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Psalm 91:7–8 speaks into those moments — and the ones that follow:

This isn’t a promise that nothing hard will ever touch us.
It’s a promise that even when life tilts suddenly, we remain inside God’s protective care.

This week, I’m sharing a journal entry from a night when hope rose… and then collapsed. And yet, even there, God’s protection was quietly at work.

From You Are Not Alone: Linda’s Journey

May 8, 2000 — 9:00 p.m.

It is 9:00 p.m. when I thank Allen’s caseworker, Cris, exuberantly for her time and leave the middle school. In the last months, Cris has often sent home a personal note, assuring me of her prayers for our family. I tell her I will pray for her and her new baby. She says she’ll pray about Ron’s discharge from the hospital tomorrow.

I cross the parking lot to my car, looking up at the night stars and marveling at the distant planets. God’s work is displayed in brilliant detail before my weary eyes. I breathe deeply, thanking God that Ron’s lungs are clear and that he will be home with his family soon. “We made it,” I say aloud.

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But when I arrive home, there is a message in my daughter’s careful handwriting on the pad by the phone. Call Dr. Huffman at the hospital. Very important. Joanne’s beeper number follows.

Very important is underlined twice.

I let myself slide down to the floor as my heart sinks. Before I even call Joanne, I know Ron will not be coming home tomorrow.

When Protection Doesn’t Look Like Victory

This is the part of Psalm 91 we don’t always talk about.

Protection doesn’t always look like a miracle.
Sometimes it looks like a delay.
Sometimes it looks like a disappointment that keeps us from a deeper danger.
Sometimes it looks like God catching what we cannot see.

That night, sitting on the floor with the phone still in my hand, I realized something I had never understood before:

Even when the news is not what we hoped for.
Even when the timing feels cruel.
Even when the floor drops out from under us.

We are still inside His circle of care.

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A Moment for You

Take a moment to sit quietly with this truth:
When you stay beside God, you are always protected — even when life feels uncertain.

If you’d like to reflect more deeply, here are the same questions I ask readers in the book:

1. What is one part of your caregiving or personal life where you most need to feel God’s protective care today?

2. What benefits do you feel you gain by living inside God’s circle of care?

You’re welcome to share your reflections in the comments. Your honesty may be the encouragement someone else needs.

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Closing Prayer

Dear God, thank You for surrounding me with Your care, even when the path shifts and the news is not what I hoped for. Help me rest in the assurance that nothing touches my life outside Your loving protection. Keep me close to You, steady my heart, and remind me that I am always held inside Your circle of care. Amen.

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Writing the journey was healing. Sharing it feels like something else entirely — like opening a door and inviting others to walk through. I’ve always believed there are many ways to mourn, and that God meets us in every one of them. But believing that and offering it publicly are two different things

.

As I sat with that contract, I found myself thinking about the early church in Acts 2:42–47. Luke tells us the believers “devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and to fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer.” They shared meals, shared prayers, shared resources, and shared their lives so fully that Scripture says, “they had everything in common.”

Everything.

Not because they were the same.
Not because their griefs or joys matched.
But because they trusted that what God had given one person could strengthen another.

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Their “everything” wasn’t just bread and coins. It was stories. Wounds. Wonders. The unpolished pieces of their lives. They didn’t hide them. They brought them to the table, believing God could use even the tender parts

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That’s what I thought about as I held those papers. My story — our story — is part of my “everything.” Something God entrusted to me not to keep, but to offer.

Most of us aren’t selling our possessions or living in communal houses. But Acts 2 isn’t really about economics. It’s about connection. Devotion. Shared life. It’s about showing up with what we have — our stories, our gifts, our griefs, our joys — and trusting that God can use them to encourage someone else.

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For me, that looks like offering the journey Allen and I walked after Ron died. It looks like trusting that the pages of Finding Father might become bread for someone who is hungry for hope. It looks like believing that no one has to walk their grief alone.

A gentle invitation

If you’re reading this, you’re already part of this little Substack community — this circle of people who show up with honesty and humor and faith. So I want to invite you to consider what part of your journey God might be nudging you to share. It doesn’t have to be dramatic. It doesn’t have to be polished. It might be a small moment of grace, a prayer that carried you, a lesson learned the hard way, or a story you’ve never said out loud.

Your offering — however simple it may seem — could be the encouragement someone else needs today

Leave a comment

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A closing prayer

Lord,
Thank You for the gift of shared life.
Thank You for the stories, the sorrows, and the small offerings You weave together to strengthen Your people. Teach us to open our hands the way the early believers did — with trust, with courage, and with love. Use what each of us carries, even the tender and unfinished parts, to bring comfort and hope to someone who needs it.
Amen.

Psalm 91:5–6

There are seasons when night feels heavier than day.
When the quiet is too quiet.
When the bed feels too big.
When the ache of absence stretches across the hours like a long shadow.

Psalm 91 tells us,
“You will not fear the terrors of the night…”
But fear doesn’t disappear just because we wish it away.
Sometimes it must be lived through, breathed through, carried through — one night at a time.

This week, I’m sharing a piece from my journal during one of the darkest seasons of my life. It’s tender. It’s raw. And it’s a reminder that God meets us even in the places where we feel most alone

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From You Are Not Alone: Linda’s Journey

April 24, 2000 — 10:00 p.m.

I sleep on Ron’s side of the bed most nights. It sags slightly from the weight of his absence, and I curl myself into the hollow, seeking the familiar. Mine has been a slow trek across the expanse of my queen-sized mattress.

I began, in those first horrible nights after the accident, on my accustomed side of the bed, the latest words from Dr. Huffman, my husband’s surgeon, replaying in my mind. Another surgery. An unknown infection. A return to the ICU. The silence in my room was heavy. No sounds of sonorous breathing punctuated the night; no heavy leg flung over mine pressed me into the mattress; no warm presence wrestled with the sheets or pulled the blanket from my shoulders.

My nights were quiet. Empty. Fearful.

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Slowly, across many nights, I inched my way into the bed’s middle, drawn toward the far side by a pillow still holding the faint fragrance of Ron’s aftershave.

The middle was awful. I felt like the spine of a book with two wide blank pages on either side of me, solitary in a great expanse of unfilled space where once there had hardly been enough room for two. I continued my progression toward the other side, crawling across the cold sheets, seeking comfort and warmth.

I sleep on Ron’s side now, inhaling his lingering male scent, wrapping my own arms around my waist, and waiting out the long hours until morning. There are nights I sleep soundly, dreaming of Ron, then awaken suddenly, startled to find myself facing the room from a different angle.

My life has changed. My point of view has changed. God is calming my fears, one at a time, and teaching me to release them into his care.

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When the Night Changes Us

Night seasons have a way of reshaping us.
They stretch us.
They soften us.
They teach us to listen for God in the quiet places we never wanted to enter.

I didn’t learn courage in the daylight.
I learned it in the dark — inching across a mattress that felt too wide, too cold, too empty.
I learned it in the silence where fear tried to take up all the space.
I learned it in the slow, steady truth that God was not asking me to be fearless…
only to trust that He was with me in the fear.

Psalm 91 doesn’t promise a life without night.
It promises a God who keeps vigil with us until morning.

And sometimes, that is enough

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A Breath Prayer for Your Night Season

Breath In: You are with me in the dark.
Breath Out: I release my fear into Your care.

Let this be your prayer tonight, and every night you feel the weight of the quiet.

