on her fourth finger; he froze.

“Did you get engaged?”

Louisa erupted in giggles.  “Yes, darling!  I am engaged!  My former boyfriend picked me up at the airport.  What a surprise that was!” She told Jean the rest of the story with delighted abandon.  He watched her mouth, a proud and demonic weapon, spew forth the happy story.  Her ex-boyfriend met her at the airport repentant for his actions and got down on one knee.  She accepted him; she never fell out of love with him.  They were meant to be together.

At the end of the story, she picked up the glass of wine and drank, never taking her eyes off of Jean.  He wondered why she drank like that; it had to be the tool that Satan used to contract desperate humans into signing their life away.  She was indeed his messenger; he had no patience for her games.

“Why did you show up here?” he asked, finally.

“Well,” she said, sighing.  “I couldn’t imagine the thought of you sitting here, abandoned and feeling like I had no respect for you.” She looked at him, her eyelashes curling like the burning legs of a spider thrown into a cauldron.

“I see,” he said.  With that, both stood up and hugged.  He mumbled a congratulatory something and she thanked him profusely for waiting for her.  It showed his character, she said.  His character was a strong one, she said. 

He sighed and called the waiter for the bill.  Again, he dove behind a curtain, pretending he hadn’t heard anything.   

beautiful

Today, in my hand –

I held something beautiful.

It melted into my flesh

And tasted sweet.

I felt the rush of thunder

Like sugar-frosted methadone

And unwavering rabbits

Blue against my temples.

Because.

Because…

The taste was more than beauty-

More than safety

More than honey

The words were a symphony

Of light.

friday

Photo Credit

And one will say to him, ‘What are these wounds between your arms?’ Then he will say, ‘Those with which I was wounded in the house of my friends.’

                                                                                          Zechariah 13:6

Our faith is based on one God who had ONE begotten son; He became a righteous sacrifice to make us presentable to the Father.  The thought is brutal – and violent.  Jesus’ crucifixion was the required act to allow me access to God.  Without Good Friday, we would have no hope- no religion. 

The crucifixion happened on the same day as the beginning of the Jewish Feast of the Passover: a festival that celebrates the Exodus of God’s Holy people from Egypt.  The last of all the Egyptian plagues was the death of the firstborn son – or the hope of the family.  To escape this plague, God commanded Moses to sprinkle “the blood of a perfect  lamb” over their doors: the north, south, east and west.  Can anyone say that the two events are coincidence?  At Passover, the blood of a righteous sacrifice at the entry of a dwelling place saved them from death - and was in the shape of a cross.  On Good Friday, God gave us HIS sacrifice - the sacrifice of His own Son - to release us from our inheritance of sin and death; His Blood will save the lives of all who believe.

The cross is an absolute perfection.  It is the greatest miracle for Christians; it is our identity.  That’s maybe why we wear them and hang them in our homes.  Without the cross, we are a hopeless people, playing church with each other.  On this day – Good Friday -  Jesus fulfilled most of the Messianic prophecies.

The death of God’s righteous sacrifice was the price for my life - and God paid it.

I am humbled by this and will never fully understand it until heaven. 

Find us on the A-List Brazen Princess

origins

Twelve Days of Christmas Pictoral

There are a lot of teachings about Christmas Carols.  Some of them are so good that I want to believe them – but I can’t.  I am and I am a seeker of truth, which is a force as powerful as it is beautiful.   

My favorite mythical explanation is about “The Twelve Days of Christmas”.  Storytellers allege that it began as a code, a secret catechism of sorts, sung to teach children in the late middle ages by Catholics in England (after Parliament emancipated the Catholics).  Since they were prohibited to practice their faith, the ever-musical church invented the lyrics to teach children the foundations of their faith they were forbidden to discuss openly.

It’s a heartwarming story, but I have found no supporting history of this.  Instead, I found that this misnomer was begun (at the earliest) in the 1980’s – and in America.  I think the story of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” was mistaken for another carol, one called “A New Dial” taught to children around the same historical period, using a clock as a model (An almanac from 1625, in the Bagford Collection, contains the song "A New Dial"  already quite old when the almanac was printed).  Since TWELVE is a number that signifies Biblical completion -and speaks of perfect, balanced government-  it makes sense that the songs were mistaken for each other.  They were sung by the same people in the same country... Weren't they?

In truth, Christmas carols such as The Twelve Days of Christmas DO speak of Christ – and of God’s incredible heart to give to His people.  This particular song has been sung through years of drought, famine, plagues, and the crusades.  Their lyrics were designed to intrigue people when the majority of the population could not read (Christianity was not forbidden, but Bible reading was not the norm).   As much as they were celebratory, Christmas carols were evangelical in nature.

