Deception makes fools of us all.Yet sometimes the truth hurts so much that we hold back for mercy’s sake. Our human journey can be a treacherous one to be sure.
It’s snowing now, very cold, and more snow and lower temperatures are on the way. Our woodstove pipe slipped a couple of weeks ago, sending the carbon monoxide monitors into hyper mode. Thank God, they worked! But since then, we’ve been trying to get the pipe replaced and, of course, it has been a challenge since the 8-inch pipe we need hasn’t been available in the usual places.
I thought I was clever and wrapped the thing in tinfoil, only to find out that burning tinfoil is about as dangerous as carbon monoxide. Sheesh, but there are a lot of ways to mess up in this world.
Even when I try my darndest to do the right thing, there are multitudes of conflicting realities to consider.
A case in point is whether or not to tell my dad that his youngest son, my brother, died recently. The obvious answer is yes. He has every right to know the truth. But, when I consider the fact that at ninety-two, my dad has lost much of his mental facilities, including his memory, then I have to wonder, what I am doing? Am I simply fulfilling the letter of the law, reasonable as it sounds, but sending my father into grief he won’t understand? He’ll comprehend the fact that Tom, his youngest son, died. He will “get” that fact. He just won’t remember five minutes later, though the grief inside will linger. He won’t understand why he’s so sad.
When my older brother died a few years ago, I told him the truth. I figured he had a right to know and could handle the facts. He was very grieved. But shortly after, he didn’t remember that Dave had died. He grew very sad, but he couldn’t understand why. No healing or mutual support possible.
Since he doesn’t believe in God, perse, he hasn’t been open to the hope of Eternal Life—perfect justice joined with perfect mercy. Since Dave died from an overdose, likely in part done to self-medicate from an infection related to his diabetes, there was no easy platitude to offer. It was complicated, no mistake.
My father wasn’t a good father. He failed in many ways. Though I have forgiven him repeatedly through the years, I know too much truth about his failures as a husband and father to simply whitewash the reality with “It’s over now, forget it.” Forgiveness isn’t blind. It’s honest and often extremely painful, a death of sorts. Real forgiveness involves wanting the best for another person despite the fact that it is not truly earned or deserved.
Is there a statute of limitations on the pain and suffering we cause others? Especially considering the generational suffering that compounds injuries from parents to kids?
In reviewing Church related failures, I have to ask myself what right I have to forget? Forgive, certainly. I wish no ill will to anyone. Even those who have hurt me personally. But the sins of the past have repercussions and feed into a cycle of abuse today and tomorrow.
So, should I, in a spirit of honesty, let my father know that his son died? Would his grief be part of the price he must pay as a father? Or is mercy, letting him live is last years (months maybe) in sedate ignorance, the higher road to take?
So far, I have chosen mercy and kindness. I choke over our weekly conversation not mentioning the realities that plague my quiet moments and wakeful nights—Fr. Tom’s unaccountable death. I chatter on about the weather and school instead. Lame? Yes. Weak? Perhaps.
I know only a part of my own failings. It’s hard to face them all and impossible to realize the long-range repercussions of sins of commission and those of omission. Things I did—things I should have done.
That’s what Lent and our human journey are all about. We’re not in heaven. Not yet. We’re striving for a veiled glory, a perfect reality beyond our sight.
Charles would never be able to look his sister in the eyes again. He stared at the slumped form in the cage and whistled low. It can’t be. But it was. Dead.
Once he had cleared out a nest of mice from the garage, so the irony of failing as a hamster caretaker struck everything but the funny bone.
Three years ago, Robin had been diagnosed with cancer, one that might prove fatal or might go into remission forever. A chancy thing that Charles could not understand even after researching it online till his eyes ached.
This last hospital stay meant that someone had to take care of Henny.
He had said he would.
And he had meant it.
But life got in the way, and he forgot.
Now Henny lay like a petrified rock before an empty feed bowl. Dried crust rings adorned the empty water dish.