A Gentle Invitation

If you’re walking through a night season — grief, caregiving, uncertainty, loneliness — I’d love to hear from you in the comments.
Your story may be the light someone else needs.

You are not alone in the night.
Not then.
Not now.
Not ever

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There is a reason Psalm 91 begins with danger.
Not imagined danger.
Not exaggerated danger.
Real danger.

“Surely He will save you from the fowler’s snare
and from the deadly pestilence.”
— Psalm 91:3

Before the psalm speaks of feathers and wings, it speaks of traps and sickness. Before comfort, it names the things that threaten us.

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🌿 What is a “fowler’s snare”?

In ancient times, a fowler was a bird‑catcher. He set traps on the ground—simple, silent, nearly invisible. A snare didn’t chase its prey. It waited. Hidden. Still. Ready to spring shut the moment a bird stepped into it.

A snare was designed to catch what wasn’t paying attention.

And isn’t that how some dangers come into our lives?
Quietly.
Unexpectedly.
Without warning.

Not every threat announces itself. Some slip in like a shadow across the path. Quite often, an infection crept into Ron’s body just when it seemed he was getting better. It was always unexpected, and always a reason for concern.

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🌙 Why pestilence mattered—especially at night

The psalmist also names “deadly pestilence”—diseases that swept through communities with no cure, no warning, no way to predict who would be next. In Old Testament times, nights were especially feared. Darkness meant vulnerability. No lamps. No guards. No way to see danger approaching.

But God’s protection was not limited to daylight hours.
His care was not a daytime promise.
It was a 24/7 covering, a round‑the‑clock shelter.

The God of Psalm 91 does not sleep.
He does not step away.
He does not lose track of where we are.

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🩺 My own snares and pestilence

For me, the snares and pestilence were not theoretical.
They were infections that ravaged Ron’s body—organs that shut down, fevers that spiked, nights when the monitors beeped faster than my heart could keep up.

But the physical dangers weren’t the only ones.

There were the mental snares too:
the strain of making decisions without my husband,
the weight of trying to be strong for everyone,
the quiet fear that I was not enough.

And I wasn’t.
But God was.

I prayed: “God, I am not strong enough to do this. I need Your strength.”

That prayer became a lifeline

.

📖 From my journal

For a caregiver, remaining safe in God’s care does not always mean finding physical protection or escape from hardship. The longer Ron’s hospitalization lasted, the more I needed to lean on God for a deep, inner assurance. Eventually, I realized that God’s care of me was very specific to each situation I faced.

It helped me to know that God saw me wherever I was, whether at home or in Ron’s hospital room, a waiting room, a cafeteria, or a classroom. I was not alone in this exhausting journey. Though my world had spun out of control, God was still holding my heart and mind in His hands, helping me understand that while my husband’s care was very important to me, it was even more important to God.

🛡️ The God who sees the snare before we do

Psalm 91 doesn’t promise that we will never face danger.
It promises that God sees what we cannot.

He sees the snare before our foot reaches it.
He sees the pestilence before it touches our home.
He sees the fear before it forms words in our mouths.

And He covers us—not only with protection, but with presence.

Sometimes God keeps us from the snare.
Sometimes He walks us through it.
But He never leaves us alone in it.

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🌬️ Breath Prayer

Inhale: You see the snare, Lord.
Exhale: Keep me safe in Your care

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🌼 A Gentle Note to Share

If someone you love is walking through a season of fear, illness, or uncertainty, feel free to pass this reflection along. God’s care is not distant. It is near. And it is enough.

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Would you like to help me launch my book about caring for an ill spouse into the world? Just share this post or graphic on your own social media, or email to someone you think would benefit from the promises of Psalm 91.

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At the breakfast buffet of a Lancaster hotel, I watched a young boy at the next table begin to stim — grunting softly, flapping his hands, his body trying to regulate what his surroundings refused to offer. His mother looked around nervously, unsure of the room’s tolerance. I smiled and nodded my encouragement. I recognized the signs. This child had been away from the familiar for too long.

He was a fish out of water.

And so was my adult son.

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Allen sat beside me, unshaven, uncombed, wearing yesterday’s clothes. We had spent four days touring the Lancaster countryside, riding in Amish buggies and visiting my old college campus. But he was ready to return to the world that made sense to him — his giant robot project with its strange metal parts, his sword collection, and the orange cat who curls into his arms every night. For those on the autism spectrum, even the gentlest getaway can feel like a sensory gauntlet. Home is oxygen. Predictability is water.

Watching that boy, watching my son, I felt the familiar ache of recognition — the one that rises when you see another mother living a version of your story.

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Which brings me to Speechless, the new memoir by my friend and fellow writer, Kathleen Knapp.

Kathy’s son, Ben, is non‑verbal. My son is verbal. Their needs, their challenges, their ways of moving through the world are different. But the heart of a mother — the fierce, faithful, unrelenting heart — beats the same.

In her memoir, Kathy writes of the moment everything changed:

And later, as the weight of diagnosis settles in:

“Our perfect world started to crumble.”

Those lines stopped me. Not because our stories are identical, but because they echo the universal truth of caregiving: the moment when life tilts, and you realize you will go the length — whatever the length is — for your child.

Kathy’s journey is shaped by medical crises, hospital corridors, and the quiet courage of learning to understand a child who cannot speak. Mine has been shaped by sensory overload, rigid routines, and the delicate art of preparing my son for the world without overwhelming him. Different paths, same devotion.

Throughout Allen’s childhood, our vacations were always to the same beach house, in the same week of summer, with the same predictable rhythm. Only in recent years have we ventured further — airplanes, trains, new beaches — each trip requiring careful preparation, visual schedules, comfort items, and the promise of root beer. Even then, he is a fish who can only stay out of water for so long.

When Kathy writes about the “evolution of grief,” she names something many caregivers know but rarely articulate: that loving a child with unique needs is both a joy and a continual letting‑go. A letting‑go of expectations. A letting‑go of timelines. A letting‑go of the life you imagined before you knew the one you were called to live.

And yet — what grows in that space is holy.

Kathy’s memoir is not simply about autism or medical crisis. It is about transformation. About faith that deepens in the dark. About a mother who learns to listen to a child without words. About a boy whose life speaks volumes.

As Allen and I loaded our bags into the car after our Lancaster trip, he said, “This is a pretty place. I’m glad we came, and I wouldn’t mind coming back. But I’m glad to be going home.”

Because eventually, the fish needs to return to the water.

And as mothers — whether our children speak or do not speak, whether they flap their hands or build giant robots — we learn to swim beside them. We learn their currents. We learn their depths. We learn, as Kathy shows so beautifully, that love is its own language.

Speechless is a testament to that love. And reading it reminded me that none of us swim alone.

You can purchase Speechless at this link.

Speechless

Do you know a “fish out of water”? How do you help them make sense of the world?

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ANOTHER SMALL SEED

While my editor labored over the details of my Bible study, another invitation began to take shape — one I hadn’t expected, yet one the Gardener had clearly been preparing. Flourish Writers, a community I had been part of since 2019, asked me to mentor a group of faith‑based writers. It felt like a small seed at first, but I sensed God’s hand in it.

I knew I didn’t want to offer a typical writing class. These women didn’t need another lesson on grammar tools or how to structure a devotional. They needed something deeper — a place to explore the heart of the call to write. I wanted them to recognize that their words were not merely creative expressions but sacred invitations. I wanted them to see themselves as scribes of the “scroll of God’s message,” entrusted with stories that could bring hope, healing, and truth.