From my research, this is what I know about the carol that we have grown to love as a people – and still don’t know very well:

What we do know is that the Twelve Days of Christmas is that it signifies the TWELVE DAYS between the celebration of birth of Christ (December 25) and when the Catholic church celebrates the coming of the Magi (Epiphany, January 6). 

The song’s earliest printed version was in the 1780 children's book Mirth Without Mischief .  "The Twelve Days of Christmas" was originally printed in French (which makes sense since the partridge wasn’t brought into England until the late 1770’s).   

It is sung about a one-way love-affair.  The joyful caroler sings: “On the first Day of Christmas my TRUE LOVE gave to me…”  There is never a “and I gave to Him…”

We see from the very beginning that God’s love to us is what defines our holiday – our receiving was a surprise.  The benevolent giver was “my true love” – sung by both men and women.

Christians were taught to use this term carefully – because it was reserved for God.  The early church wouldn’t even say His name outside of prayer (it was considered reckless or even blasphemous) – but they confessed that their HEAVENLY FATHER was their true love.

Tomorrow, I’ll begin the song.  It will count-down to Christmas, rather than Epiphany.  It will hopefully be as delightful as it is evangelical. 

emeralds

photo credit

Once upon a time in a Kingdom of Peace, there stood an Emerald colored castle by a large lake.  Inside lived a King and Queen who were deeply in love with each other.  

Each day they would rise from their sleep and have breakfast  together at a crystal table, overlooking the lake.  Most of the time their breakfast was eggs and waffles made from the finest ingredients that were naturally grown and collected in their peaceful Kingdom.

The reflection of the castle upon the water was full of so much beauty that the King and Queen would stare for hours.  They were so happy and wanted nothing more than to have a child, a bundle of joy that would make their lives complete.  Unfortunately, the King and Queen were not able to have children and it made their hearts very sad.

One day, after breakfast, the Queen and all of her friends were down in the garden cutting roses for the royal flower arrangements.  As they did, the Queen pricked her finger upon a thorn  and fell down to the ground in a faint.

Her friends, thinking that she had only fainted from pain, tried to fan her and bring her water. Still,  the Queen would not wake up.  The friends sent word to the King, who stopped what he was doing and ran to the Queen at once.  He tried to revive her, but it was no use. 

“Fetch the doctor!” the King called to his servants, who ran into the town and came back with the doctor, who had his medical bag. 

The doctor tried his best with all of his medical knowledge to revive the Queen, but he could not.   Instead, he ordered the servants  to take the Queen up to her room and lay her down in her bed so that she not be harmed by anymore rose thorns.

Days past and the Queen would not wake up.  The King could neither sleep nor eat, knowing his true love was sleeping from an unknown malady from which she might not wake.  

At church on Sunday, the King asked his pastor what the matter could be. 

“Let me come out and pray and perhaps God will show me the answer.”  The King was happy to bring the Pastor out to the castle, and did so immediately.  The Royal carriage, pulled by six horses, sped its way home.  In his haste, the driver almost ran over a deer with a fawn, two ducks and three raccoon.  The Pastor bounced around in the back of the carriage, knowing that speed was of the essence.

When they arrived, the Pastor looked at the roses and then went up with the King to pray over the Queen. 

“Do you believe that she can be healed?” the Pastor asked. 

“Yes, I do!” the King answered.

“Then I say to you, my Queen, please get up.”

At once, the Queen woke from her faint and looked around.  She was so happy to see the King (and of course she was a little surprised to see the Pastor), but she also looked around for someone else.

“Where is she?” the Queen asked. 

“Where is who, my love?”

“Where is my daughter?”

The King was speechless.  He thought maye the Queen had a dream where she had a daughter and now he did not want to upset her by telling her that she had none. 

“Where is my daughter?” The Queen asked again.  

The King shook his head and could not answer.  He was saddened, thinking that the Queen had enjoyed having a daughter while she slept and now he had to tell her the girl did not exist.

“My love, we have no daughter.  You have been asleep for a week after fainting in the garden.  You must have dreamed her presence.”

The Queen threw off her covers and knelt up on the bed, she placed her hands on the King’s chest and said, “My King, I did dream it!  I dreamed I was gardening and then fell ill.  When I fell ill, I could do nothing but walk around the garden and there, behind the hedgerose I found a young orphaned girl with tattered clothes and tangled hair but such a kind face.  I asked her if she wanted anything and she said she just wanted a mother!  We walked and talked for days and days!”

The King did not know what to say.  It seemed the queen was so happy about her dream, but what could he say? 

“My Queen, what can I do?”

“You must wait for me while I dress,” the Queen said as she jumped out of bed.  “I am going to dress and we will go out to the garden to find her. 

The Queen ran into her extensive closet and began pulling down gowns off the hangers.  “Where is it?” the King heard her say.  “Where is the gown I was wearing when I met her?”

