Writing from Amy's Wood Loft ...

A Belated Introduction

2010-09-30T02:20:00.004-04:00

“Asian Pacific Picnic, here I come!”

I’d been waiting for this event for about a month. Not only would I reconnect with the international community I so missed from my travels, this would also give me an opportunity to network for the Asian Cultures class. I planned to find speakers and interview subjects to interact with my students at Mercyhurst College.

The picnic started at noon. Dressed and ready to go at 10 am, I drummed my fingers on the table and read the flyer again. Then I placed my jelly cookies on a paper plate. I willed the hands of the clock to move ahead. Finally, the time arrived...but my ride didn’t!

“Be patient,” I scolded myself, “she’ll be here soon.” But that didn’t happen until about 2 pm.

The phone rang. “I’m on my way,” my colleague, Brenda, promised.

“Oh? No problem.” Did I sound cheery enough? She was driving me, after all. We still had a couple of hours left. I had till 4 pm.“We just need to make one stop.” What??

I gritted my teeth and nodded. Still time...

It would take thirty minutes to get to the beach from home. We finally arrived at the Peninsula. I tried to keep my voice nonchalant, “So where is Beach 11?”

“Amy, I’m not sure, but we’ll find it.”

We drove and drove, and as the minutes ticked by, my chest felt tighter and tighter.

I grew up in this area but I don’t know these things. Even if I could see well, I haven’t been on the beach for the past twenty-five years. Brenda had said she knew.

Ten minutes passed. Tick! Tick!

“Amy, how about if we get out here and ask? There’s a First Aid Station.” Brenda seemed eager to solve the dilemma. “You go ask those picnickers and I’ll ask at the station.”

Barefooted, she made her way over the gravel to a building. Where are her shoes? We are never going to make it! I still held the plate of cookies in my hand. The jelly cookies stuck to the cling wrap now.

The picnickers I asked shrugged. “It’s way back there. We are between Beach 6 and 7.”

I gulped. Oh Lord, help us make it! Where is Brenda?!

Brenda tiptoed across through the parking area, “I guess it’s back a ways,” She made a face and I couldn’t help myself, “I’ve been looking forward to this forever and...”

She interrupted, “Okay, I don’t have any shoes. You go and try to make it.” Brenda pushed me toward the sidewalk, “GO!”

“What? No, let’s stay together!”

“I hate to say this but I’m outta gas, and I have no shoes. You give me money for gas an--”

The urge to slap Brenda silly came over me. I’m half-blind. I forgot my cane. And you expect me to go walking miles—by myself—carrying my smooshed jelly cookies to try to find Beach 11 and a disbanded picnic?!

“Go!” she urged. “No, wait! First. Money--”

I glared daggers. She appeared not to notice. So I found myself reaching into my pocket and taking out a five-dollar-bill.

“Okay, now. Go!” She gave me a shove.

She rushed to her car. I marched in the opposite direction. Smoldering anger consumed me.

I marched faster.

Stepped higher.

Bam! Walked right into a big tree branch. The low-lying leaves slapped me. Slapped me silly, they did! I tried to battle my way back to sunlight.

“Owwe!”

I raised one hand to rub my forehead and bumped my other hand; the plate of cookies tipped forward and began to fall. I reached out to save them. In doing so, they got all squished!

Eeeeeehhh!

All the sudden the humor snuck through to me and I began to laugh. A laugh that hurt my stomach.

Every time I get myself into these situations, I am carrying something bothersome!

I recalled as a new faculty member at our college in the Middle East, that earned me the privilege of traveling to Abu Dhabi to shake the hand of royalty, the Sheikh of the United Arab Emirates. Talk about BIG! I was gonna meet the head of a country! That day I clutched, not a plate of cookies, but an oversized purse to my side. I couldn’t figure out what to do with it when I got ready to shake the hand of His Excellency. As I worried about that gigantic purse slugging the Sheikh in the stomach and knocking the wind out of him, the actual moment arrived. I marched right past the Sheikh! My college director gasped, “Whoa, Amy!” He turned me around and guided me back to that important man to shake his hand.

That memory brought a smile to my face as I marched and clutched my bent plate of cookies, and marched some more. Purses. Cookies. Coats. I always carried something.

Now I know. When I get angry, I march.

This brought another smile to my face. My out-of-step marching lacked rhythm and coordination when I had to lead Grade 3 in a marching competition thirty years ago in Colombia! I guess I never got angry enough!

The more I thought about my crazy predicament in trying to reach the Asian picnic, the more humor I felt.

“Oh God, thank you for the sunshine today! Thank you for my two sneakered feet to walk with, and trees to slap the silly into me. I even thank you for my limited vision. What I don’t see doesn’t seem to matter much. I still get through these situations.” I giggled again.

A jogger passed me. “What time is it?”

“4:30” he shouted back.

“Whoa, Lord! How can I turn back the time?!” Who can I ever meet now? How did we get so lost? And how crazy that Brenda didn’t wear shoes ... and how could she run out of gas, take my money and make me walk? On. My. Big. Asian. Friendship. Day.

I wanted to feel injustice.

But...truly, the laughter kept bubbling out of me.

Okay, this is gonna hafta be a God-thing. If you want me to have a speaker for the class, You are gonna have to arrange it.

Five weeks later. “Class, I’d like you to meet Ms. Veni Mudiam from India. Please give her a big Mercyhurst welcome!”

Thank you, God. You not only share a laugh or two with me through my absurd and frequent calamities, You use them to purposefully turn me toward You. This way, I can’t miss Your hand in my life. Blind or not, I can still see You clearly.

You always have the right connections.

Beams and Blindness

2010-08-14T14:51:00.011-04:00

It took me awhile to get used to get over my pre-conceived ideas about blindness, and to begin to associate it with myself. I freely used words like "tolerance" and "understanding" and "adaptability" with nonnative speakers, language, culture, and cuisine. But when it came to accepting my own vision limitations, I was having none of it. This is the start of my journey in changing my attitude about my very own Retinitis Pigmentosa.

~ ~ ~ ~

"Why do you look at the speck that is in your brother's eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye?" Matt 7:3

“I had a lot to learn about judging others and accepting myself.

“Perhaps the best solution is to simply tell people that you are blind.”

“I’m not blind. I have a vision problem” I replied immediately.

Have you ever been around someone you don’t know well but who rubs you wrong, or downright irritates you? For me, that someone was Bob. I tried to be polite but from the start everything about him bothered me. First, he had the audacity to show up without telling me in advance that he was blind! So that was a shock. Fuming, I guided Bob through my parent’s house until we arrived at my apartment. There he sat on my sofa, determined to suggest that I was blind and that I should inform people of it! I glared at him—not that he would notice.

Bob was the Mobility Instructor assigned to my case by the Bureau of Blindness and Visual Services (BBVS) I had recently contacted.

“Blindness is a continuum,” he said. Not every blind person has lost all his vision. Some people still have some vision but are legally blind. That means they have to be at 20 feet to see what others can see at 200 feet. Or perhaps they have less than 10% of vision remaining. Sometimes blind people can only see light, but not shapes. What can you see?”

“I don't know. My problem (notice that I did not say ‘my blindness’?) is more of what I don’t see. I don’t see edges, or corners or even the dog all the time!” I joked. The truth was I ran into tables and open cupboards, missed steps. Poor Buddy learned to get out of the way or that I would fall over him.

“Are you legally blind?”

I recall being told something like that more than twenty years earlier but I stubbornly refused to admit it. “I’m not sure.”

“From what you tell me I think you can benefit from using a cane. Have you ever thought of that?”

“You mean a blind man’s cane? No, no! I don’t think I really need that! I’m just clumsy,” I muttered.

Bob was not to be deterred. “Would you be willing to try it out for a session? Perhaps around your neighborhood?”

I nervously covered my eyes, not even realizing the irony of that action.

“How long is a session?”

“Ohhh, an hour or so I believe would be enough.”

“Ack!” I muttered even more quietly under my breath. “Sure, why not?” is what I said aloud to him.

Bob then proceeded to take out a variety of canes for me to try out. We walked around the house and even went to the basement where we found my mother washing clothes. Bob jovially introduced himself. I held onto my cane. Embarrassing to have that stick in my hand! I don’t know why. My mom didn't even appear to notice.

As far as I was concerned Bob could leave and good riddance to him!

As soon as he left, I picked up my cell phone and punched in numbers. “Jim! He didn’t even tell me that he was blind before he came. Can you believe I cleaned up my entire apartment?!”

“Was this your annual spring cleaning?” As usual, my best friend who lived in California took a comical tack.

"Jim, can you please stay with me here!"

"Who is ‘he’ anyway and was he 100% blind?”

“Hmph! I’m talking about Bob, my new mobility instructor. Remember I told you he was coming over tonight to meet me? He never even let on beforehand that he was blind! And yes, he is 100% blind!"

"And do you always tell people you have a vision problem?" he asked pointedly.

"Why is it that blind people project their blindness onto others?” I huffed, ignoring him.

“As if you are an expert on blind people now. Isn’t he the first blind person that you ever met?” James laughed. “You are in denial, big time!”

“Oh, shut up!”

It was easy to fool myself before I called the BBVS. People who lose their vision gradually can get by for a long time without coming unglued. We just keep adapting. Suddenly a big chunk of vision disappears. This dislodges the fictitious comfort we’ve built up around ourselves. That’s what happened to me. Bob's visit bugged me so I refused to call him.

But Bob did not give up. He called me. “Amy, this is Bob, your mobility instructor. It’s been awhile since we talked...”

“Mmm. Sorry, uh—so busy with my job lately.”

“I know how that is. But your cane has come in now. Shall we take that trip in your neighborhood soon and you can try it out?”

“Ahhhh—-” I couldn’t think fast enough, “Well—” Why not?

We set up the time and date for one week later in October for us to traverse my neighborhood.

The big day arrived.

“Oh, you’re early!”

“Take your time. I’ll have a smoke.” Bob planted himself outside his driver’s window and extracted a pipe. He then filled it with an aromatic tobacco and puffed on it as he talked to his driver and waited for me to gather my wits about me.

“Okay, I’m ready.” I wasn’t but the sooner we got started, the sooner we could finish.

“Let me introduce you to your new cane,” Bob joked. He then reminded me how I should hold it and instructed me to lead the way, “just get a feel for it now.”

We took to the sidewalk with me in the lead. The sun caressed our shoulders as we explored the area. My cane seemed to me just like a pool cue and I regretted not having life-sized pockets low on the ground in which to shoot a series of colored or striped balls. The thought made me smile.

“Try walking with your eyes closed,” Bob called.

Just then I jabbed myself hard in the stomach with the cane, and yelped. “Ack!”

The life-sized billiards game turned into a dagger or fencing sport. “Ahhh! Where’s my shield?” I bemoaned the fact I was not a knight living back in Shakespearean times, and thus not properly armored.

“Speaking of yielding, let me show you how to cross the street.”

I smiled at the misunderstanding but took my cue to pay attention.

“When you hold your cane vertically, it indicates to drivers that you are stopped and do not intend to cross the street. That’s important. You then listen for sounds of traffic, and yield the right-of-way to them if you hear vehicles. If you hear nothing, then you proceed to cross.”

“Oookaay.” I could handle that, especially since I could still see with my eyes at the moment. “This cane stuff isn't so bad!”

I soon changed my tune. When I saw Rhet McCohn, my neighbor and one of the shakers in our town, I desperately longed to tap my cane out of sight. “Oh no! I look like I’m cross-country skiing, except there isn’t any snow!” As Mr. McCohn watched us file past his house, I then closed my eyes for real. No time like the present to try my skills! He must be wondering what we’re doing, why I’m using this cane.

I imagined myself stopping, holding my cane vertically as if I were going to cross the street. Except I would turn to face him. What would I do? Twirl my cane like a drum majorette’s baton? Use it as a teacher’s pointer and gesture dramatically? “As you can clearly see, I am now learning how to be blind!” Or would I use my cane as a musician’s baton and conduct a silent symphony and introduce Bob as the Master conductor? I did none of these things, of course. I kept on going and tried not to blush. Let Mr. McCohn think what he would!

I don’t know how Bob knew Mr. McCohn was there but he greeted him with, “Nice day to be out and about, wouldn’t you say?”

I noticed Mr. McCohn didn’t have anything at all to say.

We arrived back at the house, and I guided Bob up the stairs to my sofa again for our debriefing.

“You moved at a good clip,” he approved, “especially towards the end.” His voice took on a teasing tone. It’s as if he knew just how embarrassed I felt in front of the town mayor who lived kitty-corner to my home. “Did you close your eyes at all?”

“I did,” and wondered if Mr. McCohn did too.

Maybe Bob wasn’t quite as bad as I originally figured. After all, a blind teacher with a sense of humor might really have something of value to teach me. I held my cane vertically and thought, “Okay, I’m stopped. But ready to yield.”

Developing a Runner's Endurance

2010-07-26T16:55:00.049-04:00

"God, I wanna run! I wanna move fast and feel free. I wanna be how I used to be!”

Twenty-two years after first being diagnosed with Retinitis Pigmentosa, a progressive eye disorder usually resulting in blindness, I finally had to turn to a cane to get around. I’d gotten more used to it throughout the year but with my active lifestyle, sometimes I longed to toss the cane down, and just make a dash for it! I thought of my danger areas: supermarkets, banks, restaurants, libraries, hardware stores and other unfamiliar buildings. I really needed my cane there.

“God, just give me something, some tiny bit of freedom!”

I knew this kind of thinking wasn’t wise, that I should seek to be content in all circumstances, but of late my heart was rebelling. The initial thrill of mastering my cane had worn off and I felt the burden of everyday use wear me down.

So this spring I deliberately left my cane at home and began to run in my neighborhood. My mother grew concerned as I made my way over local streets. “Be careful of the cars,” she’d call. Or, “Watch out for the sewers and curbs!” I acquiesced but went on my way, determined to run the course just like any other runner might. I could see well enough to make my way over these obstacles.

“You’re gonna fool around and get hurt. I’d feel better if you run on the school track," my mom warned. But I ran on the streets anyway. I'd slip on some loose gravel, and trip on unseen sewers, or over the curbs. I got bruised and skinned up my legs and shins. After about my fourth or fifth near miss one day, I listened to my mom.

Running at the track was boring and tedious. It took four times around just to make a mile! Sometimes I forgot how many laps I'd run, which in turn, frustrated me. Some days I had really bad vision days. I crossed over some of the lanes, and once, collided with the fence surrounding the track. Other times I just missed barreling into other runners on the track. On these days I could easily feel defeated. But I wouldn’t allow myself to be derailed.

“God, it’s difficult. But I wanna do it! I wanna run like I used to. Lord, give me this time to build up my skills again.”

I needed a well-developed plan. Goal 1: run every sunny or warm day. (I was not so dedicated to force myself to run on rainy days, however). Goal 2: Be accountable. I began to post my runs on Facebook. Goal 3: Don’t worry about speed. Just focus on how many laps to complete each time. Aim for 3-4 times a week. Goal 4: Work on endurance. Goal 5: Increase speed and length. Goal 6: Successfully finish the season.

As God shortened the distances that I walked and lengthened the marks that delineated my runs, I began to change my attitude about the track. I accepted it as a safe boundary in which to accomplish my goals. What was my next step? Try to go further? Faster?

“Do you know how long it takes you to run a mile?” my friend asked.

“Well, I usually walk and run.”

“So you don’t really know, do you?” She seemed to be challenging me.

“I guess I could try to run all four laps without stopping,” I said.

“Try it and see or you’ll never know. Then add another mile, and so on.”

So I pushed myself. I made sure to lift up my feet and not trip over the turf. I propelled myself forward. Soon, I accomplished my one-mile goal. Then I’d walk. Run another four laps, followed by a lap of walking. Could I make it for the third mile? Some days I did. Others I didn’t. I went on to master a fourth mile. My goal is at least five miles of good running speed. That's twenty laps or more, depending on how many extra miles I ran. I came earlier and stayed later than others who used the track.

In my effort to reach my smaller goals, I didn’t even notice that I was accomplishing my biggest goal. I was running just like every other runner! I had the same concerns, the same shortness of breath, the same blisters, but also, the same great feeling afterward.

God was answering my prayer by giving me this outlet, a very specific Amy-time to dash. Once I realized this, I began to respond in a more positive way to using my cane at other times, when it served as a helpful tool around town and at night.

When I started running in the springtime, I was grappling with some heartfelt questions. They weighed my mind down exactly like the excess weight that had accumulated over the past winter weighed my physical body down. Undisciplined thoughts oozed out and accused God of neglect just as my muscles accused me of neglect when I attempted to run too far. I never could stretch them adequately. I treated my mind the same way by not stretching it long enough in the proper direction.

Besides wondering how I would cope with more vision loss, I worried about finances. I could barely support myself with the job I had. With my poor vision, I was unable to drive to find a better-paying job. Yet I was denied a government disability that would help me financially. Should I retrain, and if so, where and how would I pay for it? Also, I felt a need to share my life with someone. When would God would provide me with a Christian partner? During my morning devotionals, God remained silent on these issues. As spring turned to summer, my prayer group disbanded and that support also slipped away. God refused to spell out any answers to me. I didn’t know how to move forward or what choices to make. Meanwhile, I met someone but I wasn't sure how secure the relationship was or how God was going to work it out. I needed direction. Most of all, I wanted to feel at peace with my decisions. But any peace I felt was short-lived.

As summer progressed, something else began to emerge out of the time I spent at the track. Along with the clear proof that my breathing became more regular with longer runs, I noticed that God was toning my body. He began to build endurance in my legs and feet. I ran further. But along with the physical changes that came over me, God began to build spiritual stamina in my mind as I ran. When I railed at Him or complained about my choices and begged Him to tell me what to do, my thoughts began to untangle. The more I ran, the more the words came out from the pages of the holy book and into the voice I imagine Jesus having. God’s conversations with me deepened and I knew He was honing my responses, stretching my belief.

Some decisions came easily, “Take this second job I’ve opened up to you. You don’t need the disability pay. I will provide.” As far as pursuing more education, I felt Him say, “Hold off on that. I am placing you in your area of teaching expertise. This is a start and what you need for now.” But some questions remained unanswered. I pushed, “God, about this man I’ve met...?” I felt early confirmation but of late, God has remained silent. I want to trust Him. When it comes to the desires of my heart, my faith-muscle seems constricted. My me-muscle is stretched, bulked up and ready to explode into action. Finally, I humbled myself. “Lord, let me continue to wait on Your timing and trust You in every aspect of my life, including this one. ”

As August begins, I realize I’ve almost reached my goal of running a strong and fast five-mile race. Though my only competitor is myself, I feel the goal is well within my reach. That young blind woman who longed to run so freely without her cane early in springtime got her wish. God has given me lots of sunshine to train my mind and muscles, but I had those rainy days in which I didn't do well in exercising either. But now when I face the mirror, in spite of my poor vision, I glimpse the contours of the mature, disciplined woman God envisions me to be. God does that. He starts with our insecurities and unbridled passions and uses them along with our circumstances to transform us into a fitter, more-toned version of ourselves, but only if we let Him.

Leaving a dust trail to my online dating experiences!

2010-07-10T12:26:00.005-04:00

With so much focus now on online dating, I thought I would share my experiences with two dating sites I joined this past year: Christian Mingle and E-Harmony. I had reached a milestone—ten years after my divorce—and I felt that God had finally given me the high-five to date again! These are some of my experiences!

Online emails and chats: online identity-switcheroo

First, he was a 49-year-old gem smith from Austria wanting to know all about me. He went on shopping sprees all over the world for the best stones. The only problem is that I swear he left me chatting with him when he took off on those trips! By that, I mean he left me hanging on to his next word literally without signing off. How rude!

He next turned up with a completely new identity (new name, age and nationality) perhaps a 35-year old mountain climber for all I remember. I was shocked that he was a player! Betrayed...!

I had a few marriage proposals, sight unseen, one from a widowed father in NYC, and another from a lonely geologist whose wife had left him.