Mom’s voice raced up the stairs. “Charles?”
He had to answer. He was in Robin’s room. Mom wouldn’t ask about Henny. Never cross her mind. “Yeah?”
“Dad and I are going now. The hospital said that one of us could pop in for a visit if we get there in the hour.”
No explanation needed. He knew all the restrictions and why he was not on the short list of visitors. “Fine.”
“Bye, honey. Keep an eye on the chicken in the crockpot.”
The front door shut with all the force of a late winter wind behind it.
Charles sighed. He opened the cage and did the needful. Despite the frozen ground, he’d give his sister’s pet a decent burial. It was the least he could do.
Online classes set Charles’ nerves on edge. There were so many more interesting things he could be doing with his time. He googled hamsters and discovered that there were a few within his price range. No one would know…except Robin, of course. She had a mama-bear’s sensitivity. One whisker out of place, and her eyebrows would rise sky high.
He sighed and drummed his fingers on his desk. How on earth could he replace hamster-love? Clearly, with her frequent hospital visits, another pet wasn’t a good option. A game? How about a craft they could do together? She liked nature walks—he could take her to the park every week. Or a boyfriend? He could set her up with— Charles shook his head. She was only twelve, for heaven’s sake. What am I thinking?
His phone buzzed, and his stomach tightened. Either his teacher or his mom. Nether a welcome distraction. He checked his text messages.
Hey, Sweetie! Great news. They’re letting us take her home today. Just got a few things to finish up, and we’ll all be together again🙂
Get the chicken ready, and Dad will pick up some dessert on the way to celebrate.
Hearts and smiles,
If a national emergency had been declared, and he was being sent to the front lines, Charles’ heart could not have pounded any harder.
From the sound of boots stomping into the living room, hearty laughter, and voices chattering way too loud, Charles knew something was off. He had cleaned up the remains of Henny’s house; her empty cage stood in the corner of his closet, out of sight. He hoped out of mind.
He had changed his dirty shirt and finished his biology assignment—one focused on rodents—only adding to life’s cruel fate.
He sucked in a deep breath and marched down stairs.
Mom was bustling every direction, humming some ridiculous tune in the kitchen, and Dad was helping Robin get settled on the couch. Lots of pillows and extra blankets.
Twelve? She looked eighty. Her sunken eyes peered at him as a smile quivered on her lips. Brave but doomed. He knew it. She knew it. And now she knew that he knew it.
Henny’s slumped form flashed before his eyes, and a lump rose to his throat. He forced it down, strode to the couch, and plunked down beside her. In his fifteen-years on earth, it was the bravest thing he had ever done.
He nudged her shoulder.
She nudged him back. Her smile widening and real this time.
“So, you’ve come back to plague me with song requests, I suppose? Twenty new tunes you want uploaded?”
“Only seven—but I found a game we can play. You just have to set it up.”
Huge, long-suffering sigh. He nudged her again.
Mom called from the kitchen, “Dinner’s ready!” with all the practice of a spring lark. All hell could be breaking loose, but as long as she had dinner ready, cheerfulness reigned supreme.
Dad sprang into action, his arm ready, his hovering presence all that Robin needed to get to the kitchen table.
Eating wasn’t difficult. It was impossible. But Charles managed it anyway.
A Netflix movie—a Jane Austin romance that made Charles and his dad exchange eye-rolls every other scene—and evening prayers completed the night.
Sweating bullets every time Robin offered an inquisitive glance his direction, Charles prayed that she’d forget about Henny until tomorrow.
No such luck.
Ascending the steps, she clutched her dad’s hand and hit Charles square between the eyes. “How’s Henny been? I feel bad, leaving her so long. But I’m sure you’ve taken good care. She’s so silly.”
What does silly have to do with it? She wasn’t a silly hamster. She was a rodent. Nothing to shed tears over. His vision blurred. “Can you wait till tomorrow? I’m really tired tonight.”