For five months, I planned and mentored these twenty-six women, guiding them through Scripture and helping them listen for God’s voice in their writing. Week after week, I watched them grow — not just in skill, but in courage, clarity, and spiritual confidence. When the group ended in November, several expressed a desire to continue. And I found myself thinking, Why not?

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So I created Breath and Ink: A Gentle Critique Group.

THE GARDENER’S SOIL

Its mission was simple, rooted in the same soil the Gardener had been tending in me:

• Recognize their call to write as obedience to God.

• Share testimonies of redemption with honesty and hope.

• Hone skill while remaining Spirit‑led.

• Write words that carry the breath of God and bring life to others.

Fourteen women said yes — fourteen women ready to write what God had laid on their hearts. A private Facebook community became our gathering place, offering daily encouragement, Scripture, prompts, and gentle reminders that writing is not a solitary act but a shared journey of faith.

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The Gardener was widening the garden again. What He had nurtured in me, He was now inviting me to nurture in others. And as this new community took root, I realized that the seed of creativity was never meant to grow alone. It was meant to flourish in the company of others, where each writer’s obedience enriches the soil for the next.

🙏 Closing Prayer

Gardener of community,
Thank You for the gift of companions who write, pray, and grow beside me.
Teach me to nurture the gifts of others with gentleness and joy.
Help our words carry Your breath, bringing life, hope, and truth to those who read them.
May our shared obedience become rich soil where Your Spirit continues to cultivate beauty.
Amen.

✨ Reflection Question

Where is God inviting you to grow alongside others — to share your gifts, your story, or your encouragement in community?

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An Invitation

If you’d like to grow alongside others who are exploring these Seeds, you’re invited to join our private Facebook group, Breath and Ink Gentle Critique Community.

You can join us here: Breath and Ink

—Habakkuk 2:3 (NKJV)

The First Flicker: A Notebook and a Nine-Year-Old

The dream began when I was nine years old and discovered an old notebook that had belonged to my father. Pens and paper from my grandfather’s desk provided the materials to write my first novel: Annie and Scotty Find the Watch.

It wasn’t great literature, and only my parents and grandparents read it.

But a dream was born. And it never died

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Writing Through the Seasons of Life

Through school, marriage, motherhood, graduate school, and a teaching career that spanned 4 decades, the dream persisted. I wrote my words, I started a blog, I took writing classes. I wrote more words, I self-published a book. I wrote more words and self-published another one. I cared for a critically ill husband, I changed schools, I wrote more words. I said a final farewell to my husband, promised him we would all be okay, and survived a pandemic. And I wrote. I joined a writing group, mentored another group, wrote a book about my adult son’s grief journey. And I wrote.

Some dreams just won’t die.

I continued to fan the flames.

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Crazy: A Diary: A story of faith and love (Life is Crazy: Living with Chronic Illness and Mental Disorder): Cobourn, Dr. Linda Waltersdorf: 9780692257487: Amazon.com: Books

Amazon.com: Tap Dancing in Church eBook : Cobourn, Linda, Keaton, John: Books

A Book I Never Meant to Write—But Had to

Then it happened. I book I never intended to write—a Bible study of all things!—a strong call to publish it, a dedicated editor, a commitment from a publisher, and here I am.

A soon-to-be published author.

A Psalm 91 Journey for Spousal Caregivers, birthed from my 19 years as caregiver to my husband, will be published in March of 2026.

Please join me as I share periodic updates towards fulfilling this life-long dream!

Closing Prayer

Lord, thank You for the dreams You plant in quiet corners and nurture through every season. Thank You for the grace to keep writing, even when the path is long and the purpose unclear. May this book be a balm to caregivers and a testimony to Your faithfulness. For every reader still waiting, remind them: You never forget the dreams You’ve sown. Amen.

Reader Reflection

What dream have you carried through the long seasons—perhaps tucked away, perhaps still flickering? What would it look like to trust God with its timing today?

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As with any new experience, I learned a LOT from this. So here are FIVE things I learned and TWO I will never do again.

FIVE THINGS I LEARNED

1. BE COMFORTABLE SPEAKING ON CAMERA

I was under the impression—erroneously—that this was only a live audio, not a video. Surprise! Good thing I combed my hair and put on earrings. I might have spruced up a bit more or worn a spring hat if I’d known!

My guest, Linda Hanstra, and I are both teachers. We’re used to an audience. I also speak in my church once a month, so I don’t get the jitters from public speaking. But if you do, practice with a friend before you go live!

2. PEOPLE WILL TUNE IN

I was surprised that we had viewers, even though we started before the 10AM start time. You probably won’t break the internet, especially with your first broadcast, but people who read your blog or book or who know you personally will tune in to support you. The writing community is like that!

The user names of the people who tune in will scroll across the bottom of your screen. It’s nice to recognize them and thank them for tuning in.

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3. GIVE A RECAP EVERY FEW MINUTES

Viewers will join at different times and might be from other time zones. Repeat your name and the name of your guest as well as your Substack and what you are discussing. If you’re having some technical glitches—I had some weather issues—just acknowledge them. Despite the static, I was pleased with the way Substack rendered the video.

4. BE PREPARED WITH YOUR QUESTIONS OR TALKING POINTS

I had sent Linda my questions ahead of time, but we probably could have talked comfortably without them. As I said, we’re both teachers and used to talking! But if you don’t know your guest very well, the talking points help you to stay on track and not have “dead air time.” We had none!

5. IT WASN’T AS SCARY AS I THOUGHT

Like most new things, there is a learning curve! Substack walks you through it, but you can’t really practice ahead of time. There were a few surprises!

• LIVE means LIVE. Right away. The minute you push the button, you’re on!

• You can’t have your guest or co-host join ahead of time. You will be LIVE for a few seconds all by your lonesome before your guest can join.

• You don’t need to publish it right away. Substack will save your video to your drafts and you can review it and publish it when you are ready.

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TWO THINGS I WON’T DO AGAIN

1. LEAVE MY DOOR UNLOCKED

I had told my son I was doing a LIVE interview and I assumed he would take the hint and stay out of my office. He did not. He came in twice, once to tell me there were signs on the cars about not parking on the street on Saturday because of the Memorial Day Parade, and once to give me change from what he had picked up at the story. Hey, I can’t fault his honesty! But next time, I will lock the door.

2. NOT PULL THE BOOKS OFF MY SHELF

Because I thought this was audio, I hadn’t pulled Linda’s two books off my shelf ahead of time. If I had, I could have held them up. But, live and learn. Both of Linda’s books are available on Amazon or on her website. The links are below.

As with all things Substack produces, a LIVE video is another way for your audience to find you. If you have a message to share, it’s worth exploring every route that will help someone find your message.

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Empty-Nest: Joyride

Lent through the Little Things: Encountering Jesus in Life's Ordinary Moments: Hanstra, Linda: 9798987666111: Amazon.com: Books

Linda's Website

So Readers, what do you think of Substack’s LIVE feature? Have you tried it yourself or watched on? Let me know in the comments!

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If you know a writer who is considering a LIVE interview, share this post with them. And if you’d like to do a LIVE interview with me, send me a message!

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As Linda and I discussed, I’m not a traditional “empty nester”; I’m a widow with an adult autistic son. But I found a lot of connections to Linda’s book!