I dated a guy with his own carpet-cleaning business who lived about three hours away from me. We finally agreed to meet in my city. We had a romantic visit to an expensive Japanese restaurant that night. That was followed by a brisk walk back and forth several times at a nearby strip mall. Still can’t figure that out! The next morning called for a surprise trip to the vet, and he obliged. My dog bonded as he made space for him on the floor of his van. I was dreamy for a few more weeks, then things fell apart on the second day of my first visit to see him in his city. I asked him, “Where are all the jokes?” He asked me, “Where are all the words?” He felt like a rent-a-clown and I felt like a rent-a-chatterbox. To make matters worse, when he saw me in my new dress for church, he quipped, “Did you plan to sing in the choir?” I felt like a misplaced southern belle! He proceeded to usher me into a seat and never introduced me to a single soul. That afternoon, he took me on a planned hiking trip. I knew we were not destined to be together when I asked if he ever did anything spontaneous, and he said, “Yes, put you on a bus home!”

My family celebrated my birthday a few days later at the same Japanese hibachi, and I thought that would kill me, but I rather enjoyed myself instead! Thus, I let him sweep our date under the carpet with his super-duper carpet business. Three hours was just too far away to bother with any more dates with him!

There was another man but he lived four hours away. We had one dinner date. He had been working for a professional printing press for years. Kinda cool for a writer like me but ... simply not attracted to him. He selected a coupon from his stash for The Olive Garden. A nice enough fellow, though. He liked hiking and was an amateur painter... I was imagining myself checking out his paintings. I do so like art. But about four days later, he wrote me, apologizing, and said that he had started dating someone else. I was happy for him but sad for the loss of a painting aficionado and my potential hiking partner; he had a flexible schedule and it was the autumn season, the best time for hiking, after all!

I also went out with a root canal specialist (Who dates THEM anyway?!) I think he was a little bit of a snob, and he seemed just like I imagined one of his profession to be—impersonal and to have a cold veneer! He took me to a posh country club but talked all evening of his "toys" –his words, not mine- his boat, jet-ski, Caribbean cruises, and how he wanted a woman who could "keep up with him." As I imagined myself running after him, sweeping my cane in clumsy haste, or perhaps trying to walk or should I say...glide...or rather fend-my-way-with-my-cane on water (for he was a Spirit-filled man of religion as well!). As I envisioned myself sinking INTO the water the further on I went, I thought it best to be left in the wake of his jet-ski…

I corresponded next with a local guy. When discussing where to meet for our first date, he suggested the GROCERY store!! (no joke!). We bypassed the shopping expedition but met for a late lunch at Wegman’s delicatessen at the grocer. He currently acts as a supervisor of bridge repairmen and snow plow operators. In the past, he was a Farrier (a horse-shooer), at least thirty years in this job! What I know about horses isn't worth mentioning but my experience is limited to my teaching days in Colombia when I rode around burial sites in San Agustín for five hours one rainy day. I recall the dreadfully serious response of my riding companion: after it was all over, he rubbed himself painfully and groaned, "I don't think I'll be able to have children after this experience!" Needless to say, my future with the farrier was doomed from the start.

After that, I exchanged six weeks of emails with a match from NY but he was not right for me either. He wrote to say he was PASSIONATE about paying his bills! I am passionate too, but about traveling and writing, and other things, like having a sense of humor! It seems that poor guy was sadly lacking in that department. There was some kind of computer problem (I think he timed out on the site and lost his email). He wrote "I am DISTURBED about this loss as I would like to continue to communicate with you." That word disturbed me. Who gets disturbed about a lost email?! Maybe disappointed. Or confused. Or irritated. But DISTURBED? I think that's a deal breaker, or at least a warning sign of times ahead...

Last but not least, I can't forget to mention the retired oil rigger who had horrendous spelling and grammar. What can you say to someone who can’t write let alone pronounce his brother-in-law's last name (a good solid Italian-American name by the sounds of it!)? Not only was I disturbed (if I dare employ that word!) I made my living working with, as the oil rigger called them, "ferin'rs" (foreigners) for twenty-five years. Couldn't find a common topic between us. Till he called me one day and told me he had to learn Spanish and could I help him? I sent him a set of cassettes and urged him forward...he was supposed to take a test and get an oil rigging job in Brazil (BTW where they speak Portuguese, not Spanish!). I followed up recently to see if he got the job. He must have as the number was no longer in service!

I quite often felt in despair - like was that one perfect—no, I wasn’t even aiming that high—just suitable, guy out there?? I used to soothe myself with thoughts of exposing my mismatched dating experiences and write about the whole idea of putting yourself out there on computer dating. Looking back on my experiences, I don’t think I was successful but it taught me how to laugh at my situations. An actual article might not be appropriate but maybe an entry on my blog about these crazy matches might be okay. I wouldn’t want to hurt them (we are all just reaching out for someone, after all) but the point is … I don't know how they were matched up with ME!

Words Define and Guide Us Revision

2010-07-06T22:20:00.008-04:00

Words Define and Guide Us

"I, personally, prefer to use the word "sight" rather than "vision" because one can possess much vision with no sight; while the converse results in sighted people who are by no stretch of the imagination, visionaries. Blindness, to whatever degree, is simply the absence of sight; vision is quite another matter."
- Chet Smalley, Blindness and mobility specialist, Erie, PA.

A few days ago, I was asked to participate in a survey by a doctoral student at Louisiana Tech University because my mobility specialist thought that I could contribute positively to this research. I was reminded of how far I had come from that covert, secretly-out- of-my-element, ha-ha, sorry-so-clumsy- today young woman. Few knew then that I had struggled for many years with Retitinitis Pigmentosa, a progressive eye disease robbing me of my sight. Today - one year later to the day from my first training experience - I use a cane, smile a lot and can speak openly about my RP. As a high school teacher, I set out not only to teach English but also to model self-confidence and independence.

Chet, the mobility specialist assigned to teach me the basics of cane use to give me more confidence and have less accidents getting around, alerts me to language in my speech that he believes holds me back from becoming the best I can be. He said, "You, for example, Amy, still think of your blindness as a condition rather than one of your many characteristics.” I had told Chet about my desire to befriend a young woman who had RP. I felt she was avoiding meeting me, and concluded that it was probably a little frightening for her to think of meeting another person with vision problems.

Chet's response was quick, "Listen to your language: you are using: the words "vision" and "problems” in the same breath. That’s deficit language. Blind can also be construed as a deficit word until one becomes acquainted with blind people who are productive, happy and well-adjusted to their blindness. Blind people by the thousands are demonstrating that the world need not be interacted with just by way of sight."

That’s true. I’m discovering that I can get around better when I apply my non-visual techniques to walking. I bump into fewer objects, trip over stairs less and what’s even better, people don’t get angry when I do make mistakes because they see my cane. But I tend to use my cane at work, at night and in supermarkets and theaters when I have more difficulty. Does that then make it a condition in my eyes?

My instructor went on to say that when we look at blindness as a characteristic instead of a disability, blindness can become just one component of an otherwise fulfilled person. I realized that although I had made progress on this continuum of accepting myself as blind, I still had a journey before I would be comfortable thinking of blindness as simply another characteristic of myself. I wonder how one gets to that point?

Chet believes it is through immersion cane training and exposure to positive role models that enables one to truly adjust. There are a number of places across the US where one can live and learn the skills necessary for coping with blindness. They are “immersed” in cane training, which means candidates receive in-depth ongoing and regular daily training with their cane that makes using a cane second nature. In a day that consists of learning meal preparation, alternative means of accomplishing tasks and computer instruction, cane training is a priority.

He points out that adjustment to blindness means living the life to which one is hoping to adjust, and living should not be accepting less of what one desires. If using my cane becomes so second nature that I do see my blindness simply as another characteristic and not the defining characteristic of myself, will I have arrived at the understanding he envisions for me?

It is this question I grapple with now. If I intend to positively impact the lives of a different set of students, for example, ones who are also blind, then I must be certain that I have the best understanding of who I am with my unique capabilities and characteristics. This identity Chet describes has to come from within myself. It's not something I can put on or take off at random. The question returns: how do I reduce a condition to simply one of my many characteristics?

As always, God provides me with the answer. In the book of Colossians, Paul exhorts his Christian brethren, "We have not stopped praying for you and asking God to fill you with the knowledge of His will through all spiritual wisdom and understanding.” (Col 1:9) This tells me that we have brothers and sisters who pray for us. God tells us to ask for wisdom, and assures that He will provide. Whether God provides wisdom through training or through our identity in Christ, we trust and move forward in that understanding.

If I choose to walk by my defining characteristic, my love for Him, then He will make everything clear in His perfect timing. As I grow and adjust to this continuum of blindness God has allowed me to go through, He will place markers along the way to guide me. I believe Chet's attention to my deficit language is such a marker.

Paul goes on to say, "And we pray this [wisdom and understanding] in order that you might live a life worthy of the Lord and may please him in every way, bearing fruit in every good work, growing in the knowledge of God..."(Col 1:10).

When I first became a teacher, I doubted my skills and abilities yet God put me in situations where my talents bloomed. In fact, He not only shouldered my fears and developed my talents, He brought me to many peaks in my professional life.. As a result, I have become an even better teacher than I dreamed I could be. I have influenced many students both here and abroad. This has placed me in a beautiful position to share God’s love in more than thirty-three countries! I believe the fruits of my labor will extend to blind students as well. I know that every experience we go through prepares us to serve in bigger capacities and it is with that knowledge that I set myself to have my blindness become only a characteristic and not a condition.

Thank you, Lord that even as my sight diminishes, You continue to magnify my vision.

Millions of Blessings

2010-04-22T00:24:00.003-04:00

Millions of Blessings

Somewhere around 6 am, I began to wake up. In that murky state between dreams and reality, I couldn’t quite get my bearings . As I looked around, I saw a cockeyed bulb hung loosely from a wire in the b1athroom and a filthy ceiling fan dangled motionless above me. Slowly, it filtered through my sleep-muddled brain. Kenya! My second day in a small village in the landlocked Eastern province of Mwingi. I woke up for real then, anxious to get moving.
“Thank you God for this new day and everything it will bring me. Lord, let me always be ready to see the many blessings You provide each day, but I know this beautiful Kenyan day, above all, will be special. Let me remember every detail I experience.”
Brrrr! The Kenyan winter air felt chilly on my bare feet. I fished my socks from the sheets where they’d come off during the night and put them back on. Yawning, I slipped a foot out of bed and onto the floor. Just as quickly, I jerked it back up. Even in the poor lighting, I could see my white sock had instantly turned black.
What on earth had I stepped in? Ashes? Dirt? My scrutiny turned to shock when the color began to fan out. Tiny black moving dots. Something ALIVE. There could be no mistake…
ANTS! AaaaaAAAAGGGHHHH!
I began beating at my foot, of course sending the ants flying all over my sheets, and in my hair and on my hands and arms. Rolling around and flailing, I brushed everywhere at once, then slapped at the sheets to knock them off and out of my sight!
Did you ever notice how ants cling to human skin? I didn’t know what was making them stick to me — static electricity, something in the air, their species … did they have some super-duper appendages with magnetic properties... Whatever the reason, we tussled for the upper hand. My whacking beat their clinging.

When it seemed the ants had retreated and the immediate danger had passed, I observed my surroundings once more, my breath still coming in rasps. My poor eyes can’t usually see great detail, but that particular morning, they focused on quantity — hundreds, thousands, dare I guess even millions — of ants? Pull yourself together!
Trails of ants headed in every which direction — on the floor, on the walls forming a line to the ceiling, and those closer up, meandering drunkenly inside the creases of my sheets. Tiny black ants.
I let loose another scream as they began to attack me once more — an arm, my legs, a shoulder, a toe...my hands quivered as I beat them off and they scrambled for safety.
Get away, ants! Shoo!
I calculated every move I made, as if I were shipwrecked in the middle of an ocean, but instead of water, the ship was leaking ants. I didn’t want to fall out into the ants or have the ants drown me, so I clutched onto my sheet with one hand and kept the water – ahem, ants – at bay with the other.
Someone rapped on my door.
“Madame, I heard you making a small sound. Is everything okay?”
Who is that? What does she mean ‘a small sound’? People in the next village over should be able to hear that scream! I want them to! A ‘small sound!’ Is that her way of being polite?
Millions of ants have invaded my room and she asks me if I’m ‘all right?’ Of course I’m not! These better not be killer ants. Is there even such a thing?
“Can you open the door? Madame, are you awake? You are not having a nightmare?”
Yes, I most definitely AM. Like a feature film, my nightmare is showing “Attack of the Ants!”
As I tried to form the words, the footsteps receded and I found myself alone once more. Gradually my breathing slowed down and I cleared a manageable space around me, carefully got dressed, and then jammed my feet in close-toed shoes. By this time, the ants had receded to a circumference I could deal with.
As I sat on my bed thinking about the past few minutes (as that’s all it really lasted), some lyrics came to mind. “Count your blessings. Name them one by one...Count your many blessings, see what God hath done.” Many blessings? One by one? What? Whoa!
It occurred to me that we have so many blessings, we can’t even begin to realize how many — just like those ants! Each ant is an intricate and complete perfect specimen designed by God. Every single one is a reminder of what He has brought into our lives. I remembered my prayer earlier this morning. I certainly will recall every vivid detail of this experience. God had swiftly answered my prayer!
And with what humor! When I remember the flapping, flailing, spontaneous antics I went through, spurred on by the adventure of so many unsolicited ants invading my area, it makes me laugh instead. The ants never harmed me or put me in any real danger. I’m okay. I survived. They endured. Or many of them did. I can’t vouch for the whole lot of ‘em but they sure seemed like a hardy bunch.
At first I couldn’t believe what had happened but when I reflected on it afterward, I saw God’s immense humor come through. Can’t you just see an impish God chuckling as He spied down on me that morning? God wanted to give me unforgettable memories. He answers prayers, folks! Let’s always be ready for the surprise encounters God brings us; how rich and unexpected are His gifts!

In Search for Jaruwan Khattiya

2010-04-20T01:23:00.003-04:00

When I get an idea in my mind, my mother says that I am obstinate. This was certainly the case when my ex-husband and I arrived in Thailand a few years back. I wanted to visit a child that I sponsored through Christian Children's Fund, (CCF) an international aid organization. This is the story of my attempt to do so.
~~~~
Ihab and I arrived in Chen-Mai, a lovely mountainous area in the north of Thailand. I was determined to find a young child named Jaruwan Khattiya, whom I sponsored through CCF. She lived in Payao Province, about four more hours to the north of where we were staying. I didn't understand at the time that the trip should have been arranged before arriving in- country. I had been so busy grading exams, I never had time to notify the organization in advance.

But surely I could visit this four-year-old girl I sponsored. Surely they would help me since I was already in the country, wouldn't they? I was my dream to meet her. I also had to convince my husband that the eight-hour drive up and back to Payao was worth it. Our schedule was very tight. But I was certain that it could be done. How could we come so close and not make the extra effort to touch base?

First, I had to find the phone number to CCF in Payao. Calling was more difficult than I ever imagined! None of the operators seemed to speak English. After several minutes of trying to somehow locate the number, I turned to our hotel manager. "Please help me, " I begged, "I can't understand a word!"

Here God intervened!

Our hotel clerk had been sponsored through CCF for the first eighteen years of his life! Nine years later--though he came from Chen Mai and not Payao--Prasan still seemed to have connections with CCF.

The hotel clerk eagerly dialed the number of the school where he had attended during his sponsorship. After a few minutes, he handed me the phone. I tried to explain what I wanted, but a hoarse female voice kept shouting, "What? Speak up, child! What are you saying?" I later learned that this was a ninety-two-year-old nun from Holland speaking to me! Once more, overwhelmed, I hastily handed the phone back to Prasan. "Ask her for information!" I urged.

After speaking for a few minutes in Thai, he turned to me, "It's a nun. This school isn't part of CCF anymore. I guess the agency stopped sponsoring them some years ago." I sighed.

He continued to speak to the party on the other end in Thai. "Talk to this woman," he advised, "Maybe she can help you."

A second woman's voice came on the line. English, though accented, was a start. "So sorry. This is no longer a number to CCF. But I am in charge of fifty poor girls from various hill tribes in the north. Do you wish to visit us?"

I hesitated. I really had wanted to visit Jaruwan Khattiya and see Payao. I had envisioned an ambitious trek up the curvy mountain passes in an old contraption of a bus -- what a loss! Yet, this kind nun was willing to share her charges with us. How could we turn that experience down?! I eagerly accepted it on behalf of Ihab and me.

I couldn't wait to begin!

A Pile of Rocks

2010-04-09T00:41:00.014-04:00

One day in the United Arab Emirates, my colleague Sally picked me up (since we carpooled to work at the college where we taught). Sally's husband is Palestinian. As she filled me in on her weekend, this story about her nephew, Mohamed, cropped up. He had recently moved to Abu Dhabi.We had a little laugh over his seemingly silly behavior, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized how similar we are all to young Mohamed. We are shaped by our environment and what happens to us...

~~~~

A Pile of Rocks

“Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everybody. If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.” Romans 12: 17-18 (NIV).

Six-year-old Mohamed peeked around the corner. Seeing no one, he inched the garage door open and slipped inside. He tiptoed to the corner and unrolled his T-shirt from his thin belly and let the stones tumble onto the pile he’d started a few days earlier. “God willing, I’ll be ready,” he whispered.

He watched his ama drive into the garage. As she slammed the door shut on the SUV, she stepped close to his stockpile. Mohamed gasped, hoping she wouldn’t see his stash. “I have to be very careful,” he warned himself, “our safety depends on it.”

“Mami, what is our cousin Mohamed doing?” Fatima asked one day, “Look at that pile of rocks. It's getting bigger!”

Ama Sally stared at the mound. Finally, she said, “Fatima, remember Mohamed just came from Palestine and that’s a scary place to live. Maybe he’s still feeling afraid here in the UAE.”

“But Mami, that’s silly! There’s no danger here.”

“That’s right, honey. Baba moved us out of harm’s way. But it’ll take time for Mohamed to understand that he’s safe.”

“Yeah, and he doesn’t need to throw any more rocks.” Fatima agreed, nodding solemnly.

Mohamed’s fears reminded me how easy it is to respond by wanting to throw rocks at others when we feel threatened. Some days I hold tightly to each wrong done to me and I gather my rocks and take aim.

“That’s for my supervisor who doesn’t appreciate my hard work!” “That’s for the driver who cut me off!” “No way I’m going to let that guy walk all over me! Watch out!”

I hug these weapons of destruction tightly to my chest. When will I learn to let go? If I’m always clutching onto them, how can I free my hand to reach out to others and stop the cycle?

Lord, please help me disband my pile of rocks. Exchange my rocks for one sturdy rock — You! Become my strength and help me to overlook hurts and rest safely in Your promises.