She nodded. “Me too.” She slipped off to bed.
Laying in the dark, facing the monsters chasing him down the corridors of his imagination, Charles knew his days were numbered. He couldn’t live through this. He didn’t want to.
After a night of dreams skewered by nonsense nightmares, Charles swallowed each bite of cereal in the same way that a camel manages with cactus leaves. Ignore the prickles and force it on down.
Dad, his protective armor on, patted Charles’ back as he strode into the kitchen. “You doing okay?”
There was no good answer, so Charles simply shrugged.
The phone buzzed. A loud conversation upstairs, Mom’s laughter, and then Mom skittering down stairs with the phone held out. “Jason has everything set, but he wants us to there to make sure it’s what we want. Then he’ll bring it over right after he gets it loaded.”
Apparently, the message made sense to Dad. He nodded, grabbed his coat, and snatched his keys.
Mom leaned in to Charles. “She’s still sleeping. We won’t be gone long. If she wakes up, get her something to eat so she doesn’t try to take the stairs, okay? We’re getting the bed the doctor recommended, so she’ll be more comfortable.”
After an affirming nod, they were out the door.
Silence pervaded the house for the next fifteen minutes. Then the shuffling steps of a very old or very sick person padded overhead.
Charles trotted upstairs and rushed to his sister’s room. But she wasn’t there. He glanced at the bathroom. Empty. His heart thudded as he approached his room. There she stood, the closet door open, Henny’s cage pulled out, empty and forlorn.
“I’m sorry. It was all my fault—”
Surprisingly strong, Robin’s voice warbled across the room to the doorway. “She was three years old—that’s ancient for a hamster.”
But you’re only twelve. Tears stung Charles’ eyes.
She turned and faced him. “I was thinking…maybe you could walk outside and take pictures, text ‘em, then call me, and describe stuff. Then—well—I won’t miss spring completely.”
All through February and deep into March, he sent pictures of Snowdrops, Crocus, maple buds, early, eager bees, and the first Robin to come bob-bobbing-along. She responded with hearts, googly-eyed smiling faces, and other ridiculous emojis that made him laugh out loud.
After the last thaw in mid-April when the temperatures finally rose again, he tread across the slushy grass, box under his arm and a spade in hand. He stopped before the fresh mound. It might take years for grass to grow over the site. He clasped the stained container and, with the aid of his spade, made a small hole at the foot of the grave. He placed the box front and center, then covered it with all the care of an operating doctor finishing a procedure. He patted the earth and leaned on the spade handle.
“Together again, best I can arrange it. Dumb mistake to forget Henny…but sometimes, it’s hard to see stuff.”
A red-breasted Robin hopped close and cocked its head.
Charles knelt on the muddy ground and lifted his hand. They stared at each other for a long moment.
The future bewilders me. I never know what’s next. I should be used to that by now. But no. I make a plan and then watch it swirl into oblivion shortly after my first sip of morning coffee.
Since I’m off much of social media, I have more time. So, I create more projects. Fun stuff. I’ve done some rather inventive cooking, started reading the works of Thomas Aquinas, strolled about the landscape, and learned to edit pictures I’ve taken around the homestead.
I’ve also read chapters of my novel Last of Her Kind to upload on Audible, only to discover that I had some of the settings wrong. Frankly, I’d rather wrestle a hyena than a computer. My sons attempted to untangle my techno-mess, hoping to maintain my delicate grasp of sanity. They did so, laughing at my handwringing fright that my work would slip into a cyber blackhole. It didn’t. But I’m firmly convinced it could have.
In the process of trying to comprehend the Audible world, I somehow put my book up for narration, and I got an audition notice almost immediately. Surprise!
At first, I thought, rather huffily, I’d just plead short-term insanity and let the narrator know that I screwed up and added my book by mistake.
Then I took a shower. And heard a voice. “Do both.”
It took a while to decipher what my brain, the Collective Unconscious, or the Voice of God was telling me.