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How was my first LIVE broadcast? You’ll read about my FIVE TAKEAWAYS FROM MY FIRST LIVE BROADCAST next week!

Do you know someone who is interested in writing a book? Or who is an empty-nester? Share this broadcast with them!

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Okay, readers! What do think about my first LIVE offering? Be kind!

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“What happened, honey?” asked my mother. She gingerly touched his elbows and knees; they were red and raw, his jeans ripped and his shirt torn.

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“He wiped out rounding a corner at Henlopen Acres,” said my cousin Bobby, pulling up on his own bike. “We were just riding around when Harvey skidded out.” He dismounted and leaned his bike against a tree. “We pulled out most of the stones and dirt,” he added.

“I see,” said my mother. She turned to where I sat, playing with a Barbie doll.
“Linda, go get the first-aid kit,” she said, leading my brother to a lawn chair. He plopped down into it with a grimace.

“I’ll get ice,” said my grandmother, disappearing into the kitchen as Bobby wheeled my brother’s mangled bike into the garage. I ran inside and returned with the white plastic first aid kit from the bathroom shelf.

For the next hour, my mother picked tiny bits of gravel from my brother’s skin, then applied iodine and bandages with a steady hand.

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While it didn’t happen often, my brother and I—and a passel of cousins who lived up the street—occasionally endured bumps, bruises, and road rash from our wonderful biking adventures in our little summer beach town. It was a small price to pay for the freedom of early morning rides on the boardwalk to catch the sunrise, afternoons balancing fishing rods on our handlebars, or rainy days racing through puddles on the unpaved road.

Every road has bumps

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A Book for the Next Stretch of Road

Which brings me to the road my friend Linda Hanstra has written about in her beautiful, heartfelt new book, Empty Nest Joyride: Hope, Love, and Purpose on the Road to Contentment. I’ve been reading an advance copy and found myself both encouraged and seen.

In it, Linda uses the sport of biking as a rich, extended metaphor—paralleling the joys and jolts of raising an active family through the years, then rounding the bend into a quieter, nest-emptied season. With faith, humor, and a steady cadence, she invites readers to join her and her husband, Tom, as they rediscover each other on two wheels.

Fueled by trust in God and the soundtrack of favorite songs, Linda’s joyride takes us down Michigan backroads, through memory, mishap, and renewal—reminding us that even scraped knees and sudden turns can lead somewhere good.

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Where Her Story Meets Mine

Even though I’m not an empty nester in the traditional sense—my parenting continues in deep and meaningful ways as I walk alongside my autistic adult son—and even though I’m traveling this road as a widow, Linda’s reflections still spoke to me.

Because Empty Nest Joyride isn’t just about children growing up or marriages shifting—it’s about holding joy and change together. About trusting God on uncertain roads. About the way life continues to invite us to rediscover purpose, even when the terrain isn’t what we expected.

And that’s a message for all of us.

💬 If you’re navigating an emptying nest, or just wondering what’s next on the road of life, I think you’ll find a companion in this book.

🛞 Empty Nest Joyride releases soon—keep an eye out. You’ll be glad you did.

🌼Thanks for riding along with me today on Quirky. Because we’re all a little different. Let me know what stage of life you’re pedaling through!

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Here’s a little quick math for you number fanatics:

Bible study 27,000 words

Weekly blog 1500X 52=78000 words

Church blog 800X40=32000 words

TOTAL OF 137,000 WORDS

But there are a LOT MORE words to be written.

Why is writing so important? Why are some of us born with ink in our veins and the need—no, the passion—to write?

Writing has served me well since I found an old notebook of my dad’s in my grandmother’s attic. I penned my first novel, an untitled space odyssey story with a crew searching the galaxy to find a rare element to save Earth, when I was in sixth grade. Several hundred short stories—including a couple of prize winners—and three unpublished novels later, I’m still working on refining my craft and I am more convinced than ever:

WRITING IS MAGIC.

In what other medium can you take a pencil and a piece of paper and create a whole new world and a whole new language without having to learn anything about geography or chemistry or linguistics?

In what other realm can you transport yourself through a portal beyond your computer or your tablet and into a world of fairies?

By what other vehicle can you reach the limits of time and space, and then keep on going?

In what other way can you convey your thoughts, your ideas, your imagination to hundreds, thousands, or millions of readers by pushing a single button that says “publish”

?

Writing is magic. It is cathartic and problem-solving, engaging our creativity with our memories, turning monsters into heroes and really bad and depressing thoughts into challenges overcome and lessons learned.

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WRITING IS MAGIC.

As long as I am able to hold a pen or a pencil, or type away on a keyboard, or speak into a recorder, I will embrace the magic.

I WILL WRITE.

These lovely novels that only reside on my desktop may never see the light of day or be published in the conventional sense. It doesn’t matter. It was the creation of them that was magic.

We all need more magic in our lives. I am happy to be able to provide just a little.

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Hi, Readers, I’d like to ask a quick favor. If you’ve enjoyed this post, maybe even learned something from it, would you consider sharing it on your own social media or email or even restacking it here on Substack? I’d appreciate it as I try to spread the realities of adult autism and widowhood!

Share Quirky: Because we're all a little different

I’m trying something new here! It might not last, but we’ll see what happens. I thought I’d try sending a sort of Sunday Smorgasbord with a quick rundown of my writing this week, with links—possibly—to other writers I read and—maybe--books I like. I hope it will be more conversational than my usual Thursday posts!

I wrote two blogs this week, one for our church and my own usual Thursday newsletter. Both had to do with the topic of forgiveness. I suddenly realized it had been 25 years since my husband’s life-changing car accident.

And that realization led me to write the church blog, which I then had the audacity to record as a podcast. Hey, I’ve been told I have a nice speaking voice! At least my students usually listened to me. Listen and let me know what you think!

NOTES AND OTHER STUFF

My story “Heartbeat: For Ron” got quite a few shares and likes. I posted this note about the shape of our scars:

Your story might be the shape of someone else’s scar. I can’t recall where I read these words, but I know them to be true. Several people responded to my post, “Heartbeat: For Ron” and let me know my own scars had helped them heal.

Thanks, everyone.

KINTSUGI

I was reminded of the Japanese art of kintsugi, both because storytelling can help other people heal and because of my experiences with my autistic adult son.

I was reading a book this week—Allen Arnold’s The Story of With—that uses kintsugi as an allegory for the way God uses our own imperfections for His good. Great coincidence!

SHOUT OUT TO NEW SUBSCRIBERS!

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ESSIE, THE EMOTIONAL SUPPORT CHICKEN

Times are crazy and the world has turned upside down, so we all need some emotional support. Meet Essie, the emotional support chicken, and her cousin, Lisch, the little southern comfort hen.

Until next time!

Linda

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Hail ye, small sentences!

For several years, I’ve been editing dissertations for doctoral students. Often, I’ll read a sentence on a student’s paper such as this one:

The participants in the current study were asked to participate by responding to the three questions which addressed the stated research questions of this current study and were used to determine the level of understanding each had of the underlining theory by using a Likert scale which measured the responses by way of numbers and were coded by the researcher when assessing the data for the IRB approved study.

Huh? Let me read that again.

Slowly.

The sentence certainly LOOKS academic. It is grammatically correct, if a little verbose. Somehow, those students new to academia have concluded that MORE WORDS and LONGER SENTENCES make them look smarter.