Finally, the Queen emerged from her massive closet, smiling in a beautiful green gown with a blue silk covering that danced all around her.  She grabbed her jeweled crown and took the King by the hand, pulling him down the stairs and out into the garden. 

At first, the King had hope, looking everywhere around the hedgerose for a small orphaned girl.  Then, after hours of searching their extensive grounds, both King and Queen grew weary and realized it was all a dream. 

“Perhaps God wanted me to have comfort in my sleep so he gave me a daughter that I would have only in my dreams.”  Her tears flowed  and the King brought her inside the castle, only to find the Pastor still sitting there, waiting for them. 

“If you could not find an orphaned girl in the hedgerose, may I make a suggestion?”

Both King and Queen looked at each other and nodded.  “Yes, please do.”

“There are many children who live in the orphanage who need homes.  Why not go and see if you can find the face of the daughter who was in your dream?”

The King and Queen thought this to be a wonderful idea and said so.  After a night’s sleep, they set off with the Pastor, for the orphanage the next morning.  On their way, they prayed for God to help them find the daughter the Queen had seen in her dream. 

They arrived at the orphanage and all of the orphans were very happy to see them.  They bowed and curtseyed like proper ladies and gentlemen and looked into their faces as they scanned the crowd for the girl. 

There were about sixteen orphans in all, half boys and half girls.  They were all lovely and delightful, but none of them had the face of the girl that the Queen remembered from her dream. 

The Pastor asked the Queen to repeat the dream to the maid in charge of the orphanage.  When she did, the maid, a woman of about twenty four years, fell silent. 

“Your Highness,” she said.  “This little girl in your dream is me!”

“What?” the Queen asked, in a confused way.  The girl did look a lot like the girl from the Queen’s dream, but she was fully grown.  “The little girl I saw was very small and very dirty.”

The maid sat down in a chair and began to weep.  She put her apron to her face and then told the story of how she was found. 

“My parents died in a fire.  I was very young when this happened and since I had no home, I stayed in the forest all by myself, surviving on nuts and berries.  One day, a man of the royal guard came along and asked me if I needed anything.  I told him that I needed nothing – only a mother.  He brought me here to the orphanage, and since he found me behind a hedgerose, he named me Rose. 

The King and Queen were both amazed at this story;  so amazed that they even had tears in their eyes. 

“You must come and live with us, then!” the Queen said. 

“I can’t Mum,” Rose said, drying her tears.  “If I leave here, who will take care of these orphans?”

The Pastor agreed.  “Rose is the one who has been giving the necessary care to run this orphanage.  Although the church has been giving them money, Rose is the one who loves the children.”

“If that is the case,” the King said, merrily.  “Then all of the children must come with us and live at the Emerald Castle!”

At the news of this, there was great celebration and joy.  The King and Queen were happy that their large castle would now be filled with children.  The children packed their clothes and toys and rejoiced that they would all now be princes and princesses.  The Queen laughed aloud, encouraged that she found Rose, the daughter of her dream. 

From that day forward, the Emerald Castle had rooms that were always filled with life and children.  The orphans were no longer orphans, but princes and princesses in the happiest, most peaceful kingdom in the whole world. 

Every morning, the King and Queen and Rose would eat breakfast on the terrace, overlooking the lake that reflected beauty and peace. 

And their hearts were full.    

re-entry

Alicia, Alannah and I at lunch in Sacramento.
 A beautiful part of re-entry.

There is no true way to entirely prevent culture shock, even when you are re-entering your familiar home environment.  In any society people are affected by cultural contrasts differently. 

Today was our first day back at our church’s main service.  Mario and I have been back for 48 days and after visiting the satellites decided to try the main.  It is where all of our old friends attend.  We jumped back into their lives – seeing them not much different.  If it weren’t for their KIDS who have grown like weeds on MiracleGro, we would hardly notice the difference in the people.

For the last six years we gave ourselves over to a calling of God that was beautiful, rewarding and definitely His will for our lives.  The first two years we did a lot of international travelling – we saw nineteen different African countries and two Asian ones.  The last four years were focused on the local church life in Johannesburg. 

Johannesburg is as diverse as Africa itself.  It is the melting pot of different cultures more than any other place in South Africa.  No city in South Africa can match the diversity of Johannesburg; there are 11 official languages. 

Sacramento is the capital of California, whose economy is the twelfth largest in the world.  The Spanish language is everywhere, but most people speak English. 

I stood in conversation with a friend this morning as he asked us how we were doing.

“We’re good, thank God,” I said.  “We just need to find a home of our own.” 

My thoughts flashed back to the last 48 days here.  We have shopped for (and found) a home.  We began the process of buying it, only to find that its title was not clear.  We shopped for (and found) another home that was in our price range and began the process of buying it.  This is the house we are now praying for.  The problem is, the loan company here needs bank statements from our South African bank – something that they will not provide.  Because of FICA laws, the statements have to be picked up in person by Mario – who is back at his old desk most days of the week, working full time.