Now that I am beginning to see the Audible light, I can narrate my books correctly. But rather than finish Last of Her Kind, perhaps I’ll start with something simpler, one of my non-fiction books or my short stories.
I decided to listen to the audition. It was pretty good. Back and forth, the narrator and I emailed, and then we had a conversation on the phone. I soon realized that there was more to this whole thing than a book narration. Human interaction changes everything.
Today’s to-do list outlined teaching, writing, making dinner, and a walk in the woods. That was the plan.
Real life involved conversations centering on Royal family dysfunction (Not mine!), discovering the possibilities of a new electric griddle a friend sent our way, a surprise editing assignment, a conversation with a woman who is now my book narrator and no longer a stranger, possibly a friend. No walk, though I did sneak a peek at a poem and read a short story to my youngest daughter that made my heart swell with the power of words to reclaim my scattered, disorganized soul.
A new mom texted that her whole life is now centered on her baby girl and making her home her little church. I just put a few humble Christmas cards in the mailbox. One of my daughters made a delicious dinner, and the kids and I chatted about nothing much around the table.
It’s dark now. I have a hot cup of chamomile tea at hand, the woods stove sends heat swirling about the place, a ladybug is doing aerobics on my computer screen, and life has definitely not gone according to plan.
But then I realize; all I really wanted to do was love my way through the day.
Noman surveyed the white walls, considered the silence of the empty tomb, and knew that hell existed. He wiggled his sand-encrusted toes and straightened, his long, loose tunic rippling with the movement. Sweat dripped down his back as blazing sunlight glared from an unrepentant blue sky.
Where was Abbas now?
With a smothered curse, he shifted his gaze away from the gapping hole. There was no point in torturing himself with what might have been. If only Abbas had listened. If only someone had cared enough to believe him. But it was too late. He was on Earth, the challenge had been made, and he could not unmake it. He could only prove them wrong.
Abbas’ face appeared before his eyes. A man he could have loved and served heart and soul. Instead, he had another mission. Even love had its limit.
A squeal turned his attention. A woman stood frozen on the rocky path, her eyes wide with fear.
A scorpion poised in her path, ready for attack.
Bumbling woman! Humans had an ever-ready supply of idiocy. He stepped forward. Stopped. Why should he? What was this archaic inclination to assist lesser beings? The very image of Abbas. Noman stayed in the shadows.
A young man jogged forward and froze. He glanced from the scorpion to the woman.
Her voice shaking, the woman covered her mouth with her trembling hand. “I was bitten once, nearly killed me.”
The youth leapt aside, grabbed a stone and whisked it at the pest.
The venomous creature scuttled away.
Clutching her chest, the woman swayed, closing her eyes.
The young man held her upright, gripping her elbow in his hand. “You’re safe. It’s gone.”
She opened her eyes, gratitude in every feature. “Thank you. My name is Anna. I’m going home—I was too scared to think.”
“I’m Georgios. Now worries. Will you be able to—?”
She clasped her hands with a formal bow in humility and gratitude.
After a parting smile, Georgios sped off.
With a glance ascending like a prayer, the young woman paced forward, a serene expression replacing her former anxiety.
Noman stepped forward and shook his head.
The scorpion was still nearby. Its mission to paralyze and eat its prey had not changed. Mutant kindness meant nothing. One day, she would not be so lucky.
He peered along the path Georgios had taken. The perfect object lesson. Georgios would prove his point to Abbas. Kind-hearted fools—the best argument for humanity’s humiliation.
Ark stared at the vial clasped in his mate’s tentacles. She was grinning. He had no such intention. Still, it was an honor, though an unexpected and unwelcome one.
“Are you absolutely sure?”
Meta shook the clear tube. “As sure as a triple check can be.”