The latest edition of the American Psychological Association Publication Manuel, currently used for many theses and doctoral dissertations, makes this point:

“The main objective of scholarly writing is clear communication.”

Notice the overuse of favorite words in the above sample sentence? The verbs in different tenses that do little to add any clarity to the sentence?

Write more short sentences! They don’t need to sound choppy, but they do need to ensure the understanding of the reader.

Don’t follow the example of the well-known writer, William Faulkner, who wrote this gargantuan sentence of 1,288 words for Absolom! Absolom! (1936).

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Just exactly like Father if Father had known as much about it the night before I went out there as he did the day after I came back thinking Mad impotent old man who realized at last that there must be some limit even to the capabilities of a demon for doing harm, who must have seen his situation as that of the show girl, the pony, who realizes that the principal tune she prances to comes not from horn and fiddle and drum but from a clock and calendar, must have seen himself as the old wornout cannon which realizes that it can deliver just one more fierce shot and crumble to dust in its own furious blast and recoil, who looked about upon the scene which was still within his scope and compass and saw son gone, vanished, more insuperable to him now than if the son were dead since now (if the son still lived) his name would be different and those to call him by it strangers and whatever dragon’s outcropping of Sutpen blood the son might sow on the body of whatever strange woman would therefore carry on the tradition, accomplish the hereditary evil and harm under another name and upon and among people who will never have heard the right one; daughter doomed to spinsterhood who had chosen spinsterhood already before there was anyone named Charles Bon since the aunt who came to succor her in bereavement and sorrow found neither but instead that calm absolutely impenetrable face between a homespun dress and sunbonnet seen before a closed door and again in a cloudy swirl of chickens while Jones was building the coffin and which she wore during the next year while the aunt lived there and the three women wove their own garments and raised their own food and cut the wood they cooked it with (excusing what help they had from Jones who lived with his granddaughter in the abandoned fishing camp with its collapsing roof and rotting porch against which the rusty scythe which Sutpen was to lend him, make him borrow to cut away the weeds from the door-and at last forced him to use though not to cut weeds, at least not vegetable weeds -would lean for two years) and wore still after the aunt’s indignation had swept her back to town to live on stolen garden truck and out o f anonymous baskets left on her front steps at night, the three of them, the two daughters negro and white and the aunt twelve miles away watching from her distance as the two daughters watched from theirs the old demon, the ancient varicose and despairing Faustus fling his final main now with the Creditor’s hand already on his shoulder, running his little country store now for his bread and meat, haggling tediously over nickels and dimes with rapacious and poverty-stricken whites and negroes, who at one time could have galloped for ten miles in any direction without crossing his own boundary, using out of his meagre stock the cheap ribbons and beads and the stale violently-colored candy with which even an old man can seduce a fifteen-year-old country girl, to ruin the granddaughter o f his partner, this Jones-this gangling malaria-ridden white man whom he had given permission fourteen years ago to squat in the abandoned fishing camp with the year-old grandchild-Jones, partner porter and clerk who at the demon’s command removed with his own hand (and maybe delivered too) from the showcase the candy beads and ribbons, measured the very cloth from which Judith (who had not been bereaved and did not mourn) helped the granddaughter to fashion a dress to walk past the lounging men in, the side-looking and the tongues, until her increasing belly taught her embarrassment-or perhaps fear;-Jones who before ’61 had not even been allowed to approach the front of the house and who during the next four years got no nearer than the kitchen door and that only when he brought the game and fish and vegetables on which the seducer-to-be’s wife and daughter (and Clytie too, the one remaining servant, negro, the one who would forbid him to pass the kitchen door with what he brought) depended on to keep life in them, but who now entered the house itself on the (quite frequent now) afternoons when the demon would suddenly curse the store empty of customers and lock the door and repair to the rear and in the same tone in which he used to address his orderly or even his house servants when he had them (and in which he doubtless ordered Jones to fetch from the showcase the ribbons and beads and candy) direct Jones to fetch the jug, the two of them (and Jones even sitting now who in the old days, the old dead Sunday afternoons of monotonous peace which they spent beneath the scuppernong arbor in the back yard, the demon lying in the hammock while Jones squatted against a post, rising from time to time to pour for the demon from the demijohn and the bucket of spring water which he had fetched from the spring more than a mile away then squatting again, chortling and chuckling and saying `Sho, Mister Tawm’ each time the demon paused)-the two of them drinking turn and turn about from the jug and the demon not lying down now nor even sitting but reaching after the third or second drink that old man’s state of impotent and furious undefeat in which he would rise, swaying and plunging and shouting for his horse and pistols to ride single-handed into Washington and shoot Lincoln (a year or so too late here) and Sherman both, shouting, ‘Kill them! Shoot them down like the dogs they are!’ and Jones: ‘Sho, Kernel; sho now’ and catching him as he fell and commandeering the first passing wagon to take him to the house and carry him up the front steps and through the paintless formal door beneath its fanlight imported pane by pane from Europe which Judith held open for him to enter with no change, no alteration in that calm frozen face which she had worn for four years now, and on up the stairs and into the bedroom and put him to bed like a baby and then lie down himself on the floor beside the bed though not to sleep since before dawn the man on the bed would stir and groan and Jones would say, ‘flyer I am, Kernel. Hit’s all right. They aint whupped us yit, air they?’ this Jones who after the demon rode away with the regiment when the granddaughter was only eight years old would tell people that he ‘was lookin after Major’s place and niggers’ even before they had time to ask him why he was not with the troops and perhaps in time came to believe the lie himself, who was among the first to greet the demon when he returned, to meet him at the gate and say, ‘Well, Kernel, they kilt us but they aint whupped us yit, air they?’ who even worked, labored, sweat at the demon’s behest during that first furious period while the demon believed he could restore by sheer indomitable willing the Sutpen’s Hundred which he remembered and had lost, labored with no hope of pay or reward who must have seen long before the demon did (or would admit it) that the task was hopeless-blind Jones who apparently saw still in that furious lecherous wreck the old fine figure of the man who once galloped on the black thoroughbred about that domain two boundaries of which the eye could not see from any point.

I’ve read it three times. I break down around “the aunt’s indignation” and I can never pick the thread of the story back up again.

Short sentences can be strong sentences! The shortest sentence in the English language—although according to Psychology Today is seldom used- is”no.” But I’m pretty certain a doctoral committee expects more than that.

Just for fun, what is Faulkner’s sentence about? Guesses?

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Tapdancing in Church

By

Linda Waltersdorf Cobourn

To my Mother, the original Elizabeth Bates. This one is for you.

Chapter One.

            Elizabeth was trying to pray, squeezing her eyes shut in imitation of St Therese, whose picture hung just outside the school chapel. Sister Beatrice had told her to "clear her mind of all other thoughts" in order to commune with God the Father and His Son, Jesus. In that way, said Sister Beatrice, the Holy Spirit would hear her prayers. The whole idea of a Godhead comprised of three distinctive personalities was confusing to Elizabeth. She had made her First Holy Communion--she always thought of it in capital letters--last year with her older sister Eloise. Eloise was nine and should have taken her first Communion the year before, but she had a hard time learning things. Daddy said it would be alright if Eloise waited a year and went to catechism classes with Elizabeth so she could sort of explain things to Eloise. Father Hannigan had agreed with Daddy; most people did. Daddy, who often forgot to pay the power and light bill and the rent, could be a very persuasive man. That’s what Mama would say whenever Daddy came home with a chicken the butcher had "just happened" to be giving away as Daddy passed the shop.