It's The Same World

2010-04-07T12:26:00.008-04:00

"It's The Same World" just came out in the Spring 2010 edition of Dialogue Magazine, a magazine geared to the low-to-no vision segment of the population, and is designed to encourage. It comes under the "Living With Low Vision" column and addresses transition between vision and coping with vision loss. Thank you God for the opportunity to share life lessons.

~~~~

Reality Bites
“You have Retinitis Pigmentosa, a progressive vision disorder. The first symptom is night blindness and the last, usually blindness. This could happen in a year, five years, or somewhere down the line. It’s different with everyone.”

"What?! I just came in for a stronger prescription!"

I thought my life would instantly change that day, but my vision loss was gradual. Still, I wondered how I would adapt to a blind world down the line and when exactly that would occur.

Now, twenty-two years later, “down the line” is here.

My eyesight played constant tricks on me. Objects popped up into my path—cardboard boxes, a baby stroller, the dog, a trash can, a steel pole. Objects in plain view would vanish—my keys, change, a book, or my cell phone. Lately, words on a page would break up, disappear and maybe fall into place a minute later.

Anything higher than my elbow and lower than my thigh became vulnerable to injury. I regularly got bumps, scrapes, and bruises. Occasionally, there were stitches. I gave in and sought help before I broke a limb.

My eye doctor referred me to the Bureau of Blindness and Visual Services. They teamed me up with Bob, a blind mobility specialist, to help me survive getting around in my daily life. I will never forget my first cane experience.

Bob fitted me with sleep shades to simulate total blindness. Then he handed me a long slender cane that I would tap to sense my environment.

Our route consisted of walking a quarter mile from my house to a wooden footbridge I knew from childhood—then home again.

The instructor put me in the lead and called out suggestions to guide me along:

“Stay on the sidewalk. Sweep your cane back and forth to find the hard surface. Feel that?” … “If your cane touches something soft, you’ve wandered onto someone’s lawn.”... “Nice smooth, sweeping strokes.”… “You’re doing great!”

Or I was. Until my first loud, up close scare. I listened. Didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“You aren’t in any danger, Amy. Keep going.”

That sounds like … a big vehicle! What if the driver doesn’t see me? What if I walk into its path? What if the driver backs over me?

I heard screeches, scrapes, mumbling, and bangs. Then, the sounds faded.

“You were fine,” Bob reassured, “The garbage truck stopped next to you, not in your pathway. Keep going. That’s it. Take your cane out further. Nice smooth sweeps.”

A train whistle startled me. “The train tracks must be ahead, just under the bridge we will be walking on.”

In five minutes, I tapped my cane on the wooden slats. “BINGO! We’ve made it to the footbridge,”

“Keep going.”

We had just crossed the other side of the bridge when a succession of powerful rumbles and shhhhhs filled my ears. I strained to distinguish the sounds. What IS that?

“Oh! That must be the school buses leaving to pick up the kids. There’s a school up the road.”

I hope we don’t get caught up in the traffic. We’d better head home. I changed direction and surged forward.

“Amy. Whoa! Come back.”

Where am I? I froze at the sound of a vehicle very close by.

“You’ve wandered across the road. Come back.”

Where is ‘back’?

“Stop. Do you hear more traffic?”

“Ye-ees, uh -- to the right. So, where am I?”

“The opposite side of the road. Listen to my voice. Can you hear me? Come on back.”

I walked and tapped until I found myself on the sidewalk again.

“See? You made it.”

Safe again! “We should be nearing my house by now. Can I peek?”

“Yes, you can take off your sleep shades now.”

“Can you believe it? My house is the next one over. Bob, we did it!”

“Of course we did.”

Though I had known this street my whole life, this exercise showed me how unsafe even the area I knew could be without sight. My companion was blind. Yet I had asked him questions as if he could see the layout of every street and obstacle. He had existed in my world and me, in his.

We had reversed roles. When I expressed all this to him, he frowned.

“Amy, listen to me. Our worlds are the same. I interact with everything around me non-visually while up to this point, you’ve always relied on your vision. Now you’re coming to understand that this world can be perceived and experienced both with sight and without sight. Without your sleep shades, you know where you are by paying attention to all of the visual clues. But when we cover up your eyes, you have to learn to be more aware of all of the nonvisual clues—and that’s what I do all day every day. The strategies that one of us uses are no less legitimate than the strategies that the other uses, and they are no less safe.”

In the coming days, I thought about Bob’s words. How could someone who had been sighted all her life function in a strange new place where everything would be unfamiliar…and potentially dangerous? Maybe this was why I had feared going blind.

But Bob was right. It is the same world, and not two separate ones. The difference is only in how we perceive the environment around us. Although our frame of reference might be different, we interact with the same variables. I am still coming to terms with thinking of my cane as an extension of myself, something that I need to help me perceive and move throughout the world around me.

I no longer consider that my impending blindness will thrust me into a strange new world. On our walk, Bob proved to me that everything is right where it’s always been. He simply reminded me that I have to get used to finding it in a different way.

Why do we allow discouragement?

2010-04-06T22:30:00.005-04:00

I don't know what's been keeping me from writing! I get excited about something that has happened and I want to share that part of my life with you, but what happens from when the idea enters my head and gets on paper is something else! Then I think...is anyone actually reading this? After I dwell on this for awhile, I begin to believe that perhaps it doesn't really matter if I post something today or not. Consequently, I end up not doing it. Discouragement sets in, which is what Satan desires. He wants me to give up and say, "I have nothing unique to share." But I do...! I have a voice and God is working in my life and in your life. It is there that we will find common ground. When we want something, we have to follow it up ~ consistently. I have to set aside time (the same time) each day and just determine to write.

Words define and guide us

2010-03-19T08:22:00.023-04:00

“I, personally, prefer to use the word "sight" rather than "vision" because one can possess much vision with no sight; while the converse results in sighted people who are by no stretch of the imagination, visionaries. Blindness, to whatever degree, is simply the absence of sight; vision is quite another matter.”

- Chet Smalley, Blindness and mobility specialist, Erie, PA.

A few days ago, I was asked to participate in a survey of a doctoral student at Louisiana Tech University because my mobility specialist thought that I could “contribute positively” to this research. I was reminded of how far I had come from that covert, secretly-out-of-my-element, ha-ha, sorry-so-clumsy-today young woman. Few knew then that I struggled with Retitinitis Pigmentosa, a progressive eye disease robbing me of my sight. Today - one year later to the day - I use a cane, smile a lot and can speak openly about my RP.

However, my ever-vigilant mobility instructor alerts me to language in my speech that he believes holds me back from becoming the best that he knows I can be. The other day, he pinpointed something in my correspondence to him that made me realize he had my best interest at heart. He said, "You, for example, Amy, still think of your blindness as a "condition" rather than one of your many characteristics." I had said that I wanted to befriend a young woman I knew of who had RP. I felt she was avoiding the meeting and concluded that it was probably "a little frightening [for her] to think of meeting another person with vision problems."

He was quick to respond, "Look at the language you are using: the words "vision" and "problem." "Problem" is the use, in my view, of deficit language. "Blind" can also be construed as a "deficit" word until one becomes acquainted with blind people who are productive, happy and well-adjusted to their blindness. Blind people by the thousands are demonstrating that the world need not be interacted with just by way of sight."

Chet went on to say that "blindness when perceived as a characteristic, instead of a "disability" can become just one component of an otherwise fulfilled person." I realized when I read his words that although I had made progress on this continuum of accepting myself as blind, I still had a journey before I would be comfortable thinking of blindness as simply another characteristic of myself. I wonder how one gets to that point?

Chet believes it is through immersion cane training and exposure to positive role models that enables one to truly adjust. He points out that "adjusting to blindness means living that to which one is hoping to adjust; and "living" can only be accomplished, well, by "living!" That makes sense, in theory. If using my cane becomes so second nature that I do see my blindness simply as another characteristic and not the defining characteristic of myself, will I have arrived at the understanding he envisions for me?

It is this question I grapple with now. If I intend to positively impact the lives of the blind students I envision myself teaching, then I must be certain that I have the best understanding of who I am with my unique capabilities and characteristics. This identity Chet describes has to come from within myself. It's not something I can put on or take off at random.

The question returns: how do I reduce a "condition" to simply one of many characteristics that makes me up? As always, God provides me with the answer.

In the book of Colossians, Paul exhorts his Christian brethren, "We have not stopped praying for you and asking God to fill you with the knowledge of His will through all spiritual wisdom and understanding." (Col 1:9) This tells me that we have brothers and sisters who pray for this very thing in our lives. We have been told to ask God for wisdom, and assured that He will provide it for whatever need we have in our lives. Whether our application comes from an extended training session and advice through knowledgeable people, it is God that unveils the source and opportunities to us.

God has made me for many purposes, and if I choose to walk by my defining characteristic, my love for Him, then He will make everything clear in His perfect timing. As I grow and adjust to this continuum of blindness God has allowed me to go through, He will place markers along the way to guide me. I believe Chet’s attention to my “deficit” language is such a marker.

Paul goes on to say, "And we pray this [wisdom and understanding] in order that you might live a life worthy of the Lord and may please him in every way, bearing fruit in every good work, growing in the knowledge of God..."(Col 1:10). Has he chosen for me to bear fruit in a new capacity now? I am so excited!

Lord, I lift you up! When I first became a teacher, I didn't believe I had the characteristics to be successful, and yet You have carried me through all my doubts. You have never given up on me. You have brought me to many peaks in my life, and shouldered my fears. As a result, I have moved ahead in my language teaching with foreign students. This has put me in a pivotal position to share your love in over thirty-three countries!

I know that every experience we go through prepares us to serve in bigger capacities. If it’s Your plan to change my teaching population and goals, bring everything I need to know to light so that I might bear fruit in my life, and bring You glory.

Thank you, Lord that even as my "sight" diminishes, You will continue to magnify my “vision.”

"Change your baby's diaper, please!"

2010-03-17T00:44:00.008-04:00

This story, though told in my words, is not mine. It comes from Faithful, an African missionary woman, who shared it with many groups that she spoke with last week. Though all the description is mine, parts of the dialogue are taken from her testimony.

~~~~

The aisle, once made up of smooth, symmetrical terra cotta tiles, now consisted of mere fragments. Its color had long ago faded from too many bodies, and too many feet having crossed its surface. Like every major hospital in the country, it bulged with people. Weary-eyed, drawn-lipped, leather-skinned people. Some, patients. Others, visitors. Toddlers dressed only in simple clothing or wearing thin cotton gowns dodged between the legs of elders. For their misplaced energy, they caught a half-hearted smack or scolding, or were left to run the length of the aisle if no one noticed them. Long-sleeved shirts and thin, colorful blankets covered arms and hung at the wrists of many.Some torn and other ill-fitting pants cropped displayed ankles. Women wore layered, colorful dresses. Feet shuffled in flip-flops or nothing at all. People lay, sat, stood—all waiting--for or in various stages of care. Family members helped comfort and care for the sick. A light antiseptic smell wafted through the wing from time to time. It mingled with the sweat of so many bodies in such little space. Once in awhile, a brisk nurse would sweep through the ward, and call someone’s name or shout to a patient inside an open door.

The woman stood alone, as if an island to herself, though she, too, made up the crowd inside the hall. She had been in this environment many times, and as such, was accustomed to the long waits. Thin and able-bodied, her kind eyes focused on the bundle she held in her arms. She rocked it and murmured in her dialect, willing the sickly baby to breathe. “Come on, baby, come on...” She waited, and rocked, and waited some more. Looking down, she noticed the skin that surrounded the tiny lips of her precious charge had whitened. This cannot be something good. This baby cannot die! She began to pace, and pray. Her voice grew more agitated as she willed life into this limp form. I cannot lose another one. No! Not one more of my orphans!

She reached out to the ward-weary pediatrician who appeared in the hallway, “Doctor, you must look to this baby!” As she explained about the baby's condition, the doctor peered into the infant’s tiny face. From the doctor’s shuttered eyelids and the set of his lips, she understood what the doctor now knew. Am I going to cry? I am going to cry! And then what am I going to say? As Faithful was processing her thoughts the doctor reached for the baby, “Give her to me. It's too late. She is dead.”

“No! I will not give her to you! I have lost seventeen babies this year. I am not going to lose the eighteenth!”

She began to pray as she paced back and forth the length of the hall. She begged God. She poured herself into this petition for one precious life.”

I don’t know how much time passed. At a certain point, the doctor again instructed her to hand the baby over to him.

“No,” Faithful buried her face in the blanket, “I will go with you but I will not give this baby up!” Her voice brooked no refute; she stubbornly refused to give up her charge. The doctor sighed and began to write the time of death on the certificate. Faithful continued her petition, “You are life itself, Abba Father. I praise you for the love you have for me -- and for this baby. You are my Jehova Jairah! I cannot endure to lose even one more baby. Please give this child life again..”

The doctor took the baby from her. He held the baby in one arm and the death certificate in the other. His startled voice cut through to her weeping, “Change your baby’s diaper, please.”

Slowly she raised her tear-stained face, as understanding flooded through to her anxious mind. Only live babies diapers needed to be changed! This baby was alive! She felt the infant's diaper and found it wet! This baby is a miracle given back to me by my Father who has heard my cry.

The young woman took the orphan into her arms and pressed her face against the one in the blanket. She carried the baby out of the doctor’s office, and called out to the crowd still waiting in long corridor, “This baby’s diaper needs to be changed!” Faithful then went on to proclaim the miracle her heavenly father granted her as she prayed..

Not one doubted God’s miracle of the baby whose diaper suddenly needed changing in that hospital last summer – neither doctor nor nurse, patient nor guest. The once-weary multitude all bore witness to this miracle.

Building a People of Faith

2010-03-08T07:46:00.013-05:00

All eyes riveted to the speaker as she shared story after story of miracles that she had witnessed and intertwined them with people of faith in the Bible. How her words resonated in the sanctuary! She went by one name: "Faithful." This young, slender, very poised African woman knew the God she was speaking about personally. Faithful's God was not a character that lived within the pages of a book: someone good to have on your side. He wasn't a remote hero. No, Faithful's God was a responsive father who walked down a gut-wrenching dirt road with you, who breathed life out of death in hospital rooms that had seen too much sorrow, who provided food when it should have been gone long ago. This was a father who comforted at the deepest level, a father who wrapped you in his arms and shared your pain. This Father (notice the capital F?) was a lifeline. "Hold onto him. No matter what. Hold on. Doesn't matter what happens. Hold on. Hold on." She spoke with authority and we believed.

"I have seen miracles. Let me tell you a story. I'm going to make a very long story short here. There was a woman in her fifth month of pregnancy. The woman went to the doctor. The baby did not have a heart beat. It didn't move. He sadly advised her to terminate it. This mother refused to believe him and wouldn't let him take her baby. She went back home. She continued to pray and visited the doctor a few times. There was still no heart beat or movement but her body responded as if she were pregnant. The doctor said it was psychosomatic. At nine months she went back to the doctor. But the doctor had washed his hands of her. 'I will have to deliver this dead baby and take all of your womb out. You will not be able to have any more children. You should have let me do this when it happened.' So, the woman went to another doctor and he delivered her baby. This baby came out smiling. It had a heart beat. It was alive! This baby is me. I am a miracle. God knew that one day I would grow up and become a missionary in my country. "

She paused for the words to sink in, and then went on. "People tell me I don't have to share every example that I know, that it might upset people if it doesn't happen that way for them. But every miracle that happens should be shared because it happened for a purpose."

She talked about a camp they set up every year in December. (It was not clear who "they" were but it must have been members of her ministry). "There were about five hundred people this year. People worried there would not be nearly enough food." They were serving soup. "I told them, 'Just keep dipping the ladle in. As long as it comes out full, dip it in again. Just dip it. Dip it again.' And you know what, it only ran out after people had come for seconds. This is the God I know."

But Faithful did not come to simply share testimonies. She came to share a few words from God himself. "Do you have your Bibles with you? Let me see you open them." She waited, and spoke about herself in the third person, "Do you know what Faithful says when you don't have your Bible? You have come without clothes. Some of you have come naked today." She pressed her point amid the laughter. She spoke about the woman who touched the hem of Jesus's robe. "She had purposed in her heart to believe. No matter what. She had purposed."

Faithful also asked us something very real, "Do you have people who steal your hope away?" As she spoke of yet another example, I was amazed at how she could bring such words from the Bible to life, how she could contextualize them for us. Sometimes she was so eager to share a scripture, she tripped on the words, and laughed at herself. "You know what I mean. Look it up for yourself."She never lost her composure.

And so Faithful continued with her stories. Her humor carried us through some sad ones and in others her unshakable faith brought us to our knees in spirit. Faithful came to raise money but I do not believe she arrived with that singular objective. She purposed to uplift us; though her ministry may have been "in want," her soul was not. She seemed to be the "giver."I envisioned her as one tree in the midst of a growing forest. As she spoke, it seemed she was selecting some trees, both saplings and the more mature, carved with God's loving initials. She then offered them to us to build faith in our hearts.

~~~~
In my next posting I will relay a story that Faithful shared, another that touched my heart so much. A heart that, at times, still mourns for three babies that I wasn't ready to give up. Believe me, it will be worth your time to read it! Please join me.

Plans to Prosper You...

2010-03-04T22:23:00.005-05:00

Rereading yesterday's blog, I was thinking how God really does have specific plans for us throughout our lives. Tonight I reflect on a few of the countries that I have visited, and how the land has mirrored my outward response at that time in my life. I want to break that verse down and show how God had plans to "prosper" me during these years.
¹ For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you..."
~~~~

It is not by chance that I have seen the world. It is by God’s wondrous plan for my life. He filled me with a strong love for languages, other cultures and an unquenchable thirst to know the kinds of people He has created so that I might learn and in turn, share His stories. I give all the glory to Him.

As I wandered over various terrains, God has used them to mirror events in my life. Some lands have been nurturing, with rolling green hills and coffee plantations like Colombia. My life seemed easy then. I climbed up the hills and dipped into the valleys, both literally and figuratively, each day as I took on the new task of educating children. Likewise, as I tried to master the language, Spanish words came toward me at dizzying speeds. I grabbed onto them, as if by clutching I could still their forward motion. But I couldn’t. As my vocabulary grew, the words slowed down, and took their proper place. My steps slowed. The slopes no longer frightened me. In fact, the more Spanish I learned, the better-equipped I felt to trek across the actual land and embrace God’s people.

The humble mountainous villages of Guatemala formed around lush rivers and included beautiful palm trees, rubber, tea and beetle nut plants, as well as verdant coconut groves. The land teemed with life; the breeze carried with it the fragrance of ripened fruit. During those visits God filled my life with richness of character and a sweetness of friendships. The Wycliffe Bible translators who I stayed with called the land they purposed to work in “God’s own Guatemala.” I could feel Him moving among the stoop-shouldered Indian tribes, the strong need for Him etched in the drawn lines of the burdened faces I encountered.

God prospered me during these years, not by filling my pocket with lots of money. That wasn't my intention. I made enough to live on and travel. Instead, He filled my senses - the smells of ripe pineapple, strong coffee, arepas con queso. My eyes took in people, and the countryside, the plazas, dirt roads, riverbanks, buses - all the cultural phenomena that leaves unforgettable memories in one's mind. I remember the soft feel of leather, the rough weaving of straw baskets, dirt roads under my feet, and rough woolen ponchos thrown over my shoulders in colder environments, and hands reaching out -- always hands of friendship. When I close my eyes, I can hear the beautiful melodious Spanish, the spoken word, music blaring, bus drivers calling out...oh the dialects! How I loved the tastes of platano, arroz con carne, caldos and so many exotic juices. How I valued my friendships! God gave me such an abundance of people who cared about me! He surely prospered me those years!

Exciting Future Ahead!

2010-03-03T23:33:00.004-05:00

¹¹ For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11

When the course I was set to teach at a local college was canceled this term, I felt frustrated. This was the third time this year that had happened. Last fall, it had been the Writing course. Someone had been chosen from within. But as far as I understood it, the course had been mine to teach. Then, this spring, I was ready to teach an Asian Studies course as well as a Western Classics course. I found out early enough that the Asian Studies was not required and as thus, the administration would not be offering it. So, I didn't prepare. But I did a lot of preparation for the Lit course. None of that time would be reimbursed. Once I got past the surprise, I kind of felt relieved - except for the loss in pay, of course.

That left me without any of the money I'd counted on bringing in and no money in reserve. All year I had been dipping into my retirement funds, and paying my bills with my small teacher's salary at the Christian academy where I teach Spanish.

So, God, what is it that you want to do with me now? Why did you close that door?

A quick inquiry into the public school system showed me that I had no leg to stand on without a teaching certificate. God, do you want me to get that? But how? With what money? What funding? And how shall I get there? What transportation? All of these questions swam around in my mind.

But somehow I don't feel daunted. God is in charge of my life. God has a plan. A plan to prosper me and not to harm me. I'll let Him work out the details. I'm even beginning to get over feeling miffed that I have to go back and get that Teacher's Certification. I am sure that the education courses will help me in my future job. It can't hurt me. I'm starting to feel excited!

Yes, I am. I always love studying when I put my heart into it. I'm a lifelong learner. I don't think that you should ever stop learning, whether it's from the teacher's or the student's perspective. The lines always blur, don't they?