Immersed in his studies in the laboratory, Meta should’ve had the sense to wait until they were in the pool to share this news. But what can one expect from a female? They’re always so blasted unpredictable. “Watch where you put your tentacles” and “Don’t turn your eyes from a female in the lab” were two oft repeated truisms bandied about the private male laboratories. The females had their own scientific centers, ones Ark avoided with due care.
He adjusted his nostril tube and rubbed the cilia on the top of his head. What he wouldn’t give to speak with Teal at this moment.
“You will own it, won’t you?” Meta was clearly in no mood for obfuscations.
“I’ll run my own tests, if you don’t mind. But in end, if as I suspect is true and the pod is mine, then, of course, I will own it.”
Meta exhaled, bubbles forming around her breathing tube, and her smile widening. “Good. Once I give birth next cycle, it’s all yours!”
A crash splintered the silence.
Ark peered at the floor where his latest experiment had spilled in a gelatinous goo across the floor. One brief, well, three brief pleasant encounters, and he’d be paying for uncountable cycles. Perhaps for the rest of his natural life!
Meta shrugged her numerous shoulders and waved all six tentacles. “Make sure you clean that up carefully. You don’t want to get sick. New father and all.” With a giggle, she waddled through the open doorway.
A throb building behind his eyes, Ark lusted for a tall glass of green and a trip to Lux. Yes, he’d stop by and see Teal. Compare fatherhood stories. After all, it was Teal who made interacting with the opposite sex so appealing. Had it all been a lie?
Before he officially met his offspring, he must find out.
Stupid mistakes left Trix cold. Her own especially. Who on planet Earth was responsible for spelling? And could she find a legal precedent for killing the nameless perpetrators outright or would it have to be a clandestine affair? Though surely, she’d had a good portion of the world’s fifth-graders in her corner.
Was it her fault that few human beings could state her name without topping it off with an “ie,” turning her name into a bunny meme, or that grey was spelled with an a on one side of the Atlantic and with an e on the other? What demon-possessed people to care—much less sing-song their way through a quarterly review, insisting that she better shape up or—
The words had been left hanging. Just like that. An unspoken doomsday “Trix End.”
Trix stomped through the grocery store, huffing through her mask, which only fogged up her glasses. Lord have mercy. Would the trials of the year never end?
Head down, shoulders at ear level, she maneuvered her cart through the seafood aisle, blinking at the prices. She mumbled to herself, though visions of serving shrimp with some-kind-of-undetectable-poison-and-watching-her-bossy-boss-slip-to-the-floor-dead flashed through her mind.
Glowing lava rocks exploding from an active volcano had nothing on Trix at that moment. She grimaced, keeping her eyes wide so that as far as anyone reading a masked expression could figure, there was a smile under there somewhere. She faced Brenda, one of the homeschooling moms who sat behind her at Mass. She had polished a small mittened-hand wave to good effect. “Hey, Brenda.”
“So, are you going to the Winter Fun Event on the town square on Sunday?”
Rolling her eyes to the ceiling, Trix mentally consulted her calendar. She had to teach school all week, an editing project was due on Thursday, her dad had slipped on the ice, so she wanted to drop off some chocolate panaceas on Friday. Saturday, she’d charge into battle against the encroaching spiderwebs, dust bunnies, and household scum that managed to accumulate when her back was turned. Sunday remained her shield against overwork and flippant insanity. “Well, I’m not sure. I’ve got a lot going on. And besides, is it safe?”
Attempting to avoid a maniacal expression, Trix hid her grin behind her mask. The “Is it safe?” comment usually stopped every conversation cold. She glanced aside at the rows of frozen foods. A suitable location, indeed.
Even behind her they-all-look-alike mask, it was obvious, Brenda’s face fell. Her eyes dimmed. Her joy-spark snuffed.
Geeze! Who cares about Winter Fun? I have my sanity to keep track of! Isn’t that more important!
Trix tried to cool the use of mental exclamation points, but her heart sank to her chilled boots. If Old Scrooge could see her now, he’d embrace her as a fellow frozen-soul.