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            Mama. That was the reason that Elizabeth was in the chapel, instead of in her classroom with the other third graders, learning math. She tried to keep the teardrops from leaving her eyes; Georgie Martin had called her a crybaby this morning in front of the whole class and even though Sister Beatrice had told the class that sometimes God sent us tears to help us heal, the whole class had laughed.  So Sister had told Elizabeth she could be excused from math class and go to the chapel, alone, to pray for " your dear mother." To Sister Beatrice, sweet Benedictine nun, everyone was " dear", even the boys who pulled the girls' pigtails so hard their eyes smarted.

            Elizabeth's eyes had that same feeling now as if someone was pulling her hair too tightly, stretching her skin back from her face and drawing the corners of her eyes up. Sometimes, when Mama brushed her hair into a ponytail, the stretching feeling would happen. But Elizabeth's hair was loose today, the thick mass of curls spilling onto her shoulders. Eloise had tried to help her comb it, but the hair was too difficult to pull a comb through and the hairbrush was missing. She’d given up and left Elizabeth to her own struggles when Daddy had bellowed that they were going to be late for school if they didn’t stop dawdling.

            At the thought of the morning, with Mama's absence leaving a gigantic hole in the departure for school, Elizabeth stopped fighting the tears and let them fall onto the back of the wooden pew. It was probably a sin to cry on the chapel pews and make more work for the little old nuns who cleaned, but at the moment Elizabeth didn't care. She was sad and frightened and even kneeling on the cold leather of the kneeler did not help to calm her heart. Eloise had not been able to find the navy blue stockings this morning, so both girls had worn their knee socks to school, their legs exposed to the windy chill of the October morning. Eloise, at least, had a coat to keep her warm, but Elizabeth had outgrown hers last winter and Mama had given it to the church charity in the spring. She had declared that she would buy Elizabeth a brand new coat in the fall, one that was not a hand-me-down from Eloise. Elizabeth could count on one hand the number of new things she had gotten in her life and the prospect of a new coat was exciting.

            "We'll take the bus into Chester, " Mama had declared, " and get you a brand new coat at Speares. Then afterward we'll go to Woolworth's for a sundae." Elizabeth had been certain they would. Unlike Daddy, Mama never broke promises. The thought of an ice cream sundae at the soda fountain was enticing, but even more was Mama's last sentence of the conversation. “Just you and me," she had said.

            Elizabeth shivered now, the thin blue sweater she'd worn over her school jumper doing very little to keep her warm. Mama had it all planned. The money earned from the vegetable garden would go towards the new coat and the bus fare. Plus, Mama would save a little "here and there." It became a secret they shared all summer. When Daddy would complain that he’d had to eat oatmeal three days in a row instead of his usual eggs sunny side up, Mama would shrug and blame it on the egg man and his unreliable chickens. Or when Eloise would run a hole through her church knee socks, Mama would show her how to mend them neatly and do without a new pair. The money for Elizabeth's new coat grew slowly, wrapped up in a monogrammed hanky and hidden in Mama’s top dresser drawer.

            But Elizabeth had not gotten her new coat, nor had they taken the bus into Chester. The week after Labor Day, Mama had started coughing, just a little at first. A bit of a cold, she said, with the change of seasons. But the cough had gotten worse, shaking Mama's thin body. She grew pale and weak, hardly able to hold baby Jimmy in her arms unless she was sitting down. Daddy went to Lindsey's Drug Store for medicine, sticky black stuff that resembled molasses. But it hadn't helped.

            Elizabeth squirmed on the kneeler, moving her bare legs so they made little squeaking noises in the leather. She shouldn't be thinking about this now. She should be praying for Mama right now, the way Sister Beatrice had told her to, the way Daddy had told both her and Eloise to when they'd left for school that morning.

            "Pray for your mother, girls", he had said, and that frightened her because, for all that he made them go to church on Sunday and paid the tuition at the little Catholic school, no one would ever say that Daddy was a religious man. He was too handsome, Mama said, too used to getting his own way through his charm that made him think he didn't need God. "He'll change someday,” Mama had said. "Someday there will be something Handsome Jim can't charm his way through."

            It was what she called him, Handsome Jim. And he was handsome, with dark--almost black--wavy hair, piercing blue eyes, and a long, straight nose. When he smiled, dimples formed at the corners of his mouth, and his straight white teeth dazzled his audience. It was no wonder, said Mama, that they could be two months behind on the rent and not hear a peep from their landlady, Mrs. Brogan.

            Mrs. Brogan hadn't mentioned the rent in a long time. As Mama had gotten sicker and sicker, people from the church and the neighborhood had brought soups and stews to the house, and Father Hannigan was a frequent visitor. Daddy paced the floor at night when they were all supposed to be asleep. Finally, Father Hannigan said to Daddy, "Jim, your wife needs a doctor.”

            "Doctors are expensive,” Daddy had said. "Where’s the money to come from?" Unlike a lot of men in 1946, Daddy had a job, but it didn't pay so well. Father Hannigan had muttered something under his breath that sounded like "tap rooms", although it was no secret to either Eloise or Elizabeth that Daddy liked his whiskey.

            Two weeks later, with Mama hardly able to get out of bed in the mornings, Father Hannigan had offered to take up a collection to pay for Mama to go to a doctor. “I will not accept charity!" Daddy had bellowed and shown the good father the door.

            Elizabeth had thought about the hanky, neatly knotted around precious coins and bills, hidden in the top drawer of Mama's dresser with her " good" jewelry, the pearls Daddy had given her on their wedding day, and the cameo brooch that had belonged to Grandmom Looby. After supper one night- or what passed for supper since Eloise had taken over cooking--Elizabeth had crept quietly into her parents' bedroom, standing by her mother's side until Mama looked up and smiled weakly. “What is it, Sweet pea?" she said and coughed so hard it made the bed shake.

            "Mama, the money for my coat..."

            She laid a weak hand on Elizabeth's shoulder. "Don’t worry, Lizzy. It's hidden. Handsome Jim won't drink it away.” She tried to smile.

            "Mama, we should give it to Daddy for a doctor."

            Mama attempted humor. "Why, who’s sick?" Then she turned solemn. "I'll be fine, Lizzy. I just need to rest up and shake this cold. Don't worry."

            But Elizabeth was worried. "Mama, you've been sick for four weeks."

            Mama was surprised. "Four weeks? Really? You're back to school?"

            Elizabeth nodded. "The leaves are starting to turn color, Mama. Look out the window and you’ll see."

            Slowly, painfully, Mama turned and stared for long moments. "You'll need your coat,” she said.

            "No, Mama, you need a doctor. Let’s give my coat money to Daddy so he can go get a doctor for you."

            She shook her head and went into a coughing spasm. "Handsome Jim would spend it at the tap room."

             Elizabeth choked back a sob. "I’d give it to Father Hannigan and he could pay a doctor. Please, Mama?"

            But Mama had shaken her head. “I'll be okay, Elizabeth. I promise."

And Mama always kept her promises.

            Now, three weeks later, Mama was no better. She was, in fact, worse. Last night, a coughing spasm had wracked her for hours, leaving her so still and pale that Elizabeth had feared for a moment that Mama was dead. It had shaken Daddy as well. He’d gone next door to the O'Brian's, who had a phone because Mr. O'Brian was a shift supervisor at Sun Oil, to call for the doctor. When Doc Boyle arrived, he’d taken one look at Mama, felt her weak pulse, and told Daddy very quietly to go back to the O’Brians and call for an ambulance.