The college that I'm interested in is about forty-five minutes away from where I live so God will have to provide me with transport. But there's a Office Student Disabilities Department. That's a positive first step. I'll speak with them.

As many of my readers know, I have a visual and hearing disability. The visual disability restricts me from driving, and from seeing quite a bit, especially once darkness falls. The hearing loss will affect my progress in the classroom - unless I trust that I can do all things through Christ that strengthens me. If I can teach, I can learn. It's as simple as that. God will enable me.

And I'm really excited about perhaps substituting the required special education courses with a course entitled "Mild to Moderate Disabilities." This will give me a better focus on my ultimate goal, which is to work with the blind. I think even for my student teaching I can put myself in a classroom in which I deal with blind students. Is this what God has in mind for me?

Lord, I have to trust you. I don't have the money I was making overseas. But I know from past experiences that you will provide everything I need to succeed in my studies. You will also help me to help my family financially before I take that on. Thank you God, for what you are about to do in my life. You are so beautiful!! I'm thrilled to be in the center of Your will and open to what You have in store for me.

Thanksgiving of My Soul (Short Story)

2010-03-02T23:42:00.011-05:00

If you have just picked up my blog, this post continues from yesterday when I started a story. Please click on the yesterday's link for the story beginning (Whetting the creative juices)

That night I called my husband. Waiting for him to answer, I rehearsed what I'd say. Please, God! Please! How would he respond? We hadn't yet sorted out our problems but how could we do that long distance? Maybe we needed to do that in person.

"Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Ya know, I was thinking for coming home soon after." Counting on my fingers all the reasons we should be together, I waited. Say something! "How soon? How can you be well-rested? It's only been a few months?" My heart sank. He didn't want me back.

Why did he insist on saying I was "recovering?" We. Were. Separated.

"It's been six months and I'm ready to go back...to work on things."

"Mmm..."

I wanted to shake him. It's not my fault that we lost the twins! I did the best I could to carry them. That was six weeks of my life, too. My family couldn't even come to visit me. I missed their strength. You always seemed so tired and aloof. I needed you. I needed them. So. Much.

That evening I found my mother sorting clothes in the basement. "Mom, I need to go back to my husband."

Mom dropped a soiled shirt into the basket. She pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, and sat down on the step. "Is that what you want?"

"Yeah, I do."

"We'll miss you, Lou, but I do think you're right."

Suddenly I doubted myself and how things would go. "Mom, He didn't seem anxious for me to come."

She looked over at me before getting up to work on the laundry again, "Of all my children, you adapt the best to whatever life throws at you." Mom picked up a pair of my father's worn blue jeans and smoothed them between her hands, "Your dad and I never spent much time apart. Just talk. Honey, you'll be fine."

Somehow her faith in me gave me the confidence I needed to visualize our life together again.

The next morning I found an email from my husband, You're so right, sweetheart. Come quickly. I can't wait to be together again. I DO need you. I stood like a lovesick schoolgirl gazing out the window without seeing a single snowflake in its path.

Then doubts assailed me. Could I give up the peace I'd found at home? The quiet talks my mother and I shared while cleaning up, or taking walks in the neighborhood each evening had poured strength in me. Hanging out with my brothers and sisters and their families renewed my passion for life. Emotionally, I'd recovered. Physically, I'd recovered from losing the twins, too. Mom's good cooking and finding time to slow down had healed me. Being with my family changed both my outlook and my health. But was it enough to send me back to heal my marriage?

As we prepared Thanksgiving dinner that snowy day, it felt like old times. Our voices mingled together. We laughed. We sang. My father made funny faces and pretended he couldn't wait to eat. He sampled a tiny bit of everything. A deep sense of gratefulness stole over me. The holiday had become more than traditional trappings. Like the snow outside, it blanketed me in folds of familiar warmth.

Lifting the top off the roasting pan, my mother smiled. "How does my turkey smell?"

"Wonder--"

"Move over! Candied yams coming through!" My sister, Brenda, pushed me to the side. "Grab a hot pad!"

My niece popped into the steamy kitchen. She tapped me on the shoulder. "Aunty Lou, What is your specialty meal?"

"Nothing as delicious as what we have right here on the table."

In the short lull before dinner, God filled me with words. "Be back soon!" I dashed to my childhood bedroom and sat down at the desk. I began to type as fast as I could. An extraordinary love letter and poem emerged that Thanksgiving Day. Our dining room served as an impromptu stage, "My dear family..." As I poured my gratitude out to them, they listened with uncharacteristic seriousness. Though my voice trembled, my heart never wavered.

"Oh sweetheart," Mom dabbed her eyes. Dad cleared his throat. "Come here!" Brenda wrapped me in a bear hug. Everyone else just smiled. Real big. The party broke up soon after. "Here, hold this. Be careful! Don't bend the poem," my sister-in-law grumbled to my little brother as she zipped up a boot.

I believe God chose that snow-covered window in my bedroom to draw me to Him as he replayed a beautiful video clip of seasons passing in my mind. It was a replay of my beautiful life at home. Later, in a steamy kitchen, He revealed how solid and comfortable we'd grown around each other. Because of them, I could face the future with confidence.

To this day, I see the poetry I wrote among the cherished possessions found within their homes. When Peter and I come to visit, we invariably all share a meal together. I'm so glad that I followed my mother's wisdom and didn't give up.

When I look back on that Thanksgiving celebration, I can see God's hand in it. He swept me past the surface traditions and penetrated my heart with gratitude. Somehow I felt Through His perfect timing, God wove an unforgettable family memory I shall always remember as "the Thanksgiving of my soul."

Whetting the Creative Juices

2010-03-01T22:41:00.003-05:00

Just got an idea for a story, just the lead in...

Thick snowflakes tumbled from the sky, creating a lacy curtain that hugged the window pane. Riveted, I couldn't look away from the white world swirling just out of my reach, as if the snow were a new phenomenon. As my gaze lingered, I sat on the edge of the bed thinking how much my window served as a time line in my life. I'd felt the sun rays seep through, watched pounding raindrops and falling leaves, and now snow. I wondered if the time had come to return to my husband.

My journey home that previous June came under veiled pretenses. I didn't need to "heal" from losing twins. I needed my husband to make his way back to me. My grief swelled because of the distance that had cropped up in our marriage as much as our physical loss. He insisted I needed my family. I swore I needed him. This time apart would confirm one of our claims.

A Quiet Life Realization

2010-02-27T23:20:00.005-05:00

The most beautiful aspect of Christianity is walking in tandem with God and sharing discoveries each day. Sometimes your travels will take you far from where you're comfortable and other times, close by. You might be alone with Him or together in a crowd. I can guarantee you that if you travel with God, He'll take you to exciting locations you'd never see or experience on your own. Again, you have to be open to dark and dismal spots you need to pass through to get there. If you hold your best friend's hand, you won't get lost along the way.

God's Winter-Warmth

2010-02-26T23:02:00.011-05:00

Before I came back to the United States, I struggled with the thought of facing winter. I wondered how I could bear it after living in tropical and desert countries for so many years. I hated the cold and had lots of fears about going through a whole winter at home. However, God showed me that not only could I bear it, He could make it something beautiful for me to experience. God used Buddy to teach me how to see the wonders of winter. Through prayer, God opened up my heart. I learned that He cared even about my fear of cold weather! My "heart journey" is reflected in the following poem.

Change of Perspective

Anchored for years in sun-splashed countries

my return to North America

meant acculturation to cold once more;

‘winter’ grew into a mountain-sized dilemma

overpowering my mustard seed-sized faith.

I crept about shunning the cold.

“Oh God, take away this fate!”

“No. Instead let me take you through it.”

He handed me three crucial tools:

a pair of boots, my dog and a new perspective

with all five senses heightened

to experience the winter I feared.

He planned to woo me

with a fresh, new love for winter

that I began to treasure.

God used Buddy to show me snow wonders!

God walked alongside us ...

Up and down hills, through the woods,

over fields chuckling at a bright-eyed dog

who delighted in his new world;

My prayer became, "God show me more!"

The overflowing fruits of God’s winter-warmth

soon burgeoned inside my heart.

-- 2/27/07 (rev 2010)

Elmo, Dad's Sidekick

2010-02-25T23:33:00.007-05:00

Whatever happened to that pie-eating, parade-loving bear of a black lab named Elmo? Better known as Don Bovaird “The Tree Man’s” popular sidekick, Elmo did the rounds with him every day for four years from the back of Don’s 1939 Ford pick-up. “That dog never gets sick or tired of the road,” Don used to say, noting how Elmo played his role as ‘ambassador’ to the hilt, welcoming kids and adults alike to “Elmo’s Place.” They made a good team.

Not everyone who saw Elmo liked him riding in the back of the truck. Always the storyteller, Don used to talk about a woman who once criticized him, “That dog doesn’t even have any water!” Don quipped, “Neither do I and you don’t see me complaining.” Truth be told, that dog was treated better than most kids.

Not all tree climbers appreciated Elmo’s gusto either. Once working on a lake bank, a customer set out a large plate of freshly baked cookies. Don arrived on site. He started talking to the customer. Elmo was given a rare respite from the truck. "Let him run around," the customer invited. Elmo was having a good run when he spied the cookies. That dog gulped every single one of them down. "Ah maan," one worker moaned when he found out. "That's it! Tie 'em up. Let's throw Elmo over the lake bank!" another tree climber threatened in jest. Don shook his head, as he does when he is startled, "Get in the truck, Elmo!" He let down the tailgate and Elmo obediently jumped up. I picture him saying that with a touch of humor in his voice. It was the talk of our dinner table that night.

Dad took Elmo everywhere with him. Dad even made up a dog bed and Elmo slept in the truck at night. The next morning after his morning bathroom run, he'd get back up and they'd be ready to start the rounds again.

After my father passed away, my family thought Elmo should have a different kind of life. A corrections officer that my sister knew fell in love with him, and offered to take him in. She had a farm and other dogs for him to run with. It was a sad day for me when she came to pick him up a a few days after the funeral. It was another drastic change for me. Losing Elmo felt like losing a little more of my father. I wasn't ready to deal with that.

I think my father would be happy to know he's well-cared for, and often gets rides in a large van around town. I call his new owner from time to time to hear about Elmo's adventures with his new pack, and once I even got to see him.

Sometimes I imagine dad driving up to the farm in Cambridge Springs. He'd lower the tail gate of his truck and say in his matter-of-fact way, "Get in, Elmo." Elmo would be wild with excitement to see dad after so long. He'd leave the pack and jump on up into the truck. Their day would continue as if they'd never been apart. I love this scenario. But it does make me teary-eyed.

My father, always practical, would have seen the situation as my family did. Dad always looked forward. He might reminisce but never let sentiment cloud his enjoyment of living each day and appreciating what he could do with it. He moved on.

I'm trying to adopt that attitude.

Tenuous Ties

2010-02-24T23:10:00.008-05:00

A Short Story By Amy Bovaird

“I want to see my baby! My BABY! Don’t take it away from me even before I get to hold it!” The nurse whisked the preemie to a waiting incubator. She knew it was crucial to move the baby to a safer environment, even if it meant taking her away from her own mother’s arms. Fatima dropped her outstretched arms in defeat. That was nearly a week ago. She still ached to hold her baby, an ache that hurt more than the physical pain she endured to have her.

She now focused on the four gray walls that surrounded her. She gathered her thick, black hair to one side and let it drop. Through the thin, flannel gown, she felt the rough patches of her belly where monitors had been placed in her own hour of need.

Three days ago, she was strong enough to walk with her mother’s assistance to the Special Care Baby Unit, and peered into the incubator to see Noora, a tiny wrinkled form connected to tangled tubes and wires. Wafts of antiseptic nauseated her; and the trembling hum of the strange machines weakened her knees. Fatima reached through an opening and stroked a dry, chapped leg. “Allah,” she cried, as she reached out for her mother.

Ayesha took charge, “Bas. Enough.” She led her away. From that day on, her fears ate at her. Would Noora live? She must! But what if she didn’t? What would Hamed say?

Fatima recalled when she first met Hamed on their wedding day. She was eighteen. He cast an appreciative eye over her. She noticed a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark, intelligent eyes, a full beard, and a moustache that emphasized his firm mouth. He wore a gold linen thob, fancier than the white robe grooms sometimes wore. She thought him very handsome, and smiled shyly. Pleased, he reached for her hand.

She prayed that he would treat her with respect and they would soon find love. But more importantly, that she would bear him many children. After all, becoming a mother was every woman’s duty. To be a mother was to be a queen.

“Mama, why don’t they give me news about my baby? Tell Zafar to find the consultant,” Fatima pleaded. “After all, since Father isn’t here, it’s Zafar’s duty to carry out these things as the oldest son. Mama, I’m begging you! This is urgent!”

Ayesha rose, and issued a command and Zafar left the room.

Soon, the curtain parted and a nurse’s face poked through. “The consultant is here,” Fatima donned her headscarf and made sure the blanket covered her legs. “Let him come.”

After the traditional greetings, the doctor directed his comments to Zafar, as was customary.

“I hear Fatima has asked about her baby,” he began.

“That’s true. What is the news?”

The doctor cleared his throat.

“Please. Fatima is crazy with fear! Speak, man.”

Fatima’s eyes darted back and forth between the two men in front of her.

“Ma’ash’allah!” May God protect baby Noora, Ayesha invoked, to prevent The Evil Eye.

Fatima’s rapid glances targeted each of the faces surrounding her. Everyone is so solemn. They’re not telling me something. Allah!

The consultant spoke. “Fatima’s baby died yesterday morning. She had hemorrhaging to the brain and great difficulty in breathing. It’s to be expected.” He shrugged. “Some premature babies make it, but that’s rare.”

Fatima stared. Her dry-throated voice cracked. “…my baby … died?”

The nurses nodded. The consultant, a thin man with glasses, looked away.

“I see,” Fatima whispered, “I see.”

After the consultant left, Fatima let out a series of thin, cracking, high-pitched squeals and began to thrash in bed. Her worst fear had become reality.

Ayesha ran to tend to her daughter, “Call Hamed,” she urged her son. “May Allah grant us mercy.”

“Oh Mama, I caused The Evil Eye to fall on my baby. I was too happy. Who would be jealous enough to inflict this tragedy upon us? Fatheyya? Aziza? Nadia? How could this happen? Allah!”

Her mother shook her, “You mustn’t ever question Allah! Do you hear? This is God’s Will.”

“Ay… my life lies in Hamed’s hands…” She began to groan and yank at her thick tresses until some hair came out by their roots.

“Fatima, stop that!” Her mother stilled Fatima. “These are dark days, yes. But all is not lost. Rest.”

After Fatima fell asleep, Ayesha considered the consequences. “Allah, this could ruin her life.” She smoothed Fatima’s blanket, finally letting the tears fall.

The silence unnerved her after the commotion earlier. To fill it, Ayesha listed the positives. “Hamed loves Fatima. He is a fair man. Fatima is a dutiful wife. She’s strong, and will bear him more children, Insha’allah, God willing.” She pulled the prayer beads from her pocket to calm herself. The round marble beads slipped between her fingers and gave her strength as her biggest fear assailed her, “God forbid that Hamed divorce her.”

Ayesha was dozing when the hospital door swung open and Hamed stepped inside. “How is my wife? Thank you for seeing to her.” He dismissed his mother-in-law with a curt nod. Ayesha left at once.

Hamed sat down on the bed. “Wake up, Fatima.” When she saw him, she buried her head in his chest, unable to face him.

He lifted her face toward him, “Look at me,” he commanded. “It’s true then?”

She nodded, her face crumpling.

His eyes fell upon the raw spots where she had yanked out her hair. “What is this? What happened to your beautiful hair?” He knew then, the extent of her grief. “Never mind. I’m here now,” he whispered as he kissed her wet eyelids.

“Our baby is gone. I failed you.” Fatima whimpered.

He didn’t respond, so she braved her question, “Hamed, will … you … divorce me?”

He paused, as if thinking it over. “Don’t be silly. You are my wife. Get well. We will try again next month, and the one after that. However long it takes. We will have another. Insha’allah,” God willing.

Together they embraced. Fatima smiled as he held her in his arms. She was lucky this time. But for how long? She wondered what their future would bring. What if the same thing happened again? Would Hamed be as patient? Or would he blame her? Demand a divorce, or worse, take another wife? “Allah, please give me a strong womb, let me be a mother, a good wife… Ma’ash’allah. May God protect me.”

Tiled Walkways of Sapphire

2010-02-23T23:51:00.004-05:00

Moses and Aron, Nadab and Abiju and the seventy elders went up and
saw the God of Israel. Under his feet was something like a
pavement made of sapphire, clear as the sky itself. Exodus 24: 9-11 NIV.

I teach third-year high school Spanish at a Christian school in my area. Every week one of our activities is to read, discuss and ultimately, memorize various scriptures from the Bible in formal Castillian Spanish. When we put the English and Spanish translations together, the verses create a fuller, more vivid picture of that passage in God's Word. I always look forward to our discussions and seeing my students' eyes light up. This week we discussed how God revealed himself to Moses and some seventy odd wise Israeli leaders on Mt. Sinai. God allowed them all to eat and drink in His presence at that time.

In Spanish, "a pavement made of sapphire" is translated as "tiled walkways of sapphire" (some versions say "lapiz lazul"). For me, this depicts a vivid image of the brilliance and beauty under God's feet. The NIV says that the walkway appeared as "clear as the sky itself" and the Spanish reads it was, "as serene as the heavens." This translation gives the sapphires a transparency and brings in God's absolute serenity. What a magnificent sight that would have been to behold! Whether in English or Spanish, it's as if I've seen these verses for the first time.

After living in the United Arab Emirates for a number of years, I put in a white tiled walkway. How smooth those tiles felt under my feet! The path lent an elegant air to my home and garden that transformed it in my eyes. I've also seen magnificent, glossy painted ceramic tiles from Palestine, Tunisia, and Morocco. How gorgeous these tiles look! Especially when the tiles are placed together to complete a scene. I brought one such picture of the women at the well with Jesus home with me. And how about jewels? I've been to the Taj Mahal in India. I've looked closely at precious stones inlaid in the walls! Being exposed to these experiences gives me a tiny, tiny glimpse of what I imagine that Moses and his entourage viewed that day. I share this with my students in simpler Spanish in hopes that they, too, can begin to envision this verse in concrete images.

In class I begin to realize that our God is a creator of enormous detail and beauty. Though this is not the first time I've thought or felt this, it hits me differently than other times. Perhaps it's the first time I've had concrete images to share when the thought has crossed my mind. I eagerly turn to my students for their input, and reflection.

One student says "In the Wizard of Oz" in the Emerald City, everything looked green and very beautiful." We talk about how Dorothy and her companions get beautied up when they follow the yellow-brick road to Oz in hopes of meeting the Wizard. Do they put on special glasses in which everything appears to be green? I move from these fictitious characters to Moses and his companions.We muse about what the experience must have been like for God to allow them to eat in His presence.

Heavenly Father, thank you for giving us a snapshot of your great beauty. Show us how to reach out for moments of clear serenity in our busy lives. Let us follow on that bejeweled road. We're headed to a place much more beautiful than Oz.

Don Bovaird of Girard Alliance has passion for game of basketball

2010-02-22T22:15:00.000-05:00

By Bob Healy

John Sargent believes his standout basketball guard plays beyond his years.

That may be because of the company he keeps.

For the last few summers, Don "Dee" Bovaird of the Girard Alliance Christian Academy has spent a good amount of time playing basketball at the playgound courts in Girard Borough.

His teammates and opponents in the pickup games have included such former Girard High School players as Coltin Ferrick, D.J. Green, Mike Droll, and Jeff McDonald.

"I'm up at the courts a lot just trying to get in some practice and to get my game perfected as much as I can," said Bovaird, who is in his senior year at GACA. Playing with the older guys helps my game a lot, especially my defense. Defense is the key to playing basketball."

That experience has paid dividends.

"Don plays the game much older than he really is. He's a much more mature player," said Sargent, head coach of the Girard Alliance Boys' team. "He loves the game. He's eager to go at all times. He reads the court like an older guy, a college player, would. Most players his age don't have the experience he has. He's really focused. He's not just out there running up and down the court. He either knows what he wants to do or he's planning what to do."