Good soldier and honest Christian lady who kept faith with all sorts of happy thoughts, Brenda squared her shoulders and drowned whatever sorry-reality haunted the depth of her eyes. “No problem. I was just asking. You’re right to be careful. Just sometimes, you know—” She glanced aside, definitely not seeing the delightful array of frozen yogurts. “You’re doing well. That’s all that matters.”
Trix’s icy heart started to drip.
Her mistake hit Brenda like a bullet train. She burst with contrition. “Oh, I forgot. I said Trixie—and you hate that. Sorry. I mess up names all the time, so I use those stupid mnemonic-things to remember. But I still manage to—” Gripping her cart with dejected humiliation, she aimed for the meat and cheese aisle.
Her cheeks flushed, Trix swallowed a chunk of ice. She stopped Brenda’s cart. “I’m heading to the candy aisle to find something chocolatey for my dad. Want to come?”
As they turned into the next aisle and at the sight of Brenda’s tear-filled eyes, Trix snatched a box of cocoa off the passing shelf. “You want to stop by for a cup Sunday afternoon? We’ll both need warming up.” She grinned right through her mask.
Teal held Sienna close, her head resting comfortably on his chest as she slept in perfect security. They didn’t need to maintain human form, but he realized, with a luxurious sigh, that the human body offered something the Luxonian experience lacked: a wide range of physical pleasures.
Despite humanity’s limited knowledge and complete absence of technology, they did know a thing or two about adding spice to life, literally speaking.
Before leaving Earth, Sienna had rubbed coconut butter into her skin, and the exotic scent pulsed erotic sensations through his whole body. Her hair, rain-washed and lightened by the sun, rippled through his fingers as he ran his hand along her back. After they returned to Lux, they had made love late into the night, but arousal returned with a vengeance as the first streaks of morning light filtered through the window.
Sienna stirred, stretched, and opened her eyes.
Their gazes met.
Would he ever stop falling in love with this woman?
“You’re awake?” Sienna stretched. “I thought you’d be worn out — ready to sleep through the day.”
With a grin, he ran his fingers along her side and —
Sienna sat up, clutching the bedsheet. “I don’t feel so — ” Leaping from the bed, she ran to the lavabo, the Luxonian refreshment room. Luxonians, as light beings, didn’t need the same care as humans, but they did need refreshment at times.
Trying to realign his plans for the morning, he climbed out of bed and grabbed his clothes. Disgruntled, he glanced at the doorway Sienna had sped through and considered following her. No, if she needed him, she’d ask. He pulled on his tunic and tied on his sandals.
A muffled call. “Dad?”
Teal stepped to the door, opened it, and met the gaze of his young son in his human form dressed in a simple brown tunic. “Cerulean, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to know when we’re going. I read a report about an unusual — ”
A heavy weight dropped on Teal’s chest. He had promised his son, but a visit to Earth wasn’t high on his agenda right now. He glanced back to the bed. “We haven’t decided yet. There’s a lot to think about.”
Sienna, dressed in a long dark blue tunic with a matching belt, swayed forward. She lifted Teal’s arm, snuggled in close, and pressed his hand onto her hip. She grinned at her son. “You’ll go soon, honey. But your father and I have some decisions to make. Let’s figure out the best time, and we’ll get you all set.” She arched her eyebrows. “You’ll be a guardian your whole life, don’t rush your childhood away, all right?”
Shifting his gaze from his mother to his father, Cerulean bit his lip, his words stifled.
Teal’s heart ached. He knew that look. He’d wanted to go on his first mission so much he could hardly contain his enthusiasm, but it had taken several tries to find the right placement. Once he discovered humanity on Earth, he never wanted to leave. He ran his fingers over Sienna’s belly. Until lately.
Cerulean liked to practice every mannerism he had learned from his off-world studies. With a curt nod and a slight bow, he respectfully turned away.
Teal closed the door.
Sienna sighed. “He really wants to go. His heart is set on it.”