            Moments later, the flashing red lights and the screaming siren filled Market Street; neighbors and curious boys on bikes congregated on the small square of grass that served as the front lawn. Mrs. O'Brian gathered up Baby Jimmy from his playpen and tried to hustle Eloise and Elizabeth next door to her own house, but Elizabeth grabbed onto her mother's hand as the stretcher was being wheeled onto the front porch. “Don’t die, Mama, “she begged, tears streaming down her face.

            Then Mama was gone, carried up into the ambulance, and Handsome Jim jumped up behind the stretcher in his shirtsleeves, forgetting his hat and his overcoat. Mrs. O'Brian had made hot chocolate for all of the children, and then fixed pallets of blankets on the living room floor for Eloise and Elizabeth. Jimmy was carried upstairs to spend the night with the youngest O'Brian boy. Mrs. O'Brian had listened to the girls say their prayers then had kissed each of them on the forehead and told them to come and get her if they got frightened during the night. The two girls had huddled together in their blankets, sobbing through the night.

            Daddy had returned in the dark hours of the morning, whispering to Mr. and Mrs. O'Brian before whisking the girls home to get ready for school. Mrs. O ' Brian would take care of Jimmy “for the time being." It was what neighbors did for one another. Mama had taken care of all five noisy O'Brian children when little Tim was born in July.

            "How is Mama?" Elizabeth had asked. Eloise had just cried, the way she had done most of the night.

            But Daddy wouldn't answer. “You girls get ready for school,” was all he said. He went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee and some oatmeal, but he forgot the girls' lunch sacks and Elizabeth didn't dare to remind him.

            Daddy had deposited Eloise and Elizabeth at school almost an hour early, hurrying them down the hill and through the gates of the churchyard. Elizabeth had tried to wrap her sweater around herself more tightly, but it was a struggle to hold onto her books at the same time. She was afraid the school would be closed--the sun was just barely over the horizon--but when Daddy rang the bell at the front door, Sister Clarence, the principal, had appeared. Elizabeth had always suspected the pleasant-faced nun slept in school. Sister did not look surprised to see the Bates girls standing on her doorstep so much before the bell. She ushered them in with a wide gesture of her arms and invited them to go sit in her office while she talked to Daddy.

            Elizabeth, the good child that she was, had never been to the principal's office. But Eloise, who was equally good but often lax in her studies, knew the way. The door to Sister Clarence's office squeaked open into a room that was blessedly warm, with big chairs and soft cushions. Eloise was reluctant to sit in one, thinking they were reserved for parents, but Elizabeth was too cold and tired to care. The floor at the O' Brian's had been hard and Eloise had cried most of the night.

            There was no clock in Sister Clarence's office, but they sat on the comfortable chairs for a while. The sky outside the window grew lighter and Elizabeth felt she might have dozed off for a few minutes. By the time Sister Clarence returned to the office, the echoing footsteps of students could be heard in the hallways.

            Sister Clarence opened the big door to her office quietly, almost floating into the room. For all of the three years Elizabeth had been at Holy Savior, she had wondered if the nuns who taught them had feet, or merely hovered over the floor. Eloise always told her not to think such "fanciful thoughts". But Sister Clarence not only gave the appearance of floating, she seemed to glide with ease across the rough wooden floor, her hands hidden in the long sleeves of her habit. She spoke softly; Elizabeth had never heard Sister Clarence raise her voice, yet even the big 8th-grade boys listened and did what she said.

            She slid up to the Bates girls and touched each in turn lightly on the forehead, making the sign of the cross. "Dear girls," she said, "your father has told me of your mother's illness. All of the sisters will pray for her and for your family. And if either of you needs to talk, please come and see me." Both girls nodded their heads and Sister said a Hail Mary before dismissing them to their classes.

          Elizabeth and Eloise separated in the hallway, Eloise heading to fifth grade and Elizabeth to third. The students jostled one another, pushing and laughing as if this was like any other day. Susan Norton, who was in third grade with Elizabeth, smiled brightly and said, "You must have left early this morning! Usually I catch up with you both on the hill!" and Elizabeth wanted to tell her to stop grinning and acting as if everything was okay. Instead, she walked right past Sue, who was usually a good friend and slumped into her seat. "Grumpy,” Sue said good-naturedly and slid into her own seat. By the way the third-grade teacher, Sister Beatrice, touched her hair, Elizabeth knew that Sister Clarence had told her about Mama.

          Elizabeth had tried to pay attention in class, even though she was still tired and cold. She knew that Mama put a lot of stock in education. She had wanted to be a teacher, she'd once confided to Elizabeth, but her father had been drafted to fight the Great War and she’d needed to help out at home. She would have made a good teacher, too, Elizabeth had thought. Mama was kind, like Sister Beatrice, and she told stories that made it fun to learn. She had taught Elizabeth to tie her shoes with a story about a bunny and the letters of her name with a song.

          Somewhere in the school, a bell rang, calling the children out for recess. From her seat in the chapel, Elizabeth heard them stampeding down the hallways despite the quiet admonitions of the sisters to "act like ladies and gentlemen." No one came to get her, so Elizabeth sat back on the hard wooden pew, feeling warmer and calmer. Thoughts of Mama always made her feel safe and loved.

         She must have fallen asleep--which was surely a sin!--because she awoke with a start, Mama’s voice in her ears. "I love you, Lizzy, “said the voice, and Elizabeth whispered back, “I love you, too, Mama." Mama would be alright; Elizabeth just knew it. Mama had promised she would always be with Elizabeth and Mama never broke her promises.

         Feeling much better, her tears gone, Elizabeth sat up and made the sign of the cross to apologize for falling asleep in His House. She meant to look at the crucifix above the altar, the place where Jesus-God's-Holy-Son hung on the cross to die for the sins of all mankind, and think reverent thoughts about Him, the way Sister Beatrice said all Catholic children must do if they wanted to go to Heaven, when a flash of bright blue caught her eye and made her head turn to the right. There, in the lower left-hand corner of a stained glass window that depicted Jesus visiting the home of Martha and Mary to raise his friend Lazarus from the dead, was Mama's angel.

          She didn't really belong to Mama, of course, because angels were created beings and did not belong to anyone and this one was made of stained glass instead of whatever angels were made of, but Elizabeth had always thought of the being in blue as Mama's angel.

          When Elizabeth had first come to school at Holy Savior she had been afraid of the chapel with its dark pews and high ceilings, and the lifelike man who hung bleeding on the cross. She had cried to her mother that she was scared of the man and the creaky pews and the high ceilings with their dark corners where, Eloise had told her, souls of dead babies waited to snatch the life of a living child. After making Eloise scrub the kitchen floor as punishment for frightening Elizabeth with such nonsense, Mama took Elizabeth onto her lap and smoothed her curly hair, murmuring soothing sounds.

          "Next time you are in the chapel,” Mama said, " Don't look at the things that scare you. Find the angel that tap-dances and look at her."

          Elizabeth laughed. "Angels don't tap dance!" At least, she had never heard that they did, although she had seen a man tap dancing once when Mama and Daddy had taken her and Eloise to the summer fair by the river. The man’s feet had made clicking noises on the wooden platform, moving his feet so fast they were a blur.