Bovaird has been a tremendous scoring threat throughout his four years at Girard Alliance. He recently surpassed the 1,000-point career-scoring milestone for the Lions.

But he wasn't always such a firm advocate of defense being the key to playing basketball.

"He has always done really well shooting, but he had struggled with his defense the last few years," Sargent said. "He's really been working on that over the past year and has picked up on that. He's really become an all-around ball player."

While Bovaird has had to work on improving his defensive skills, other facets of the game have come more naturally.

"His jumping ability is just phenomenal," Sargent said. "People are amazed at just how high he can jump. Because he can get so high in the air, it's sometimes hard to stop him from scoring. He's also a left-hander which makes it tough to play against."

Basketball has been almost a lifelong passion for Bovaird. According to his father, also Don, Dee began playing the game at the age of five.

"I love the game. I love the teamwork," Bovaird said.

Bovaird played his junior varsity ball in seventh and eighth grade at Cranseville Christian Academy . When that closed, he transferred to Girard Alliance and became a starter for the Lions' varsity team in his freshman year.

This year, Bovaird is averaging 21.4 points per game for the Lions who are 11-6 overall and 8-1 in the New York / Penn League.

"Playing at a Christian school has its ups and downs," Bovaird said. "On the plus side, we have a good basketball program at our school. I have friends and teammates that I can share the experience with. There is a good Godly atmosphere here that helps me make the right decisions."

On the downside, small Christian schools hardly draw the attention afforded their larger public and parochial counterparts.

"Dee would like to get a shot at being able to play in college," Sargent said. "Unfortunately, we don't get a whole lot of scouts out here. Donny would be a good catch for anyone interested."

Basketball or not, Bovaird is considering taking physical therapy in college.

"Since I've taken health classes, it's interested me -- the muscles and how the human body works," Bovaird said.

Maybe in the future, he can explain his jumping ability.
__________
REPRINTED FROM THE WEST COUNTY JOURNAL
February 4, 2010

Upcoming Book Publication

2010-02-21T23:36:00.001-05:00

Girard writer featured in upcoming publication

Book of 101 Facets of Faith features six devotionals from local resident Amy Bovaird.

Contact abovaird@verizon.net to order a copy. Books gladly signed by request.

Cost: $12.99 plus S & H

A Feast for the Senses

2010-02-18T00:13:00.002-05:00

Each morning and afternoon I take my dog, Buddy, out for a long walk and, upon his insistence, we greet nature. I don't always want to go in the cold and snow but he ignores my cranky attitude. Even if I am reluctant to set out, by the time our walk is finished, I’m always grateful that I went. Buddy has a way of showing me how to appreciate these simple walks. I can tell that he views these walks as “adventures” by the way he wags his tail and how he explores when I let him loose. Winter is his favorite season.

Buddy was born in the United Arab Emirates and is, technically, a desert dog accustomed to intense heat year round. I worried how he’d take to the colder weather when I shipped him home. Turns out I didn't need to be concerned about how he would adapt to our Pennsylvania winter because from the get-go, he became my "snow dog!" This is one of our recent adventures.

~~~~

Buddy and I always love the month of February. It's a small respite in the midst of longer, more harried months. Buddy, definitely decisive today, led us into the woods to savor a feast for the senses.

This morning as we set out, we listened to a busy woodpecker, the shhhhhh-ing of the wind as it rustled through my clothing and Buddy's fur and dissipated off into the trees. We heard a series of whistles of a distant train followed by hundreds of wheels set in motion and the groaning of metal accompanying it. I found my faded old boots sinking into the course, thicker snow from past storms. Buddy cocked his head and observed something in the woods I couldn't hear, or see. Somehow satisfied, he lost interest and moved on.

We slipped past an old now-rusted gate that had once been spray-painted silver and onto a footpath we'd worn into the snow. We walked alongside a chain link fence. I felt the thin, velvety carpet of new snow under the thin tread of my boot. A light curtain of snow fell on us as we hiked along. It felt soft on my face, and melted almost as soon as it touched Buddy's black fur. Buddy and I squeezed through a faded-white cast-iron gate with a sign welded onto the front, “No Dumping at any Time.” Buddy picked up the scent of something and strained against his leash to chase after it. "Whoa, Buddy! Slow down! I don't wanna fall," I scolded. Forced to slow to my speed, he burrowed his nose into the soft snow and it came up white. He wore a big, goofy grin on his face, and nudged me for a treat as I drew near, “You silly creature,” I couldn’t help but give him a quick hug and brush off the rest of the snow. “Oh, you’re getting gray, Buddy.” Otherwise, people would still call him a pup because of his short stature.

We continued on our footpath, surrounded by brown trees and snow, which stretched as far as my eyes could see. I felt cocooned by the rustic beauty. The air felt fresh. The snow looked clean. It was as if I'd just stepped onto the cover of a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle box. What more could we want?

Buddy halted -- every muscle alert. Uh-oh! "Whacha lookin' at, Bud?" I followed the direction of his gaze. "Ohhhh, another dog. I get it." Buddy assessed the situation. We stood at one end of a softball diamond and they stood their ground on the other end. We eyeballed each other. "Ah, Bud! They've turned around. You didn't even bark. Good boy!"

We descended down a gentle slope and I spied the green paint of an outhouse, both doors which were trussed securely in place by a chain link lock. The outhouse stood out a short distance from the bare branches at the edge of the woods. “Ready?” As always when we reached this point, I let him off his leash. Together we sprinted to the fork in the road.

My heart thumped in my chest as I tried to catch my breath. He wagged his tail. He was totally in the moment and thrilled to be free and active. After he ran around for a bit, he nudged me for a treat. Seeing he was out of energy, I clipped the leash back on.

Time to head home.

I peered into the snow. “Look Buddy, deer tracks,” Indeed there were clear, well-formed hoof markings imprinted in the crusty snow. They indicated the deer had gone up the hill in the same direction we were headed. "D'ya think we're gonna see any deer t'day, Bud?"

Unfortunately, deer were not on our agenda.

We reached the base of our last hill. Halfway up the steep incline, Buddy paused. It was his cue to me that he wanted another dog biscuit. His lovely dark eyes followed my hand and I pulled out a broken biscuit from my coat pocket. His dark, moist nose bumped against my palm. For just a moment, he munched it down, and then moved forward once more.

I love these biscuit moments. I think it's because it reflects a certain bond between us. If I have forgotten to bring the biscuits, he gives me a long soulful, reproachful stare that cuts me to the quick.

An hour and fifteen minutes from the time we set out, we slipped back through the door of my garage. There, I opened the door to my apartment. Our routine began once again. I pulled off my dog-walking boots, plopped my hat and gloves into their proper basket and hung up my scarf and jacket on its hook.

"Buddy, time to eat!"

Today was a good day: Buddy made it up the stairs without limping. His ten-year-old arthritic joints didn't slow him down as they usually did.

Thank you, God, for your blessings this beautiful February morning. Lord, I especially thank you for hand-picking such a cheerful companion for me. Only You could transform a malnourished desert dog into the great snow dog adventurer that he has become here in Pennsylvania.

Dad's Winter Projects

2010-02-10T23:18:00.000-05:00

Each of the four seasons gave my father a new outlook. Nothing ever got boring because he always had a new project around the bend. I think he even began to look forward to the winter months most of all because he and a few key workers would get down to work on his what emerged into his latest business--what he referred to as "The Limo Business."

This has to be one of my all-time favorite photos of my father. It encompasses so many of the elements of life that he loved so much: comfortable work clothes, his land, the trees, an antique car, the dog, and wintertime.

When he went to the land, HIS land, he met with his workers or he simply puttered alone. He was in his element. His barn or garage, whichever you want to call it, had three or four stalls. Part of his garage looked like a professional service station. he had a contraption to lift vehicles so that he could work underneath them.

His land served as so much more than a piece of land for his operation. It was a meeting point for the guys throughout the year. He bought fresh doughnuts and provided a pot of coffee every morning. It was truly a small town business, but built on old-fashioned values. Dad forged both friendship and trust with his workers. I always felt there was a special bond that existed with them that even the new guys picked up on straight away. Dad loved to be busy. He loved his work. And he loved cars. He shared his vision with the workers and they believed in it as much as he did. Not only did it provide work in the off-season, but it made them feel an important part of something unique.

Dad was always scouting around for the right vehicle to transform. Men around town would give him tips where he could the right parts. Everyone shared in his vision, actually, not just his workers. Once he solidified his ideas, and it grew cold, Dad would brief his men on what he wanted and they'd get right to work.

His longtime tree workers would become automotive technicians. They worked together to restore old vehicles to give them new glory. What one didn't know, the other supplied in experience. Frankly, my father knew a heck of a lot about cars. He had worked around them all his life. Dad had a natural curiosity for tinkering, and he had a no-nonsense approach to getting things done. If he could imagine it, he'd do it. Charley, Kirk, Donnie, Shawn, Rusty and a few others over the years tinkered all winter long. They cut through steel plates, soldered parts together, jacked up the vehicles, spray painted, oiled, greased, rebuilt engines and whatever necessary to get an antique fitted out with a modern engine but authentic antique parts. When that was all done, they'd set to work again, and s-t-r-e-t-c-h the vehicle. My dad could keep everyone dreaming about the finished work. He held them all together. When dad drove the finished vehicle off the property and onto the road, they all celebrated.

I don't know how to express the bonding that went during the winter months but I know that God brought it all together and made it possible to bring Dad's visions to fruition. God just knows each of us so well that he brought the right combination of skills and personalities to work together in Dad's garage to restore these vehicles. Nothing is by chance. These men were hand-picked to be in my dad's life by our Heavenly Father. I thank Him.

God, thank you for bringing so many blessings into my family's life: the land that meant so much to my dad, two very special four-legged companions, the vehicles, his talents and skills, his optimism, the workers that he spent so much time with, a loving wife and children. Thank you for creating him with a big heart for my town and for laughter and optimism and warmth. You loved my father so much that You provided all this for him and in him even when He didn't know or seek You out. How thrilling it must have been when dad realized how much You loved him - that You gave him the desires of his heart. Thank you God for my father and for loving him as you did. Thank you God for answering our prayer and opening his eyes to You.

We will all be in our elements in that piece of land one day and my family will be complete again.

Bummed by a Baggie

2010-02-09T22:18:00.003-05:00

"A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger." (Proverbs 15:1).

I shrugged into my bargain, down-filled coat and slid into the car. “You might want to zip up and pull on your gloves; It’s cold out here.” My sister, Carolyn, drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as I buckled my passenger seatbelt, “The bank's on the other side of the street. We'll get it on the way back.”

I hate returning merchandise anywhere but I really feel funny taking anything back at a Dollar Store, of all places. But I didn’t need 3-gallon baggies. I needed dog biscuits. I would just have to go and make the exchange.

I stepped over to the counter. “Excuse me. I’d like to make a return.”

“Yeah. Uh--these baggies are the wrong size. I wanted small ones, but there weren’t any.” In fact, I thought they were the small ones when I bought them. It had been an impulse buy. I definitely needed the biscuits more badly.

The cashier gave me a measured look over the top of her glasses. She reluctantly held out her hand to take the unwanted merchandise. I handed it over, quick to dispense of my burden.

“Do you want the small size?”

“Uh, no. Jus..no, not t’day, thanks.”

“We do have the small size,” She peered at me over her glasses again.

“Uh, nooo, well, okay, maybe.”

I could see the cashier's lip curl. She locked her register to get a small box - one I didn't want.

I made a quick run to the dog treat section. Maybe I’d have enough to buy both, depending on the price of the small baggies.

She arrived with the smaller box. “There are others to choose from--”

“No, no, no. These are fine.”

“I’ll have to do it over here,” she gestured to a second register and turned away. “I’ll be right with you” she mouthed to the next customer. She made it clear who she felt was the real customer. I bit my lip.

The clerk tapped in some numbers then handed me a receipt to fill out with my contact details.

“Do you want this, too?”

“No, no, I just want those.” I replied.

“Which?”

I jumped at impatient tone of her voice. Did she think I was a cheeky five-year-old buying chewing gum with pennies or something?

“Just those—uh, the…”

“Do you want the baggies?”

“Yes. That’s all I want.” I narrowed my eyes.

She thrust my change back at me, “Why are you so grouchy?” I challenged, but only my sister heard. Or maybe the clerk did, too. I don't really know.

I shoved the bill into my pocket, then promptly forgot it.

“If you need some more money to buy the dog treats, I can give it to you,” Carolyn offered.

“No, I have to learn to live within my budget.” I snapped.

My sister headed for the door, but I didn't follow. "What are you waiting for?"

"The rest of my change." I crossed my arms.

“She gave you the right change."

How could that be right when I saw only six pennies in my hand? I continued to stare at the clerk.

A customer kindly pointed to my coat pocket, "Dear, you put it there." I reached in and found it.

A perfectly terrible end to a bad transaction. The clerk never once acknowledged me in this twist of fate.

God, why???

I had twenty minutes to sit at the deli at the grocery store next door and ponder this situation (after all, there is no charge to sit down). I felt embarrassed and angry. God, she was so rude. I didn’t even want those baggies.

Go and apologize to her. I could feel God nudging me as I sat there. Me? Could I do that? I wasn’t the one who had become demeaning. Could I humble myself? I tried to imagine the scenario. She would think I was a lunatic. “Amy, just go and do it!” I wrestled with my conscience.

I will never know what God had planned for this situation because I am sorry to say that I didn’t return or apologize. I could have joked with her, and turned the situation around, perhaps cheered her up. When will I put my pride aside to let God work through me?

That night in my daily Bible reading, I came across Proverbs 15:1. Could God be any more pointed? Forgive me, God. Teach me to obey you only and always at your promptings.

Mulberry Blessings

2010-02-03T23:11:00.000-05:00

As I deal with the snow each day here, I find myself recalling the days when I had no snow. My house was surrounded by beautiful trees that bloomed all year round. Soft, ripe dates littered the ground beneath my feet. Jasmine and frangipani petals perfumed the air along the driveway and permeated throughout the tiled walkway leading up to my door. Bougainvillea splashed pastel colors along the front passage.

Best of all were the mulberry trees on my property. I had two by the corner of the house and one large one in the side yard. These were not bushes. They were actual trees. I was astonished to discover mulberries grew on branches and not vines!

Over a number of harvesting seasons, I saw that God used the mulberry trees to minister to me.

We moved into our house the first year after our twins died. That’s when I saw my first mulberry harvest. The largest tree, laden double with mulberries, stooped down like an old street vendor carrying every good he could sell on his back. The tree, like the vendor, seemed to call out to those who passed by.

The berry's long, uniform "druplets" felt smooth against my palm. It cried out, “Eat me!” That I did. I’d never eaten a mulberry before so I plucked the longest, heaviest, deepest purple berry that I could find. It tasted sweet, much like the blackberries I’d picked as a child near my house. But my mulberries tasted better than those scrawny blackberries. These were firmer, sweeter and juicier. More berry to savor! Right away I envisioned a bowl of vanilla ice cream topped with a bunch of mulberries. Wasn't I the luckiest person on earth to have these trees?!

I was only working part-time that year, and the berries were so plentiful that early morning and late afternoons would be filled with harvesting the berries. Soon I became an expert fruit picker. I got to know the amount of pressure I’d need to separate the berry from the slender green stem that held it fast to the branch. My berry-stained, sore fingers attested to the work I put into this task. But the ripest ones simply fell into my hands as I reached for the branches. I had to tend to these ones carefully so as not to mash or drop them.

“There’s many on the ground” my housekeeper observed, “Why don’t you put a sheet or tarp down to catch those that fall?”

“That’s a good idea,” I agreed. It gave me great pleasure to gather these up and add them to my booty.

I had a small wooden step ladder I used to reach the higher branches. I’d drag it from spot to spot under the tree and up the stairs and onto the driveway to get clusters of berries at the tops of the branches.

Stray cats and the squawking of excited birds overhead surrounded me as I labored. The cats lazed in the sun and kept me company. The birds had no business there. “Shoo! Hey, get outta here! Fly away!” I’d pause and wave my arms to scare away the birds; they seemed intent on swiping morsels from the sweet fruit on my trees. “You’re not gonna steal my mulberries!” I had plans for this fruit.

Every few days, the pungent smell particular to black berries filled the kitchen as I simmered pot after pot of mulberries on the stove. I added some sugar, and then stirred the lumpy mixture with a wooden spoon to prevent scorching. Soon I had a thick, luscious syrupy mixture that I spooned into cobblers and pies and baked in my American oven. I looked up jelly recipes on the Internet and attempted them, too. That year I became a favorite at the college with my “Amish” cobblers and ice-cream topped desserts.

As I threw myself into this work, I realized God’s plan was to distract me from thinking so much about the loss of my twins. God outstretched His hand, touched the sun and ripened a crop full of berries over and beyond what I’d ever dreamed of. People told me they had never seen a harvest so plentiful. I was astounded.

The next year, there were slightly fewer berries in the harvest and the birds found more of them. I'd gone back to working full-time, so I wasn't as driven to pick every single one of them. I started to think, "These berries are God's blessings and who am I to choose who gets them? Do I need all of them? Perhaps I can share with the birds.”

That also brought to mind the sharing of myself. Why did I choose who to give my friendship to? Why didn't I just let God open doors for me and embrace whoever God brought to the door, open it and receive them? So I prayed that I would be more open and accessible to others instead of limiting myself to those I felt most comfortable around. Again, God used the mulberry trees to show me how He desired for me to respond to His voice. I was humbled.

The following year there were fewer berries than before. The berries on the two trees by the corner of my house literally dried up. Now that I was adjusting more to my loss each year, I wondered if God was taking away my dependence on these physical blessings to nurture my faith in the unseen. I believe God used that tree to show me how to grow my faith and enjoy those fruits as much as I had enjoyed the berries earlier. I was grateful.

That next year a new gardener started to work for me. I pointed out the mulberry trees and told him how I’d eagerly waited for them to ripen.

"Now I just have one tree. I think it's dying though. It didn’t have so many berries last year. So many of them shriveled up." I remarked.

"Let's wait and see," he replied “I’ll do what I can.”

My gardener nurtured that remaining tree. He watered it every day and planted fresh dirt around its base. He cleared it of any weeds. One day he surprised me by picking some berries. We both got excited by the results of his careful attention to my favorite tree. I looked forward to fresh berries, pies and cobblers again. But by now, I was so busy that I rarely made the pies and cobblers that I used to bake. I gave most of the berries away. Once I even forgot to take a bagful of berries into the house. When I found them hanging on the doorknob the next afternoon, I noticed they had a funny smell. They'd spoiled. Useless fruit--along with the efforts of my gardener--all wasted. My intentions were sincere but I didn't use up all these precious resources.

It reminded me that I wasn't even close to appreciating God’s blessings in my life, or using them for His glory. I started praying about the wasted fruit and efforts, and God led me to see another area of my life where I needed to improve.

When I asked God to do His work, and the opportunities came, why didn’t I jump in and carry them out? Was it doubt? Or did I get too busy to see the opportunities before me? Once again, God used His mulberry tree--that day to convict me of my carelessness in harvesting His fruit. That rancid bag reminded me that along with our blessings came the responsibility of doing something with them. I was sorrowful.

God used the mulberry trees to minister to me throughout many seasons of my life in the Emirates. I will never think of fruit in the same way again. It shows me that God is imaginative and specific in the way He handles our hurts and develops our Godly character.

I now try to be more appreciative of God’s abundance and I make myself look around to become aware of the opportunities God places before me and to use them. I also ask God to help me have an open heart to share myself with others. Most of all, I ask God for His vision to gather the best of His fruits from my own mulberry tree - me!

A Precious Life

2010-02-01T20:03:00.000-05:00

Linda. I remember her: a tall, slender woman with long blond hair parted down the middle. Fastidiously clean. No hand-me-down clothes or blankets, nothing that could have any germs from a previous owner. Life was such a struggle for her. She lived here. There. A trailer. Nothing permanent. Finally, she sold the few possessions she had. She chose to be homeless. Or, rather, she lived at a homeless center. She paid for her board by cleaning the building. It gave her a kind of satisfaction. She knew how to do her job, for sure, she told herself.

She liked living that way, working alone...didn't run into two many people. "Just keep doing what you know best," and even though it tired her out, she knew it was by far the best kind of work for her. Other jobs gave people too much power over her. Didn't like that at all. They always wanted to keep her back. Down. Be mean. Cold outside in the winter, too.Too long 'a walk to get to a job.

She kept to herself."Don't like nobody to know my business. Too many busybodies and that ain't good at all." She didn't know when it all started but little by little, she cut off even those she had trusted. Betrayal did that to ya. Somehow ya end up in prison overnight or locked up in a hospital. "Don't want no medicine. No way I'm gonna be drugged up. I got a daughter." They take everything you love away. Who can you trust?

Brittany. She thought of her daughter. Severely handicapped. But her joy. "Well, I got my pride but I will bend that pride for a phone card to call Brittany." It was the only thing she would bend it for. They took her baby away when she got too big to care for. So hard to lift her. They said she couldn't care for her properly. Or didn't. How would they know? She'd lost track of who sent her away. The State? The neighbors? It didn't matter anymore. She knew they all got it wrong. How did they know what she could do, or just how much she loved her daughter? When they did that, a part of her died inside. The phone was her lifeline. She called Brittany every week to the special home where she'd been taken. She would call her every day if she had the money to buy more phone cards. Sometimes she dreamed that she did.

Nobody understood her. She had to rely on herself. Just herself. "I can trust me." Well, she did let a few into her life. Carolyn. She wouldn't hurt her. She knew she cared. Came from a good family. She brought phone cards, and took her out for a bit. Sometimes to the grocery store. Sometimes to the 7-11. She brought phone cards and money for smokes. Sometimes she tried to convince her to take hand-me-downs but she kept her standard up, and refused. She didn't hold it against her though. She knew Carolyn just wished her to have a warm coat ... or pants ... or sturdy shoes.

She called Carolyn once a week. Woulda called her more but she knew that Carolyn was busy with her own family. Didn't want to be too familiar. "I like my freedom," she'd say but whenever Carolyn came she found herself feeling happy, and relieved. Wouldn't have to walk all that way to the store. Just a short drive. Some cigarettes and a phone card. Callin' ya soon, baby girl. Sometimes hard to remember her baby was almost thirty.

Sometimes the sister came too. Lately she started bringing a cane. Had some kind of a vision problem. Not too bad, though, mostly dropped her off at the library while she and Carolyn shopped. She didn't always feel that way. In the beginning, she didn't like her coming and intruding on her time that way. But little by little she got used to her. Kinda reminded her of the mom, who'd helped her in the past.

Life went on in the same way for some time. Then, everything changed. Suddenly, the pain came. Terrible, horrible pain. She wanted to scream and scream with the pain. She kept it inside when she could. But called Carolyn. She would know what to do. The pain felt so bad, she started calling her three or maybe six times a day, depending on the pain. Somehow she could make her feel better. A little bit anyway. When Carolyn came, she felt she'd been given a lifeline. Things just seemed more in control.

They said it was blood poisoning. And bone cancer. Never felt anything so terrible before. She called and called. Only Carolyn. "No, not leaving my place at the homeless shelter." Can't you see this is my home? Don't have any family. She did but had closed herself off from them. Couldn't trust 'em. Carolyn helped, did what she could. When she came, she could close her eyes. She felt safe. At last.

I remember seeing Linda shortly before she died. Thin, gaunt, but fiercely independent. "They keep on cluttering my place up," she'd motioned to the area around her hospital bed at the county home, muttering darkly. I wondered if she considered my Christmas ornament to her part of the clutter. She didn't want the Christmas tree, nor the television, nor a radio. She wanted it all be neat and tidy. She wanted nothing. Nothing but Brittany. And her continued privacy. She chose who to let into her life. "Those people at the shelter--they are not my family. I don't have any family. Don't call them that," she said sharply. "I don't want anyone calling Brittany either. This is my life. My. Own. Life."

That day the pain made her burst into tears as my sister, Carolyn, tried to bring circulation into her legs. She thought Carolyn bumped something integral to her catheter. I had to leave. I felt that I would burst into tears myself. My heart broke for Linda who longed for the old control over life -- but would never have it again. She was used to ordering people about. But now she was at the mercy of my sister's schedule to receive her caring ministrations. Whether she knew it or not, Carolyn had become her closest friend-no, even more--her family! Linda let down her guard, let her tears flow, didn't monitor her words--everything one does with family when she was around my sister. I stepped out of the room to stop the queasiness in my stomach and get a grip on my emotions. I couldn't break down now.

That was the last time I saw Linda.

She held the hand of an employee at the Geriatric Center as she passed away this past month - her hand in the hand of a stranger's hand. My sister couldn't be with her the day she died and this made me feel the saddest of all. I knew that was a hard choice for my sister as she had to travel with her husband. But I wonder what Linda felt that last day. And I wonder how my sister felt.

I like to think the prayers my sister, her husband and I prayed with her would lead her to put her hand in the Master's hand as she crossed over to be with Him.

I choose to think that's how it was. My heart now sings for her. The day before when she admitted to being afraid, my sister's friends told Linda, "You don't have to be afraid if you're God's child." She nodded and allowed them to pray for and with her. It seems that for the first time in her life she had come to a place of calm, which allowed her at the end of her life to slip away...no paranoia, no distrust, simply calm.

I cry only for myself and those who loved her because we never could reach her. She never realized how precious she was... and she touched me sooo.

Faith Aligns Our Treasures

2010-01-30T12:32:00.001-05:00

Faith Aligns Our Treasures

For where your treasure is, there your heart will also be. Matthew 6:21 NIV

“Hi, Aunt Amy. Talia and I came to visit you,”

I looked up to find Rachel, and her bubbly daughter.

At two-years-old, Talia already had an eye for beauty.

“Oooh. Babies! Open please,” she’d whisper when she saw the Japanese kokeshi dolls stored behind glass. She longed to touch the brightly-painted collection. That and everything else! My booty from foreign travels delighted her.

This time, Talia stopped at an ornate Indian shelf. This held several teapots from around the world. There, she spied one just her size! A miniature tea set from England.

“Hey, she’s never looked at that before!” I exclaimed. “When did she become interested in teapots?”

“Her aunt Emily gave her a play set for her birthday last week,”

We admired the tea set with its tiny rosebud pattern. It was, of course, very fragile. “You can’t find this in America,” I commented.

“no, Tali--.”

“Let her play,” I suggested.

Talia pretended to pour some tea into a cup. Then she added some cream. At last she drank it up. We chatted. She continued to play. A few minutes later, Talia stopped. She scuttled closer to Mama. “What is it, TT?”

One small hand clutched a slender handle. Our eyes traveled to the shelf where the creamer sat.

“I’m sorry, Aunt Amy,” Rachel gasped, “Her fingers are too clumsy to handle this stuff.”

“It’s okay,” I reassured. “It can be fixed. How about we keep this as Talia’s special tea set for when she comes to visit?”

Relief spread over Rachel’s face. “TT, isn’t that nice!”

Application: Realize our earthly treasures pale in comparison to us, God’s children, and what He has for waiting for us.

Lord, I Seek Your Voice

2010-01-23T23:40:00.000-05:00

In an effort to cut down on my words, I will post some poetry for today's entry. I decided to keep it to 150 words or less, and this is focused on what I'd like my inner spirituality to be. People say that rhyming poetry is out, and that free verse is better. I think this is free verse (no structure) but rhymes, so that's fifty percent of the battle won! Awhile back I wrote "Lord, I seek Your Hand." That was focused on trusting the Lord along my pathway. Tonight I write "Lord, I Seek Your Voice." This is focused on Hearing the Lord in my daily life. Being in a personal relationship with Him. Some call it "abiding in Him." Whatever it is called, I want it for my life...

