A Man in His Element

What an incredible Labor Day weekend! We spent three days at my father and step-mother’s farm along with a great many cousins, aunts and friends.

It is a beautiful place—rolling hills, green pastures and vast sky. The farm is quiet and easy.

The front porch greets you. The cushions on the rocking chairs are well-worn, and there are extra lawn chairs in the garage. In the early mornings, steam rises from the many unmatched coffee cups. The odor of manure, hay, must and dirt tingle in your nostrils; you inhale other scents too—the sweat of horses, saddle leather, clean air and hot sunshine. The pastures bustle with machinery: tractors, hay mowers and ATVs. The barn is filled with the workings of horses: saddles, bridles, reins, but mostly the farm is alive with people.

I am drawn to this little farm. I love it most because of my family; the people who gather there create a wild and friendly clamor.

We arrived on Friday to hard, loving hugs. The rest of the evening was filled with eating, learning, riding and laughing. We stayed up late—my daughters slept in the loft of the barn with the horses, in all their smelly glory, below them. My cousin decided it would be fun to scare these girls in their lofty habitat and donned a hideous rubber mask. He tried to move stealthily through the yard to the barn, but was ambushed by all the younger kids.

Later we went to bed and my father and step-mother were talking with all the family still congregated on the front porch. Suddenly there was silence. All you could hear was the whir of the ceiling fan and the faint chirp of the crickets and insects. Steve laughed and said, “The king and queen must have gone to bed.”

We witnessed this truth all weekend. My father and step-mother’s presence permeated every place on the farm. Steve and I discussed and contemplated this truth. What do you do to become so respected and so loved and so honored?

Several situations occurred during the weekend that fleshed out the characteristics that make my dad and his wife the king and queen.

Hard work

Dependable consistency

Blunt honesty

Unpretentious realness

Strong love.

On Saturday morning Johnny shoed the horses. He wore smooth leather leggings with pockets for the tools of his trade; his voice was low, but firm. The clang of the hammer on the anvil and the shoes pierced the din. Bo, my father’s oldest horse, stood placidly allowing the farrier to clip and file his worn hooves. Dad held his lead rope and rubbed his forehead while Johnny worked. Johnny and my dad worked easily together; there was an element of trust and respect between them.

Near the barn, on its side, was the enormous tin can—the roaster that held the spit. You could hear the grating noise of the shovel against the charcoal in the roaster (this year goat was on the spit). Fathers’ voices shouted out giving instruction or correction to all the rambunctious little boys. You could hear the pop of the tabs when someone opened a can to quench their thirst. And above it all was laughter. Lots and lots of laughter.

Everyone was working on a task—doing something to be ready for the crowd due to arrive later in the day; the pace was easy and slow, not lazy. No, there was way too much work for there to be laziness. Everyone (especially my dad and step-mother) worked hard right up until it was time to eat.

I was in the kitchen and Dad came in shaking his head, “Those boys are lost; I have to go help.” I was confused at first. The little boys were lost? My heart jerked; seventy acres was a lot of ground to cover. Then I realized Dad was referring to my cousins—boys in their forties. The goats were not rotating on the spit correctly. Thirty minutes later, Dad had the spit turning.

The little boys were riding horses in the round pen. Being little boys they were showing off and attempting to do far more than they were capable of (sounds like the big boys too). They were giving many jumbled signals to their mounts, Mandy and Bo. The poor horses were getting quite confused. At one point the horses stood in the pen and would not move. Dad grabbed the horses’ halters so he could talk to the boys—explaining riding rules once again. Then Dad spoke to the horses and swatted them on their flanks to move them along. The boys, however, were too antsy and excited to do what they had just been told.

Dad tolerated this for only a little while. Then he spoke, “You’re done. Time to get off. Bring them in.” The boys looked at him and for a split second they considered arguing. They quickly changed their minds; my father’s tone brooked no argument.

I was near the round pen watching my daughters learn to ride when another problem happened.

My younger brother pulled up on an ATV and informed Dad that there was a situation in the lower field.

The boys (the forty year old ones) were in the bottom field raking and bailing hay, and something had happened to the tracker and the bailer. Dad assessed the situation in the round pen and said, “I have to go see what is going on.” He hopped on an ATV and rode to the lower field. Later he returned; the situation was under control.