          Mama had laughed. “How do you know that angels don’t tap dance?" she asked. “The Bible tells us that King David danced before the Lord in praise. Why shouldn't angels, who are created to honor God, tap dance?"

          Elizabeth shrugged. "I don't know. But I did not see an angel tap dancing. And tap dancing is noisy. It is very quiet in the chapel."

          Mama laughed. "Angels are silent when they tap dance. It is the joy they show in dancing--not the noise--that pleases the Lord."

          Elizabeth thought for a moment. "Mama, I did not see an angel. Are you sure?"

          Mama nodded. "You forgot, Elizabeth, that I went to that very same school when I was a girl. And the angel is there, wearing a beautiful gown of blue, with her wings stretched up to heaven and her arms open wide, like this." Mama demonstrated. "And her smile, “continued Mama, “is the most beautiful smile you ever saw. But you will know that she is tap-dancing because, unlike most angels, you can see her feet doing the ball-and-chain." Mama stood and showed Elizabeth the step.

          The next time Elizabeth needed to go to the school chapel, she averted her eyes from the scary high ceilings and the bleeding man on the cross and looked for the angel. She was right where Mama had said she would be, a look of pure joy on her face as her feet tapped on the stained glass grass. She helped Elizabeth not be afraid of the chapel anymore. Mama's angel was always there, waiting for her, making her feel safe.

          There she was today, in all her stained-glass glory, the faint light of the October morning shining through her and casting rays of color onto the floor. Unlike the angels Elizabeth had seen adorning the tops of Christmas trees and singing carols in her children's missile, Mama's tap dancing angel had dark, curly hair--much like Elizabeth's own--that reached to her shoulders. She smiled at Elizabeth and Elizabeth smiled back, feeling a bit warmer now and finding that her tears had stopped. The angel was still tap-dancing, still bringing glory to God through her moving feet and suddenly Elizabeth wanted to do the same. She had never seen anyone, other than Mama's angel, tap dance in church before, but she could not remember ever being told that tap dancing in church was a sin. It seemed to Elizabeth that many harmless things seemed to be sins if done in church. Was tap-dancing one of them?

          Elizabeth considered. She tried to remember what Sister Beatrice had told her and what she had learned in her catechism classes. She could not recall one single thing either for or against tap dancing. Mama had said it was the way the angel was praising God. Mama had even taken down the big family Bible, where Elizabeth's name and birth date and that of her brother and sister were written down, and shown her the place where King David's dancing was described. " And David danced before the Lord with all his might, and was wearing a linen ephod." (2 Samuel 6:14)

          She had no idea what a linen ephod was, but she could easily see that the angel was dancing with all her might, putting all of her energy into her dance. It was what Elizabeth longed to do. Surely God had heard her prayers and her mother would be well again. She could hear the shouts of the children out on the playground. Most of the teachers would be out there as well.

          Cautiously, Elizabeth slipped out of the pew, genuflecting before the altar and slowly approaching the rays of color streaming through Mama's angel. She positioned herself into a patch of blue, raising her face to the angel and holding out her arms in imitation. It felt good to stretch up to heaven! She could understand why the angel looked so happy and felt her own mouth begin to smile. Looking at the angel's feet carefully, Elizabeth tried to position her shoes accordingly. One of her classmates, Cindy Jerome, took dancing lessons and often showed the girls moves at recess. Remembering what Cindy had shown her and keeping her eyes on the angel, Elizabeth attempted to execute the step Mama had called the ball and chain.

          She tripped and found herself sprawled on the carpet. Unhurt, except for a bang to her elbow where it had hit the baseboard, she was pulling herself to her feet when the back door of the chapel opened.

          Silently, it seemed, Sister Clarence glided down the aisle.  Elizabeth waited just as silently, holding herself as still as she possibly could, certain she was about to be reprimanded for uncomely behavior in church.

          But Sister Clarence merely placed her hand gently on the top of Elizabeth's head and said, "Come with me, child. Your father has come to bring you and your sister home."

          Elizabeth could think of only one reason Daddy had arrived at the school for her and Eloise; God had heard her feeble prayers and Mama was well again, perhaps even ready to leave the hospital! She walked quietly beside the nun, longing to ask her when her mother’s illness had left her, convinced it was at the very moment Mama's angel had smiled. But the rules of the school were clear; children waited until they were spoken to. Sister Clarence said no words as she and Elizabeth moved down the corridor, although the good sister's lips moved silently. Elizabeth had the impression she was praying.

          They arrived at the door to the principal’s office before Sister Clarence spoke. “Your sister has already been summoned and your father is waiting.” Then she made the sign of the cross on Elizabeth’s forehead. “Bless you, dear child. You will need to be brave." With that, she opened the door and motioned Elizabeth in.

To read the rest of the story..Tapdancing in Church

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            The ice cubes in my hands are melting. They drip onto the wooden floor with little plopping sounds. Plop, plop, plop. I squeeze my fists really tight, feeling the cold on my hands, and hearing the drips of water onto the floor. I don’t want to hear or feel anything else. I sit as still as I can in the hard wooden chair next to Dad’s bed. If I move a little, it will squeak and then they will hear me. If I sit here in this wooden chair and don’t make it squeak, if I only listen to the drips of water on the floor, if I don’t think about what is happening in the next room, everything will be okay. It HAS to be okay.

            The men in the next room will pack up their big black bags and go away. They will say it was all a mistake or maybe it was all a joke.  Dad likes to play jokes on people. The men will get into the ambulance with the flashing red and blue lights, and they will drive away. Then things will be the way they always are. It will be me, and Mom, and Dad, and our orange cat Butterscotch.

Except Butterscotch isn’t really our cat. I forgot that. He’s my sister’s cat but he lives with us because her husband is allergic to cats. He’s a nice cat. Sometimes when Dad isn’t feeling well, Butterscotch sits on his lap and purrs. I guess he thinks it helps Dad feel better. Maybe it does. I don’t know a lot about cats. He’s probably hiding from the men with the black bags now because he’s sort of a scaredy cat.

            I wish I could be a cat and hide.

            I wish they would all go away.

            Not my mom, though. She’s really, really nice and she takes good care of Dad. She’s in the other room now, talking to the men with the big black bags. They came in the house a while ago—maybe half an hour?—with their big black bags. They got out those ear things doctors use to listen to your heart. They took out some kind of machine and hooked it to my dad’s chest. It looked like they were hurting Dad. I don’t trust them. One of them told me something that can’t be true.

            I’m sorry, son. Your father is gone.

            Gone? How could Dad be gone when he was sitting right there in his chair, watching a baseball game? But I guess someone turned the television off because the screen was dark. Or maybe Dad turned it off. Things get confused in my head sometimes. It took me a minute to know that they didn’t mean he was gone, as in not there.

            They meant he was dead.

            But he can’t be dead. I told them that. I said, “He’s not dead! He’s only asleep! He sleeps a lot because he’s sick!”

            But the men just shook their heads and frowned. They started putting their stupid things into their big black bags and someone took a sheet and put it over my dad’s face.

            And I got mad. Really mad. I try not to get mad because Mom says it can scare people because I’m a big guy, like Dad. I shouted, “He’s not dead!” and I ran into the kitchen to get ice cubes from the freezer. Sometimes, if it’s hard to wake Dad up, I put ice cubes on his feet. That wakes him up right away! I ran back into the living room to put them on Dad’s feet, but Mom said it was too late.

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