~~~~

Lord, I Seek Your Voice

Lord, if I can learn to live life reflecting Your smile and radiance on my face,
In times of adversity and in Your grace, then I'll skip to Your embrace.
To gain a calm in times of stress, I need to trust Your words to re-assess,
Let me hear Your voice often when I pray to live ever closely to progress.

It fills me with delight when You speak directly to me through Your Word,
And confirm it with the voice of others; then Lord, I feel so self-assured.
I'm stubborn, Lord, and my timing isn't good. My heart's desire is to obey,
Among friend and family, and other people that You place along my way.

Oh Lord, every day I walk with You, I seek Your Voice...and then Rejoice!

2010-01-22T22:19:00.000-05:00

Dreaded Drop Route Day

2010-01-21T23:24:00.000-05:00

Too soon the day arrived for me to prove my nettle and my sleuthing skills. How would I do? My trainer and I would be dropped between the perimeters of four previously-mentioned directional boundaries. Only my father could guess how the email had panicked me. My dad knew best how muddled I got when it came to directions (north/south/east/west).
I pictured my father looking down on me that day, full of interest in seeing how I fared. I guess he would chuckle now and then and shake his head in the habit he had when he was amused by the struggle of something he considered as easy as breathing. Of course, my father would try to point me in the right direction. Like Chet, Dad always had a handle on how to get around town! "OK Dad, help me out down here!"
~~~~
I had my sleep shades on. "Let's head out."

Although I tried to make a mental picture of the streets Chet described to me, I figured my best plan of operation would be to choose a direction and follow that way for awhile. I'd ask my first question soon enough.

"Hey, where's the sun?" I joked, "Isn't its direction supposed to be one of our clues?" Did it rise in the east and set in the west? So, if that's right, will it fall on my right or left shoulder? Be behind me or in front of me? I tilted my face toward the sky. Nope, no sun. The sky must be gray.

I listened for a train. I closed my eyes and concentrated. Was that a whistle? Nooo, no train so far. How many minutes had gone by? That thought tickled me. As children, how many times had we asked that very same question on our way to Grandma Florence's house? Come on, Amy, get serious about this task!

We walked for awhile in silence. Sometimes I had to free my cane from some holes or slats of some kind as I walked.

"Do you notice any landmarks yet? Tap your cane to the right. Shoreline it." He was telling me to see if there was constant barrier to the right, and if so, what was it?

"I don't know, Chet, it seems as if we've been walking along this high barrier for quite awhile. Do you think it's a wall?"

"Feel it with your cane," he suggested. "Is that what it feels like?"

I tapped lightly, first low and worked my cane higher. "Noooo, not a wall, but something. I dunno what."

We kept going. "It's got a hole in Chet, the wall does. It's narrow or something. Sometimes it isn't there. There's like space. Oooh, what could it be?"

"Hmmm," Chet knew, I could tell.

"Stop and feel it with your hand." Chet suggested after some time. So, I did.

"Wow, that's thin and heavy. Che-et! CHET! Is it a cemetery gate?" I had to know!

"I think it iii..sss." though sing-songy, I detected unmistakable triumph in his voice, "So, what does this mean?"

Nothing to me. Where are the cemeteries in Erie? Could we be by the McDonalds on Peninsula Dr? I had a dim recollection of driving past there with my dad on the way home from work one day.

"Which direction do we need to go?" Chet was pushing it.

I shrugged. Bit my bottom lip. I really had no idea. "Let's keep going this way." I doggedly led us on in the same direction until I remembered my "Get-out-of-jail" key. "Let's ask someone!"

Just then the sun came out. It shone on my head. A lot of good that did me! What clue did that provide?

"AMY, STOP! Do you hear that sound in front of you?"

"Hmm, it's a vehicle. But it must not be moving now."

Instead of walking around the vehicle to let it pass, I tapped the window.

A startled woman's voice sounded, "Oh my! What?! May I help you?"

"Maybe this kind woman will help us out," Chet softened my disruption.

"Sorry to scare you. Can you tell me what street we are on and uh, what direction you are heading."

"A-ha!" I heard Chet exclaim. By her answers, Chet knew exactly where we were.

I paid attention then. I picked up on his excitement and took his cues. After that, I always guessed the direction correctly. His voice gave it away. I became confident and very interested in our adventure.

We went below the street level, under a train crossing (like a tunnel). Chet was disappointed there was no train running at that time nor did we hear any trains at any other time to aid me in our orientation. "It's a great tool," he said with regret. "This traffic flow has helped us considerably. Yes, indeed."

In the end, we made it to his office just slightly over the time limit. (My earlier aimlessness slowed us down, I presumed.

But it's strange. Upon arriving there, I felt sooo proud of myself. I completely lost sight of the fact that I'd tuned into Chet's verbal clues and trusted them, more than the true physical landmarks that I encountered along the way with my cane. It was as if I had done this major feat on my own two feet exactly as Chet had planned for me to do! The fact is, at that moment I was walking on air!

"Let's get the elevator. Can you find which is the third floor?" Chet questioned.

I felt for the Braille. I pressed the button.

"Can we talk to Rebecca?" I asked, still in my euphoric state.

"Let me see if she is in the building," Chet aeemed only too glad to fulfill my every wish. He was so proud of me, too! "Luck is with us. Here she is," Chet presented her.

"You're doing so great," my case worker gushed.

I grinned and chattered about the experience, still completely wowed. Then I turned ... and walked directly into the wall. Smack! Rebecca sounded concerned, "Oh Amy, are you okay?"

"Oh, sure." Owwwwwwww. That hurt! Not only my head but my pride.

It also smacked some sense into me. I remembered I still really had little knowledge of directions - but I had an excellent ear for gaging Chet's excitement. Without Chet, I'd be lost. But then, he is my trainer. I was actually trained.Well, it was a combination of voice cues and figuring out the landmarks really. I smiled. Actually, I grinned. My lips stretched as far as they could go. I am sure my teeth were showing. This was a fabulous day in my life. I was not going to rob myself of one iota of joy.

Dad, I may not be familiar yet with directions in Erie, but I found a way to make it to where I needed to go.

I could feel him nod in agreement, and imagined he'd have shrugged in his easygoing way and said, "That's all she wrote." I reveled in the memory of his favorite expression.

Could life get any better?

The Dreaded Drop Route, Particulars

2010-01-20T12:20:00.000-05:00

This came as an email from my trainer to prepare me for my last training session with him in the summer, the ultimate "test' of my abilities, you might say. Here are Chet's instructions to me:

~~~~
Hi Amy,

Unlike last time, let me give you some pointers as to our planned drop route for Tuesday, August 4.

1. I'll arrive at your home around 1:00 p.m.

2. You will, with your approval and consent, of course, dawn your sleepshades before entering the truck.

3. We will drive east, into Erie.

4. We will be dropped off in Erie within the following parameters:

(A). Southern-most boundary, 26th Street.
(B). Northern-most boundary, 10th street.
(C). Eastern-most boundary, Holland Street.
(D). Western-most boundary, Myrtle street.

5. These boundaries mean that we will be no farther south, north, east or west of these streets.

6. Our goal will be to walk to my office building which is at 153 E. 13th street; so the walk might be very short, very long or of medium length.

7. To the very best of our ability, we will not gather information from any people. Instead, we will use environmental cues such as:

(A). Traffic flow, including possible train traffic.
(B). Particulars of traffic direction. For example, on Peach street, for our purposes, all traffic flows north, the opposite being true of both French and Sassafras streets.
(C). The position of the sun, assuming we have a sunny day.
(D). Familiar nonvisual landmarks; I will help in this area.

8. If, after a minimum of 45 minutes, you choose to gather information by asking either passersby or merchants, you may do so, but you will be limited to three such gatherings which means, of course, that the adventure will not last any more than 135 minutes, 2 hours, 15 minutes, if you use all your "get out of jail" cards. I.E. you may make one inquiry every 45 minutes. The maximum number of inquiries is three, but such may not be made during a time period of less than 45 minute increments.

If you have any questions, feel free to write or call.

Regards,
Chet

Taking on the Bistro

2010-01-20T00:18:00.000-05:00

I left you in the heart of downtown Erie in the middle of Roar to the Shore. I was blindfolded and seeking out a specific restaurant to further test my "Acclimation to Blindness" skills by eating a meal when a tough Motorcycle Mama lit into me for tapping her motorbike with my cane. If you remember, our training fell on one of the craziest days of summer. Downtown Erie was holding a Block Party, which meant a lot more clutter on the sidewalks, which turned the task into a much more challenging task for little ol' blindfolded ME!
~~~~

"I don't think the restaurant is very far off, if I remember correctly," Chet warned.

That was my cue to ask for the address. So I stopped and turned to the first voice I heard, "What is the address here?" The speaker dutifully supplied it, and Chet clapped his hands in excitement, "As I figured. We're not far from our destination!" He was delighted. How did he figure these things out? He turned to me, "We need to get to Number 2027. We are on the correct street, right?"

"Yes," I affirmed.

"Will we stay on this side of the street or cross it? And then, which direction will we head?"

"We need to cross the street and go north."

"We'll cross Seventh from the northeast to the northwest corner," he corrected.

"Oh! Yeah!" I had no idea anymore or even that we were at a corner.

"Good!... After you!" Chet sounded very pleased.

I wanted to peek very badly to make sure I was going right because I had to lead us across the street. Chet was on my heels so I had to listen for the traffic and could not cheat! The way sounded clear so I gave Chet the go-ahead. He listened for just a moment to verify, and we were off!

I could feel a wide cement stairway and climbed five steps, felt for a door handle, and pulled. We were inside a building.

I asked for the address. "Yep, this is it! Let's go in!" Was I ready for this?

Entering the restaurant was a breeze. "My name's Dan and I'll be your waiter for the afternoon," he said as he took me by the arm, and gently escorted me to a round table on the left-hand side of the room. What a relief after all the obstacles outdoors! I folded up my cane and took a deep breath while he read the menu to us.

I could tell by the plush carpet, the silence surrounding us and the impeccable manners of the waiter that we had chosen an upscale bistro for our experiment.

Chet seemed put out temporarily that the waiter had escorted me, "Much better for you to have found the seat on your own...but no matter," he resigned himself, plotting for me to find my own way out, no doubt!

"Madame?"

"Ah," I bit my lip, "I'll have a cup of ... expresso," (I am not a coffee drinker but the surroundings called for something more elegant than my usual glass of water).

I chose some messy crepe, ice-creamy, sliced-banana, chocolate-syrupy type dessert. I am going out on a limb here. If I have to be blindfolded, I might as well make it worth my trouble. I’m not going to play it safe with a mere pudding you just have to scoop out with a spoon!

I could hear the waiter pouring water into what I discovered to be long-stemmed glasses a few minutes later. When I felt for the glass with my right hand, my fingers touched the cool condensation on the outside rim. I picked it up and took a sip. Refreshing!

"Madame, here is your turtle crepe. It is directly in front of you. Your fork is to the right of the plate.Your expresso is at 2:00." I had recently learned that the face of a clock is a good way for people to visualize where an object (usually food) is located in relation to them. This waiter knew his stuff!

I picked up the fork in one hand and knife with the other, and proceeded to cut the banana crepe. I unobtrusively snuck a finger to the plate to feel where the rim was. I didn't want it to slide off! Then I proceeded to cut and stab a piece of banana, swish it in the syrup and add the crepe to the fork. I lifted it to my mouth and took the bite. With the cloth napkin, I dabbed at my chin in case I missed my mark at all. We didn't talk much as I focused completely on mastering this task. When I finished, I felt for my cup of expresso. Oh lukewarm! Darn! I took too long to eat! Well, I can't figure out everything at once, now can I? Next time, I'll get it right...

The sunshine fell on my right side from the sunny window next to me. Were my other senses becoming more heightened, I wondered? Well, anyone can feel the sun coming through the window!

Chet and I chatted about the day's outing casually. I began to feel a little giddy from the experience...or was that the expresso?! I chided myself, "Calm down, girl!"

Now, how would I pay? I asked the waiter to read me the bill. Then I felt for my bills. Which was the ten and which was the one? I asked the waiter, and later had him count back my change.

"Now if you want to be certain about your change, and keep your independence, pay attention to what I'm going to say next."

Chet then explained different ways of folding the various money denominations to distinguish them for greater independence. A whole lesson, contextualized. As a teacher, I know this is the very best kind of lesson one can receive.

The bistro was a smashing success! Although Dan had disappeared, I led the way out of the restaurant just fine, fumbling a bit by the door but with my head held high, and my confidence soaring even higher.

"Who was that waitress who helped direct me to the door?" I asked afterwards.

"No, she wasn't a waitress. She was standing outside the door. So I guess she was just attending the block party and making herself useful." Chet observed.

"Oh!" I thought she was a waitress. How did Chet figure out these things? My completely blind trainer was so in tune with people and his surroundings! I felt awed.

But the best thing about my day was the van was located just across the street! I could take my blindfold off!

Thank you, thank you, thank you God for getting me through this afternoon!

Chet's lessons are the key to my future independence.

Street Smarts

2010-01-13T22:06:00.000-05:00

This entry is about one of my most challenging cane training sessions in downtown Erie last July. My objective was to get around town and eat out in a restaurant, blindfolded (wearing 'sleep shades'), to simulate the conditions I find myself in at night when I can't see very well. Note: my mobility instructor is completely blind.
I'll post this story in TWO PARTS.