“So, you don’t have a place to stay?” my friend asks, genuinely concerned. 

“We do,” I smile. “We have been staying with Nicole.”

“Oh, and how is that going?”  he asks.  

I think of the warm reception that Nicole and Summer have given us.  Their ease and acceptance during this time has been crucial.  We are staying in Nicole's one room garage apartment that has a half bathroom.  It has kept us from staying in a hotel and living out of suitcases.  Even with all of this, we still feel like we are "just visiting" the States again. 

“It’s going very well, thank God,” I say.

“So Mario’s back at work,” he says.  “What are you doing?”

I smile.  I am writing all of the time.  When I am not working out or visiting my daughter and her daughters I am writing.  I have started a new novel and will hopefully see the first one published soon.  I am grateful for the opportunity to write.  I still have not seen Vince, Joe or David (or their kids) since we have been back.  I have had little chance to see my parents and sisters, too.  Until we get a house we can’t spend much money.

“I write,” I answer.  I blog, I write fiction, I edit.  I even tutor a girl who is in Kansas City via SKYPE.  She has our dogs, Zuzu and Peaches.  They can’t come here until we have a house of our own.

We’ve got to get this house, I think. 

“You write?” my friend lifts his eyebrows and I expect no more questions.  

None come.  

Not “Have you talked to Portia and the boys since you have been back?” – not “Don’t you miss your church?” – not “What about the Ladies Prayer Group that saved your life several times...how are they?”

He just smiles, good naturedly.

“Must be nice to be a woman of leisure,” he says, winking.  I smile.

Yeah....

writing

“To write is to write is to write is to write is to write is to write is to write is to write”   

~ Gertrude Stein

Public Domain Image Details

The greatest gift of writing is being able to communicate truth from the depths of your heart.  It’s why cavemen chiseled on walls; why the spiritual songs were written.  The Bible had to be written by a man’s hand to communicate the greatest truths and the heart of God.  Soldiers took up pens and precious paper  in trenches to declare the deepest love for their families back home - love that survived even the most horrific events of war.

Sometimes  I pick up a book and I hear the words of someone like they are a friend crying out to me.  “Here I am!  Connect with me!  Understand!” 

Writers write to connect with people.  Connect their heart with another persons.  Inspire them, motivate them, love them.  Writers write for the same reason painters write.  We write to deliver beauty to a world that needs it.  We write to translate the unjust pain of a people, left without a voice and too weak to cry out for themselves.

We write to be understood, to cry out primordially from the depths of our soul.

Today as you write, dear writer, let the heart of the God who created you come out, voicing the pain and anguish; the joy and the exhilaration; the sorrow and the pity of all that is in the world.  Focus on one thing and write. 

People mistake writing a story for giving birth to a child very often.  I’ve done both – and writing is easier.

Not much... but easier.

• Yesterday I wrote three chapters of a Young adult novel I think I’m going to call “euphobia” (no capitalization of the title).  euphobia is the fear of good news. 

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," – that is allYe know on earth, and all ye need to know.

-John Keats

beauty

In "Ode to a Grecian Urn" John Keats wrote a classic poem that that has transformed the modern world. We, as University Freshmen, were meant to read and understand when we were 18. In English Literature, our professors read it with a faraway look in their eyes, procaliming it sublime and making us agree, out of an insecure desire to be as smart and enlightened as they were. The final lines of the poem ring still in my ears: "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

Beauty is truth...
Truth is beauty...
That is all you know on earth, and all you need to know

Funny thought, Keats had, when he wrote it in the 18th century when all he had as a figure of beauty was a Grecian Urn with perfect figures of men and women frolicing about on it. Now there's TV. Porn. Movies. Dr. 90210. Today beauty is anything but truth. Beauty for a woman is a size zero and fake boobs -saline inside of impact-resistant teflon bags- that are surgically inserted into a woman's breast flesh while she sleeps under anesthesia. Or it is a young, taut stomach that has shown no signs of childbirth or white flour consumption. Beauty is not truth...no one even knows what truth is anymore.

But... here it is.

Truth is the thing that endures. It is a work of kindness in a world gone mad. Beauty is a man with little money buying food for a starving granny who no longer cares if she eats, but rather would ask for food for the four kids in her house. It is people who would rather do a good thing than attend a baseball game, a rugby match, a basketball game where divas called players throw punches at eachother.

Beauty is a truth that endures...a truth that proclaims there is a love so great it can transform any life, anywhere. It is a truth that says no matter how messed up we are, we have a Father that loves us and wants us back home with Him. It is a truth that sent a loving son to save me...to tenderly affirm me. To boast about His transforming love that would later define me... and that is all I know here.

That is all I know here on earth.
That is all I need to know.