Teal shrugged. “But we just got home. There’s nothing going on that can’t wait. He has to learn patience. The most important lesson in guardianship is knowing how to bide your time.” He leaned over and kissed Sienna, first on the cheek and then on the lips.
She groaned, Teal believed in pleasure, but then she slid her hand between them and halted his momentum toward the bed. “I can’t.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not feeling well.”
Teal looked away and tried to regain his composure. Anxiety crawled over his spine. He peered at her. “Are you ill?”
After a playful pinch on his arm, Sienna strode to the window. She leaned against the low railing and rested her head on the flower entwined post. Light shone over the calm blue-green water and cascaded across her face. Her whole being shimmered. “I can feel sick without being sick.”
An electric bolt could not have shocked Teal more. He leaped across the room and grabbed her arm, tugging her out of her reverie. “Are you — ”
A languid smile spread across Sienna’s face. “I think so.” A shadow darkened her features as she met his gaze. “It’s so rare these days — to be twice blessed. I must be one of the lucky ones.”
Cold fear shivered over Teal’s body. “But is it safe?”
Sienna stared at the sun and shimmered, her whole body wavering into colorful light beams. “Life isn’t safe, my love.” She stood there, a brilliant chorus of light rays, her voice clear as crystal. “Take Cerulean to Earth and let me rest. The future will unfold as it must.” She blinked away.
Joy and terror ran riot through’s Teal’s mind. He peered at his trembling hands. Humanity may have an edge on physical pleasure, but they faced fear much the same.
Outside the sun shines on still-green grass while glistening spider webs rock in a gentle breeze. Dead, prickly flower heads bob on brown stems while clusters of rust-colored oak leaves rattle against the bare branches of neighboring trees.
Even the indoor plants oppose each other in stark contrast. My green succulents proudly lean their round petals toward the window while my houseplants lay limp, trailing their vines over ceramic pots; clearly, life has become too hard to bear in an upright position.
The great outdoors beckons, though I know perfectly well that the air has grown frigid. I’ll take my daily jaunt along the harvested field next to the woods at twilight—the most honest time of the day—when shadows play with the lingering light rays. Sunshine makes grand promises and offers a glorious spectrum, but inevitably night returns and covers all with the equality of darkness.
Some of the most powerful writers I know contrast bright humanity with our dark side. I always wondered about that. I need to be inspired, enriched, offered a crumb of hope in a mottled world. I can’t live on cigarette butts and broken glass. Turning from divorce and disfunction, cancer and casualties, abuse and absurdities, toward honest marriages, healthy lives, and baby hugs make each sunrise an embrace of possibilities. Yet, no matter how much I value daylight, night still falls. The price of sanity is to accept the reality of good and evil, happiness and misery.
That is probably why I enjoy twilight. It’s the cross over, the time between, the slow-down after a busy day, reminding me that I’m not all-powerful, all-seeing, all-anything. After attending to various matters from decoding modern calculators to figuring out (yet again!) why the toaster won’t toast on one side, I reflect and pray on matters that really matter. My friend’s young daughter who has been having epileptic seizures, an elderly lady’s nephew who fell and broke his back, a recent widower who is trying to figure out where to bury his wife’s ashes, two cases of abused trust, and a country so divided that conversations break down and pointed accusations, like blowing ash, are all that’s left of the fire that used to unite us.
Night is a great equalizer. I see why notable writers dare to tread on such sacred, painful ground. None of us live in continual daylight. No one knows all or sees all. Charging ahead in the darkness leads to dangerous falls.
The sun just dropped behind the horizon and the late-autumn trees appear stark against the pale, fading light. I walk along the uneven field, watching each step, and slow my mind and my heart to ponder and pray. Night falls on harvested fields and evergreens alike.
I head home, following the light of ancient stars, knowing the sun will rise on a new day. Rested and comforted by hope for a future I cannot yet see, I will stand and meet it.