~~~~

"Ready for the challenge? You are going to wear your sleep shades from start to finish.”

I tried to ignore the excitement in my trainer’s voice. What had I gotten myself into? I was already disoriented and we hadn’t even arrived at our drop-off point yet.

In ‘Adjustment to Blindness Training,’ obviously the onus falls on the student to meet the challenges of navigating to pre-designated locations in order to become independent and develop the necessary self-confidence to achieve goals in ways others never have to think about. The more ownership a student takes in his or her own progress, the faster these goals are met. Chet, my trainer, is superb. He steps back to allow me to initiate and follow through with my own decisions, yet stays close enough to ensure that I do not put myself in danger. But let me be clear: he does not mollycoddle me. I am forced to meet the challenges of the tasks before me. In addition, I must take on any unexpected developments that may crop up.

At no time was this clearer to me than during my last training session in the heart of downtown Erie. My target objective was to find a specific restaurant.

Before we left my house, Chet had me put on my sleep shades, circle his driver’s vehicle twice with my cane as was his custom at the start of every lesson.

"Okay, you can get in."

I listened, then saluted in the direction of his voice, felt for the door handle and eased myself in.

“I’m gonna give you some time to warm up. I won’t just throw you in the situation,” he explained.

“Huh! Warming up would be letting me see more bef--"

His voice hardened into a no-nonsense tough guy tone he rarely took with me as he interrupted, "You already know how to see. You’ve been doing that all your life. You are learning how to get around by not seeing. I will not be happy if you lose your vision before you are sufficiently prepared.”

“I know. I know.” I’m not going blind tomorrow! Well, that’s lucky because when I handed over my Braille for him to check on the ride in to Erie, that was a disaster.

“I see what you did. You wrote it all backwards.” Chet felt my sheet carefully. He made a valiant effort to decipher it, and then gave up. “Try again next time. Your first attempt was much better.”

“Uh-oh! I hope today’s training goes better than my Braille.”

“Don’t think like that; you’re gonna do great!”

The van came to a halt. I squared my shoulders, “Let’s do it.”

“We are now facing Thirteenth Street. The parallel street is State. We want to go to the Credit Union on the northeast corner of 12th and State. Its address is 1129 State. What direction do we need to go?”

“North ... uh, toward the lake I guess...” I started out confident but faltered. These directions downtown always confused me.

"Yes, that's correct."

When we got to the Credit Union, my easiest course of action was to stand and wait, but he insisted I find a bench to sit down.

“Errrr,” I growled but found my way to one, after having squeezed through what seemed to be a very narrow opening but was actually a regular-sized doorway. “Bravo! You did great!” came the voice of a young woman seated near me. “Oh!” I moved my foot and explored the area. It hit upon the steel framework of a baby stroller. Well, the stroller must come with a baby and its mama. Was she a 'plant'? How did she know if I was doing well? Soon I could hear her on what I guessed to be a cell phone. I gave up on my crazy theory that she'd somehow been 'planted' to cheer me on.

Chet found me and we headed out. I made it out of the bank straightaway (Good job, Amy! I congratulated myself). We then headed downtown. At some point, and I don’t remember which order, I crossed both State Street and Twelfth Street.

“You did that well! Just like a pro.”

Yippee! I crossed these major downtown streets on my own! My face turned into one huge grin. I felt like a jack-o-lantern with my heart a bright candle. If only everyone could see what I had accomplished! The adrenalin kept pumping in.

“Okay, now you wanted to try eating in a restaurant. So I am going to tell you the address and you are going to have to locate it. I’m not sure where it’s at myself so this will be a test for both of us.”

You’re gonna make me do the work here, right?

As I made my way on the sidewalk, the space I had to walk seemed to shrink. What were these odd-shaped steel objects I kept hitting? I took Chet's advice and explored them with my cane.

"Chet, they all seem to be different shapes. I can't really identify them."

“Oh, Amy. Erie is having a block party this weekend,” Chet recalled. “There are tables and chairs set up on the sidewalk and lots more people than usual. That's what we're coming across."

“Oh? Oh! A block party!” I could feel the panic set in. How would I ever make my way down this crowded sidewalk?

“You’re okay. People will move when they see you. If not, you’ll find them with your cane. Just challenge yourself. Keep going.”

“Ohhh!” I boxed myself into a corner and got tangled up in the legs of some chairs. Where is the way through?! A-my! Focus! People must be staring at you! “Uh..uh..Chet!”

“I’m here. You’re doin’ great.”

We continued on in this way. I gingerly tapped my way through the tables, chairs, electrical cords, frequently stopping to untangle my way amid the strollers, ad-hoc outdoor grills, cafes and chairs. I could smell smoke, some pungent spicy aromas, grilling meat, beer, and strong coffee all around me. "Mmmm," I took it in. It got really congested around Perry Square. Clomp! Ooops! Oh no! "Excuse me. Sorry." Were we actually making any progress? How much further?

The meat sizzled. I heard voices--some who seemed to man the food, others who sounded relaxed and I guess, ate the food. Children squabbled and laughed. I felt a sudden burst of air and a sweaty body bump my arm as wheels whizzed by. What was that? Skateboard?

Of particular interest to me was a female voice,"Stop staring at them. That isn't nice," Someone laughed. Someone else mumbled. Children? Teenagers? I strained to hear better. Did she mean Chet and me? Of course, everyone can see us. Just because we can't see them doesn't mean they can't see us. How quickly I forget that!

Suddenly I passed through an area of African American music. Rap. I could feel the beat pulsating. I imagined teenagers seated on the ground fiddling with the volume of their boom boxes. It distracted me as I continued along the sidewalk.

"We have to cross one more street,” Chet explained.

“Hey, watch it! That’s a six thousand dollar paint job on my motorcycle!” the tough voice of a woman called out very near me. I turned toward the voice . "Yeah, that's right, chick-o, YOU!"

I recoiled immediately. “Oh sorry,” I held my cane still for a moment, terrified to take another step.

“Did I tell you that this is also the weekend for “Roar to the Shore?” Chet asked me dryly. “8,000 motorcyclists are gathered right here in the heart of downtown for the event.”

I felt faint. “Well, I don’t think I befriended that one.”

“Come on, keep goin’ The restaurant can’t be far.” Chet's jovial voice spurred me on.

~~~~

Life is full of Motorcycle Mamas along our pathway, isn't it? Guaranteed, we're gonna smash into 'em when we least expect to. I think Chet has learned to sweep away negative criticism as easily as he takes the next sweep of his cane to move forward. I kinda like that approach to life. I'd like to take it up. I wonder how long it takes to learn that technique?!

Tune in tomorrow for the restaurant experience.

Surprise Birthday Mayhem!

2010-01-12T00:03:00.000-05:00

Let me tell you: I love birthdays! I think it’s because I don’t look at birthdays as turning a year older; I think of them as confirming our own unique personalities and worth. They are days when anything exciting can unfold, and I expect it to. My attitude towards birthdays carries over to my friends, and I always try to make them feel special..

So, when I got invited to my Facebook friend’s surprise 50^th birthday party, I couldn’t turn the invitation down, even though I hadn’t seen my friend in thirty years! I looked at it as an adventure—and that’s exactly what it turned out to be. I anticipated a challenge because this undertaking would first, take place at night, and second, in an unfamiliar venue. How would I handle it when my classmate saw I was now using a blind man's cane?

My best friend, Kathy, stamped her feet to get warm,“Got the card and crying towel?” The crying towel was a gag gift for Birthday Boy.

“Yep.”

"Got your cane?"

“Yep.”

“Ready to rip?”

“R.I.P? You mean I’m takin’ my life in my hands?” I quipped. Then a moment of suspicious--and somewhat nervous--laughter hit me, "Did you say 'trip?' "

“Come on, I'm doing you a favor by going with you, and I'm freezin' while you're making jokes."

Brrrr! It felt like the coldest day of winter. When we spoke, our breath came out in tiny puffs. The wind sliced through my fashionable blue jeans where my jacket stopped. I wasn't wearing my warm cap as "limp flat hair" was not simply not acceptable at such a gathering. My fingers became stiff in the short walk from the parking lot to the building.

We ducked into the restaurant. I stood still for a few moments to let my eyes adjust to the dimly-lit interior. Kathy waited patiently for me to give the go-ahead to move forward.

"How about that table over there?" I tried to follow her chin movement. Over there? To the right? To the left? Across the room? My eyes were still adjusting.

"Oh yeah...the table is right ahead of you. Can you see it?"

"Ummm. Now I can. Okay, let's go."

I swept my cane back and forth. That made me feel like a street cleaner, except instead of cleaning I was spreading snow in wobbly arcs across carpet those first few steps. We reached the table--to the right of the door and a little behind us--and shed our coats.Some other women joined us.

“Let’s get something to drink.” Kathy suggested.

We ordered our beverages and headed back to our table. Where was Birthday Boy? I set my Coke down. When I set it down, I knocked over Kathy's cup. Ah, I didn't see it there! I watched the contents cover the table in record speed. I could definitely see that! People dashed madly about to bring napkins and paper towels. I just stood there watching. "Sorry. Sorry." I apologized as the woman tried to staunch the mess before it dripped onto their clothes. I caught Kathy's eye. She looked amused. I grimaced. What a way to start!

At that moment, Birthday Boy arrived at our table. Oblivious, he gave each of us a big, warm pull-me-close hug, which stretched out into a second one...

“Guess what Amy did? She spilled my drink all over the table. I didn't even get my first sip!"

She was up to something, but what? I glared daggers at her, but this time the darkness was in her favor. Drats! What would Birthday Boy think? She was not cued into any of my "Watch-it-you're-on-dangerous-ground" signals.

Birthday Boy still wore dark glasses but they didn't look as heavy as I remembered. He had a little less hair on top... and a little bit more on his face (a salt and pepper mustache and beard). He seemed inclined to forgive any clumsy misdeed, “You did that?” He smiled benignly and I noticed a tooth missing on the top right-hand side of his mouth. "You're lookin' good, the both of yous," he gestured to Kathy as well.

“Ahhh…it's very dark in here,” I muttered to explain both the spill and his compliment, thinking how I would skewer my friend the moment he left.

"It's been a long time since I saw ya last." He looked relaxed as he tugged on the flap of his baseball cap.

"Yeah like thirty years," I reminded him. I hadn't seen him since high school.

"Want ya to meet my wife and doctor-I mean, daughter..." He called out to them, swaying a little, "C'mere..."

I smiled in Birthday Boy's direction where I expected them to show up. I held out my arm and thought they'd take it if they were there. No one did. So I quickly pulled it back.

"Oh daddy, whaddya want?" The blurry figure of an attractive blond, but slightly heavy-set young girl came into my view. He put his arm around her shoulder; his pride was unmistakable. "This is my daughter, Kelsie."

I nodded at her.

"Are ya havin' a good time?"

I wasn't sure if she meant Kathy and I or her dad, Birthday Boy.

He smiled at all of us,"What's more importan' than bein' with family and friends at my big 5-0?"

An older, heavier but less made-up version of the teen girl stepped into my view. Long blond hair and a friendly, wide smile caught my attention. She offered her hand, "So nice to meet you. I've seen your comments on Facebook. My daughter here actually sent out the invitations for the surprise party." She looked approvingly at Kelsie.

"So nice to meet you, Kathy." I didn't risk offering my hand. It was a casual outing, after all.

When they all left, I turned to my friend, "Okay, spill it!" I grinned at my pun, "Why did you tell him I spilled the drink?”

“I thought he might offer to buy me another one.” She made a face.

I rolled my eyes. What could I say? "It didn't work now, did it?"

"Nope," She laughed. "Be right back. I'm gonna get a Coke now. But don't go near it!" she joked.

"Don't worry. I don't think I could stand a repeat performance."

*****

The rest of the night passed by without incident-- if you don't include me knocking two pieces of cake out of Kathy's hand before leaving or drawing the attention of another former classmate with my cane. I'll just have to get used to these "happenstances." Is that the right word? It was noteworthy that I managed to go through the buffet line without dumping any chicken wings ... wasn't sure how I could carry a plateful of food and manage my cane at the same time! But slow and steady makes the grade...

Birthday Boy reveled in the attention of family, close friends and old acquaintances. He was kind, generous and very welcoming. I was so glad that I came to be part of this celebration! I think sometimes as in the case of old - let me change that to "former" classmates meeting up -- where there is no bond due to a lifetime of different experiences, the "lifetime ago" becomes that bond. It's kind of a neat feeling.

The ABC’s of the NBC Class

2010-01-07T23:24:00.000-05:00

I've been looking at old photos of my students from the Defense Language Institute. I have had so many excellent students. Even now, thirteen years later, many names and if not their names, then faces come to mind. This class was one called "Nuclear, Biological and Chemical Warfare." I taught them the English for this subject.

I surveyed the class. The Africans surveyed me back. In the back, two young guy dressed in camouflage fatigues sat side by side. Curiosity smiled from their eyes. Another, their compatriot, seated in the right corner of the room stared boldly--insolently--with a cocky grin daring me… what? to teach him? The three were Salvadorian soldiers. Really just young cadets. All eyes focused expectantly on me: the teacher.

For a moment, I quavered: could I supply the knowledge each craved? Suddenly I grinned back: “One great week ahead!” was what we understood by it. Communication without words.

That week the Salvadorians let me in on some adventures--missing the bus and getting stuck in downtown San Antonio overnight. Laughing, I commiserated.

Then, dreams. A favorite topic of mine. Valenzuela sneered, “Yeah, I had a dream last night--” He looked around the room to make sure he had everyone’s undivided attention.“Yeah, I dreamed my father was killed in the war.” His cocky grin returned, his expression smug.“Did you ever wake up from a dream such as that?”(Top that one, his expression challenged). “No,” I sighed, “and I hope you don’t again either.” Silence. How to reach across to soften life’s fears?

Trust. I could feel it growing. Precious minutes at the end of every class period.The Africans shared, mumbled, spoke, laughed and swapped hard field experiences with the Salvadorians who’d trained in swamps and ate uncooked field in the field to avoid being spotted by the enemy.

I saw them raise and lower their barriers in class discussions. I felt them open and close doors to their thoughts.Valenzuela—often the angry one--continued to stymie me. His leadership, when unchallenged, became an eager child. But if it denoted any dare, his insolent grin appeared, and he sounded tough, surly. Even his sitting position appeared different from his Salvadorian compatriots, who seemed gentle, almost innocent in their relaxed postures. He sat, hunched over, wary, alert. Distrustful even in this simple classroom situation. Instinctively, I could feel it was this very distrust that made him such an excellent officer. He was twenty-six, a Lieutenant, and full of bravado forced on him too soon by a war not of his choosing.

This class was studying the terminology of Nuclear, Biological and Chemical Warfare. I didn’t want to teach it, but I had to. At first, I taught it as if the words were isolated from their lives. But the pictures these officers imprinted on my mind during the free moments in our class
made me realize WAR is more than terminology taught.The words I teach and they must follow in their combat will mean SURVIVAL to them.

The task ahead suddenly seemed ominous. Frightening. I wanted to save them all from needing such training.These young frightened Salvadorians who’d lost fingers ... the Africans who’d been fighting for thirty years ... the Honduran who spoke of guerilleros. I suddenly hated my job then. It seemed insignificant and hypocritical to touch on terms so close to their lifestyles that they might come to life while we teachers remained in the security of the artificial environment of our classrooms, spouting more war-like words, affecting the lives of yet other students. In spite of my misgivings, the "One great week ahead" grin triumphed.

I wasn’t surprised that our friendship lasted beyond the NBC class. I was their friend, their cheerleader, their game leader... Familiarity with these words took away some of the sting. Valenzuela shouted “BINGO!” with great fanfare at long last.Those army students from around the world taught me to value my life and freedom. I gave them a chance to talk about what they’d experienced. Our friendship was special. No words were necessary. I felt it all.

A Buck Steals into the Night

2010-01-04T01:06:00.000-05:00

"Woof! Woof! Woof!”

Barking startled me out of my dreams and I shook my head to focus on the time at the clock beside me. 2:35 am.

“Woof! Woof! Woof!”

I threw the layers of quilted warmth off me and dashed into the next room where Buddy had jumped up, his face pressed closely up against the glass.

"What are you barking at, Boy?"

“Woof! Woof! Woof!”

"Shshsh! Shuush! C’mon! We don’t want to wake up everyone, do we? What do ya see out there?"

As if seriously contemplating my question, Buddy paused.

I flipped on the light to the kitchen, then quickly switched it off. If anyone or any people were out there, I had just alerted them and they would now know that I was on to them.

“Woof! Woof! Grrrrr!” Buddy started up again. He sounded more menacing. His breath steamed up the window.

Out past the garden a movement caught my eye for the briefest of moments. Just there under the streetlight on the adjacent street. Two eyes? The feeling of being watched.

“Grrrrrrr! Woof! Woof! Grrr!”

A form leaped straight into the arc of light. There, silhouetted against a black sky stood an enormous deer – a magestic buck! He remained stationery, seeming to lock eyes with Buddy for a few moments, then in two bounds disappeared off into the darkness.

It felt somehow as if God had orchestrated that inspiring flash of splendor with me in mind.

Thank you, Lord! Let me always appreciate your love songs to me, morning or evening (or in the wee hours of the middle of the night)!

“Ake-mashite Omedetou Gozaimasu”

2010-01-02T23:56:00.001-05:00

Happiness in the Dawn of the New Year.

This year, to be different, let's talk about Japan's New Year!
There are lots of traditions, must-have decorations, witnessing the year's "firsts" , and a variety of auspicious foods that are eaten to celebrate this holiday. The country is veritably shut-down from the 1st - 3rd. The streets are eerily empty because everyone is inside with their families.

People prepare for the most important holiday in Japan around mid-December when they begin sending out traditional New Year’s postcards called Nengajyo. The whole of Japan participates in this, except if there is a death in the family, in which people are to send simple postcards explaining that they cannot send the traditional card due to the death of a loved one. It is considered disrespectful to the dead. These cards contain pre-printed formal phrases wishing happiness, early spring or simply happy New Year. Very much like our Christmas cards, these postcards traditionally arrive on January 1st. It’s a very cool custom, I think, as I love mail-and lots of it arrival at once is even better!

On the 31st of December homes are cleaned from top to bottom to Japanese homes, the old is swept out. Often times there are parties called

To be continued...

A Fresh Look at Winter

2010-01-02T00:57:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year, everyone! (2010).

I wanted to share this story with you while I prepare to enjoy the new snowfall promised us over the first weekend of the new year and into the next week.

This is a piece I wrote about two years ago, in March when the season was getting ready to change. It reflects my first or second winter home after being in tropical climates for the past ten years. I was so worried about how I would adapt and yet, God opened my eyes to all its beauty. See the end of the season through Buddy and my eyes...
~~~~

A Fresh Look at Winter

Home never seemed like exotic foreign soil before. Then again, I never walked with my best friend through a wooded landscape in mid-winter experiencing every phase of snow that comes with it. It’s as if I’m experiencing everything for the first time -- the look and feel of the trees, the array of sounds emanating from the many branches, the beauty of the deer, the screech of the hawk and the feeling of serenity found within its borders. Wrapped in a warm parka, inner and outer scarves, gloves, a cap and boots, my Black Lab and I savor the rich culture we encounter each time we stroll through the stretch of land near my home. I feel exactly as if I’ve been detailed out to an unfamiliar yet beautiful country.

First of all, we’re in our own little world as we walk. Except for the driver of a single red car that passes us each morning on his route to work, we rarely encounter other people or wild creatures so we feel free to roam. I unleash Buddy and he leaps off the road, diving into snow banks, flying across fields, up hills and out of sight. I, too, feel liberated. I can even lie down and make snow angels! So often I taste the snowflakes tickling me. Light and airy, they trickle down from my eyes and cheeks numbing my face and making my nose run. A few minutes later, Buddy races over to me, his snout wet and frost-covered. Panting with delight, he tilts his face upward and swallows gigantic snowflakes. Who is there to see our abandon? The solitude and our exploration of the area leave us breathless.

Sometimes after a refreshing snowfall we come across deer markings. Buddy leans in close to catch their scent as I examine the height, width and shape of the marks. In deep snow, Buddy prefers to wade along the deer’s snow wake instead of venturing out on his own. As interlopers on their native territory, we acknowledge the local population without changing it.

Lately, I have begun to analyze the deer’s tracks. Other ‘natives’ may learn to read them from an early age but like any foreign language I must consciously study it and then go out and apply what I’ve learned. Some tracks are perfectly heart-shaped while others resemble delicate curvy quotation marks. I can now predict what direction the deer are moving and if they are traveling fast or slow by their markings. Just this morning I found tracks in my driveway. I like to think the deer are as curious about Buddy and me as we are about them.

As March comes to an end the edges of the large pond we pass begin to thin, although at midpoint the ice remains firm. Dirty slush heaps up in ugly mounds at the side of the road replacing the feathery-white snow we love to wander through. Some days thick sloppy mud sucks at the treads of my boots. Blue streaks peek through the perpetual gray skies, and the threat of bursting from our warm familiar cocoon looms over us. The sounds we’ve become most accustomed to – train whistles, bare branches moaning in the wind, snow crunching underfoot, the zoom of airplanes flying above, a woodpecker’s knock, and the hawk’s cry -- have served to tie us to my homeland. But it won’t be ours alone anymore. As the weather progressively improves, I know groups of fishermen, more vehicles, and chipmunks, squirrels, raccoons along with the white-tail deer will join us on our solitary path.

When spring arrives, Buddy will come alive barking at the many dogs he encounters as we change routes and the solitude fades. Winding the leash around my wrists I’ll have to drag him away from the source of his growling, woofing frenzy as I attempt to motivate him to go ‘my’ way. I must stand by on constant alert, ready to deal with moving vehicles, kids, adults, and wild creatures of all kinds.

Thinking of the remnants of snow caked on Buddy’s snout, the fresh deer tracks we’ve come to cherish, and the newly forged paths we initiate as a light curtain of white envelops us, I wish winter could continue forever. Like time standing still, I feel protected in the center of that glass sphere people pick up to shake and the soap flakes flutter all about. The unrealistic desire to stop time seems entirely plausible when I replay the pleasure we have on our winter walks.

God has led me to appreciate the unique sights and culture of a foreign country within my own backyard. Through His extraordinary binoculars, Buddy and I have seen new vistas up close. It’s as if we’ve danced under an exquisite sky of feathery white fine particles. The white-tail deer seem as exotic to us as the snowfall is common to you. As Buddy and I attempt to interpret the language of the deer and listen to the sounds of the hawk cry in the forest while a train whistles nearby and snow drips “Plop! Plop! Plop!” from spindly branches, we enjoy God’s world that much more.

Deeper Spiritual Journey

2009-12-28T17:35:00.000-05:00

When I first came home from the Middle East, I left an excellent full-time teaching job with comprehensive benefits. My self-confidence took a nose dive when my writing career didn’t take off as I had envisioned. Although I knew it would take time, I am not sure that I really believed I could succeed. I wanted to follow through on my plan to become a published writer but I began to feel very inadequate and directionless.

Instead, God opened a familiar door: teaching. But when I started teaching again, I had to adapt to different kinds of teaching systems here in the US, content-specific subjects, and a new lecture style. Then a new age group as I supplemented my income with a few high school classes of Spanish. I had no benefits with either job and was earning a pittance of what I earned before.

Now I realize that God has placed me exactly where He wants me to be and He will provide my needs.

This year, the Spanish classes that I felt so inadequate in teaching last year fell into place. I started out with renewed confidence and enthusiasm, great teaching ideas and a much stronger rapport with my students and colleagues. I feel in control this year! I also started to become more confident and successful in the college teaching system.I will take on two more classes in the spring term.

In addition, my writing has taken me on a deeper spiritual journey. I feel so grateful to God for being patient with me.

God has been teaching me how to cultivate a relationship with Him that brings more peace to my life. Lately, He has opened doors for me in my writing field. I am so excited to use my writing talents to bring God glory!

I feel that He has great plans for me that I haven’t dreamed of yet. It suddenly makes me wonder if I hadn’t been so aimless and lacking in confidence earlier, would I have been able to accomplish the writing goals I had set out to achieve? If only I had had that faith and determination to keep going. I’ll never know if the delay was part of His plan or if He allowed it and provided my teaching as a back-up. But I do know that He makes all things work for my good because I am called according to His purposes. He has given me that promise, and that peace.

This year, don’t let your hearts be troubled. Let God give you that peace that the world cannot offer. Whether your struggle is hidden or visible to others, embrace yourself in whatever state that you are in. Use that as the opportunity to deepen your relationship with our Father, and let the Holy Spirit guide you through each day.

Isn’t it exciting when God speaks to us through our experiences?! Big ones like I have been going through and little ones like an attitude we display on any given day? You know, I’m the first to admit I make so many mistakes but God is working with me to help me become optimistic toward my future.

Peace ... Ours for the Taking...

2009-12-28T17:25:00.000-05:00

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not be afraid.”—John 14:27, NIV

Last year, I struggled with teaching a new course at the college, and two new courses at the high school. In some ways, my life felt like it had fallen apart. I had new vision loss (a much bigger chunk) and added hearing loss to the equation. I was told I should use a blind man’s cane … well, for the rest of my life. I was not reconciled to living my life with these obstacles. In fact, some of my friends insisted I was in denial!

This year, the scripture above changed my outlook. I realized that God had a plan for my life, and that plan included Retinitis Pigmentosa and Usher’s Syndrome (the names given to my vision and hearing loss). I realized that I had two choices: to accept or rail against these changes. As far as I know, God has no plans to remove them. So, little by little I allowed God to change my heart toward my circumstances. I began to see myself in a different light and to be proactive—to develop the skills I would need to cope with these problems long-term. Once I took that step, God placed a much greater peace in my life. Needless to say, this year I’ve taken greater steps in my personal spiritual growth.

January started out with despair. I still pretended to be in control and acted as if I didn’t have any vision problems whatsoever, which, of course, only enhanced my inability to deal with it. I thought I was hiding it from my colleagues and students, but really it controlled me, and left me appearing inept in both professional situations and personal circumstances. One day, in tears, I asked my sister-in-law, “Why can’t I tell my students what is going on? Why can’t I get the words out?” How could I be so self-conscious … and flawed?! I put myself down all the time. It came out in the form of jokes with my friends.

But once I began my cane training in February or March, my attitude began to change. Each time I went out for cane practice with my mobility instructor, I came back with more confidence. God led my principal to ask me to share my experiences with the high school student body. Shocked, I didn’t think I would be able to follow through on her wishes. But by May, God not only enabled me, He gave me such an enthusiasm for sharing that I brought every visual and hearing aid tool I could think of. I wanted to give our students an idea of how God provides so abundantly for us in our circumstances!

When I began to read Braille, I bubbled over with more excitement. I began to practice every day. It was simply another language to me. By this time, I had developed an excellent rapport with my counselors at the Blind Center. My mobility trainer suggested I get more intense training in Louisiana. Instead, God provided another training opportunity closer to home in Cleveland where I could learn these same skills.

I spent three weeks blindfolded, at my insistence, to learn adaptive techniques that would make me successful when more vision loss came my way. My trainers and colleagues all had less vision than me! I learned that blindness encompasses a range of loss-from legal blindness to total blindness. Exposure to other blind people taught me that none of us were flawed in the way I once envisioned. Instead, I felt empowered.

Every time I turned around that scripture came to mind. When I felt overwhelmed, God would remind me who was in control and peace would seep back into me.

The Candlelight Service

2009-12-21T00:27:00.001-05:00

My ears perked up. A candlelight service? My church! Were they actually going to have a special service in the evening? Pardon me for thinking this, but this was highly unusual for a church that believes worship at Christmas time should be like any other Sunday of the year, that we should celebrate Our Lord’s birth every week...well, we all believe that, don't we? I was thrilled to find my church at the threshold of change. Forgive me if I did a double-take. This was one service I would not miss!

That night I took my cane in to church for the first time. I felt a little self-conscious using it front of our small congregation. I just wanted to be seated and out of view. Marilyn waved to me and motioned for me to sit next to her. Her husband, John, stood up to let me pass. Thankfully, I began to fold up my cane and place it near my feet when one of the elders took the microphone.

“Come on, everyone, up t’ the front of the church. Let’s fill up those first few pews.”

I groaned. Everyone would be moving forward, and I would have to use my cane in front of them as we resituated ourselves. We all shuffled forward like obedient sheep.

I now found myself seated next to Paula, the elder’s wife.

She turned toward me, “Now, Amy, I don’t know very much about this—is it mac—“

I smiled, “Well, it’s a form of macular degeneration…” I gave her the short take on it. She herself had suffered breast cancer so I felt at ease in discussing it.

Richard, our elder, leaned on a lectern in front of the church and began to speak, “So how many of you will be participating in this service?”

“Would you like me to get you a candle?” Paula asked.

“Oh, thank you. I can get it myself.” I assured.

“No need, John will get one for all of us,” my friend, Marilyn, piped up.

Richard launched into a complicated set of instructions. Oh no! I had envisioned simply holding a candle at my seat, and singing, or listening to a devotional. Not so tonight!

“…now if you are married, both husband and wife can come up together to light your candle, and stand while the scripture reading is being read. Then you will be seated in the pews opposite, on the other side of the church. If you're single, you'll go up alone…”

The “what-ifs” began in my mind. What if I trip over someone’s legs and sprawl out in front of the congregation? What if I knock over the candle? What if I can’t find my way to the opposite pew? What if run into the communion table? The possibilities were endless. Okay, that does it! I am not participating! I whispered as much to Marilyn. She whispered something back, but I couldn’t catch it. I wasn’t even wearing my hearing aids.

The lights began to dim, one-by-one. Finally, we sat in darkness. I mean it—darkness!

But a little voice inside me began to lecture, You can’t shine “the light” only when it’s convenient. God expects more from us than that. Remember Amy, he never asks us to do anything without equipping us. You remembered your cane. You know how to use it. So when it’s your time, just stand up and get goin’.

I bit my nails as I waited my turn. Finally, Paula stood up and set out. She would walk alone as her husband was already up front leading the scripture readings. Paula had survived her cancer. She never seemed to worry or hesitate. She looked out at the audience with a serene smile. As she left to sit down, I stood up. My heart was pounding.

Marilyn stood up, too, as did her husband. “We’ll go with you,” she said quietly. She held onto my shoulder and we moved out. My cane smacked against the heat register at the end of our pew. Oh no! I quickly turned right. Marilyn guided me to the table ahead. My hand trembled as I lit my candle, then I stepped aside for her and John to do likewise. The three of us stood in front of the church while the scripture was read. My candle illuminated my cane--or at least part of it--in front of the whole congregation. I tried to smile. I have no recollection what the scripture reading focused on as I stood there. With a tap on my shoulder from Marilyn, I moved out and headed for the pew on the opposite side. I didn’t know where the next person was seated so rather than stumble over them, I chose to move to a new pew. At last, I was seated in the audience and watching others move forward; why, even children participated!

Singing followed the devotional; all our songs contained “the light” somewhere in the lyrics…send the light; this little light of mine; walking in the light, to name a few. I relaxed and sang along with the rest of the congregation. My brothers and sisters. What a great family--and feeling!

As the lights slowly filled the room, I rose. Naturally, I reached for my cane. God had provided for me, as usual. Nothing had gone wrong. I didn’t embarrass myself in any way—unless you count banging the heat register. That didn't last very long.

Lord, continue to show me that You are Master of every new situation I face. Give me courage to move through the darkness—both literally and spiritually. I want to become the light You so desire me to be at every turn. No matter … how unfamiliar the territory… who is watching … who I feel may be judging me. What if I do trip? Maybe I won’t know exactly where to go … or what to say or do in my position as Your child. Simply fill me with courage to move out of my comfort zone.

God, You so clearly wove the physical and the spiritual together in an extraordinary lesson for me: Don’t be a light only when it’s convenient. Between my cane and my friend’s assistance, you supplied my needs to enable me to move forward in the physical darkness. I only needed to do one thing: trust You and take that step.

Let me apply those same principles in the spiritual darkness that this world holds. Help me to always take that first step forward.

My Perfect Skating Partner

2009-12-20T23:12:00.000-05:00

That night bathed in light on the pond below my house, I skated to the hearty applause of an imaginary Olympic audience. It came pretty close to perfection. I skated in a figure-eights pattern, then turned and skated ever so skillfully backwards. After that came my version of the half twist jump, followed by the abrupt fall on my behind.

I wonder how God must feel when we give him foot-stomping, wild applause? I imagine how he is bathed in his own light. He accomplished feats far more splendid than gliding on the ice--I mean, he walked on the water! He stilled the seas! He healed the people! He speaks to each one of us every day of our lives. He is both great and small...magnificent, and yet, personal. Back then, I admired Dorothy Hamill for her smooth moves on the ice as she skated in rhythm to beautiful songs--but I think our Lord has moved in more ways, in a thousand more directions and to so many heart-rendering songs more than this Olympic winner can ever hope to skate to.

My God is not only a champion, he is also my skating partner. When I jump, he must be there to catch me in mid-spin and to throw me out again to watch me land on my toes, to twirl around and do that figure-eight thing I so love to do. I must be able to run into his arms and to dance with him on the ice-our hands catching, meeting, letting go, and coming together once again. I know how to skate backwards and I know that I have to lean into my partner. He will give me that final push I need to finish my recital with flourish.

I never want to lose my delight in this sport because I learned today that God is a magnificent champion skater but he is also my personal skating partner on the arena with me.

I think for a moment. Why, I'm even like one of the many roses in a beautiful bouquet thrown to him after a superb performance; I know he will gather me in his arms and lift me up, perfumed, to his father in heaven.

The applause is deafening. But it's no longer for me. It's for a champion, and my perfect skating partner. It's for my Savior. He's the one that catches me when I fall; yet he's so much more. The applause turns to awe-inspired silence. The thought comes to me: Every knee shall bow, every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.

I feel goosebumps on my arm. The image of me skating with the King of Kings, the Lord of Lords, and yet someone with whom I can interact with on such a personal level is pretty mind-boggling. And therein lies the uniqueness of Jesus Christ. He meets everybody on a level in whch they can relate to.

Ice Skater's Delight

2009-12-20T01:33:00.000-05:00

With our second snowfall of the year, an ice-skating memory came to mind. Share my beautiful ice skating experience with me...

~~~~
We had lovely and very active winters in northwestern Pennsylvania where I grew up. There were plenty of hills and toboggan slides near my house to play on after a heavy snowfall. But what I enjoyed most was the pond below my house. When it froze over, the neighborhood kids would get together and shovel enough snow to the slides so that we could skate on it. The municipality eventually built us a shelter where we changed into and out of our skates. They even provided a small electric heater.

In blustery afternoons, we would bundle up and head for the pond. We all came those days--boys and girls, kids and teenagers. We made short work of the shoveling. The older and braver ones would soon play "Crack the Whip." Others, like myself would skate nearby or watch them. The tough guys skidded around on their sporty black skates, and the teenage girls flirted. That usually resulted in the teenage boys throwing packed snowballs at them as they chased them over the ice. The girls shrieked as they dodged snowballs or tried to avoid getting the cold stuff down their backs. I glided around and watched it all second-hand--my eyelashes frosted over with snow, my cheeks red and my eyes glowed. What wonderful afternoons! "Come on, Kathy, " I'd call to my best friend, "The pond's frozen over again!"

I remember one particularly brilliant night when I went down to skate by myself just after dinner, around 6 pm. The biting cold sliced through my ski jacket and whistled up my sleeves as I fiddled with the key to unlock the door. Once inside, I felt my way to where the lights were, and flipped on the switch. The 60-watt but gave off little light. I could just see where the small heater sat. I turned that on, and sat down on one of the benches to change into my skates. As I laced up my last skate, a surge of excitement went through me.

Soon, I made my way out of the shed and clunked down the snowy incline that bordered the pond. Soon, I glided in the fresh, night air. The pond had been shoved earlier, and the streetlights shone on the ice. I avoided the bumps, but skated easily on the smoother ice. I think I can skate backwards...lemme try a figure eight. I practiced doing this for awhile.

The pond became an Olympic arena and I was Dorothy Hamill. I arched my neck, held my head high and my arms out, propelling me effortlessly along the ice. I leaned down until I almost touched the ice with my chin. Then I straightened up and with long, firm strides, circled the pond. My (invisible) awestruck audience clapped wildly, which spurred me on to attempt a jump--of course, a half-circle twirl--which, unfortunately landed me with a painful bang on my behind.

The audience faded away and the music disappeared. I was just Amy,a sixteen-year-old skater, in the evening light. So what? Even the best fall, right? I picked myself up and marveled at my ability to maneuver on blades. I loved skating backwards. So effortless. I felt so free and alive!

An hour later, the cold crept through my various layers of clothing, snuck into the joints of my gloved hand and settled down into my toes. Time to get off the ice. I changed out of my skates, shut off the lights and heater, and then carefully locked the door. With my white skates slung over my shoulder, I crunched thoughtfully back up the crusty, snow-covered road that led home. I savored the delicious feeling that came over me whenever I finished skating.

Ahhh... Now to get out of my snow-covered blue jeans and drink a cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows. I'm so glad that I live just over the hill from the pond.

Looking back, I don't think that night could have been any more perfect!

Writing from Amy's Wood Loft ...

A Belated Introduction

Beams and Blindness

Developing a Runner's Endurance

Leaving a dust trail to my online dating experiences!

Words Define and Guide Us Revision

Millions of Blessings

In Search for Jaruwan Khattiya

A Pile of Rocks

It's The Same World

Why do we allow discouragement?

Words define and guide us

- Chet Smalley, Blindness and mobility specialist, Erie, PA.

"Change your baby's diaper, please!"

Building a People of Faith

Plans to Prosper You...

Exciting Future Ahead!

11 For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11

Thanksgiving of My Soul (Short Story)

Whetting the Creative Juices

A Quiet Life Realization

God's Winter-Warmth

Elmo, Dad's Sidekick

Tenuous Ties

Tiled Walkways of Sapphire

Don Bovaird of Girard Alliance has passion for game of basketball

Upcoming Book Publication

A Feast for the Senses

Dad's Winter Projects

Bummed by a Baggie

Mulberry Blessings

A Precious Life

Faith Aligns Our Treasures

Lord, I Seek Your Voice

Dreaded Drop Route Day

The Dreaded Drop Route, Particulars

Taking on the Bistro

Street Smarts

Surprise Birthday Mayhem!

The ABC’s of the NBC Class

A Buck Steals into the Night

“Ake-mashite Omedetou Gozaimasu”

A Fresh Look at Winter

Deeper Spiritual Journey

Peace ... Ours for the Taking...

The Candlelight Service

My Perfect Skating Partner

Ice Skater's Delight

¹¹ For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11