On our last night on the farm we watched the most incredible fireworks display. Then a corn-hole tournament commenced with lots of raucous laughter, gibing and bragging. My dad was sitting on a picnic table bench watching everyone. My step-mother came to him and sat in his lap. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his chin in her shoulder. This man with his rough,calloused hands and often silent demeanor was so gentle and affectionate towards her. Romantic in the truest sense of the word. There was a visible intimacy born of shared experiences and life done together—side by side for over thirty years.

Obviously I watched my Dad a great deal this past weekend—he is attuned to a rhythm and cadence of a life that is almost disappearing. He isn’t quite a cowboy even though he wears a hat to keep the sun off his tender ears, he isn’t quite a farmer because he doesn’t have a yearly crop to sell at market, he isn’t quite a lawman (like Wyatt Earp—his favorite), but his word is law.

My dad would be the very first to tell you he is not perfect.

He is, however, a man in his element.

Comfortable in his skin.

At home in himself.

At peace with who he is.

Spoil It You Will

Steve, my husband, has been reading The Chronicles of Prydain by Lloyd Alexander. (I think he feels a bit coerced into doing so because of Abby and me.) And knowing that he is reading words I have read many, many times causes me to remember a scene from Taran Wanderer.

Taran has been traveling—journeying to find himself. To see who he is. He knows not his parentage, his lineage or his heritage.

During his journey, he was trained by the artisans and craftsmen of the Free Commots. He learned to forge steel with a blacksmith, learned to weave cloth with a weaver and he learned to throw pottery with a clay shaper. He mastered all of the skills except the potter’s wheel. And this is the one skill he longed to master more than all the others, but alas, it was not meant to be.

Taran was disheartened.

Broken.

There are times I feel like Taran. I see something I want to do or be more than anything. I work and strive and lament because it just doesn’t seem to flesh out as I think it should.

What a quandary: wanting to be able to do something so well (teaching, writing, studying, loving, mothering, friending, creating), wanting to be able to use a tool so efficiently and precisely and artistically; yet, what I have longed to do doesn’t seem to have the effect I desire. Sadly I become hesitant and unsure of myself—filled with doubt and anxiety concerning my skill and gifts. I find myself so concerned and afraid that I will spoil the endeavor that sometimes I don’t do anything at all.

Annlaw Clayshaper addresses this very issue with Taran. He encouraged Taran to finish shaping the half-formed clay vessel on the wheel. Annlaw tells him to sit down and shape the clay for himself, but Taran protests and says he will spoil Annlaw’s creation.

The potter laughs and says, “Spoil it you will, surely. I’ll toss it back into the kneading trough, mix it with the other clay, and sooner or later it will serve again. It will not be lost. Indeed, nothing ever is, but comes back in one shape or another.”

This is the whispering I am hearing from the Spirit these days; I keep getting the Holy Spirit nudge (as our pastor describes it). And I find myself hesitating—protesting that I am going to spoil it.

And my Potter, mine, chuckles at me too.

“Ah, Tamera, spoil it you will. Surely. But I will toss it back into the kneading trough, mix it with the other clay, and sooner or later it will serve again. It will not be lost. Indeed, nothing ever is…because I work all things to the good of those who love me and are called according to my purpose. I can and will redeem what you spoil and what the locusts have eaten.”

Spoil it I will.

But just because I might spoil it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try.

I experience spiritual amnesia often. I forget that every time I listen and heed the Spirit’s nudge, every time I attempt something that requires faith, my “skill and craftsmanship” are increased—even if it is a poorly shaped clay vessel that must be tossed back into the clay trough; nothing has been wasted. I will have learned what not to do. I will have felt the clay in my hands. I will have invested time and effort.

The hesitation comes because the Spirit asks me to do something and I am very afraid I will spoil it; but it also comes because I am afraid my efforts will be compared to someone else’s and will be found lacking.
Ha, spoil it I will.

Lacking? Most likely.

Once I understand this, once I accept this—then, ah then, I can get over myself.

Spoiling doesn't negate the usability. Even if my efforts have to be thrown back into the kneading trough they can still be used. They will come back in one form or another—they will not be lost.

My efforts will be redeemed and used because I hand them over and say, “This is all I have. This is all my skill, this is all my ability, and this is all I have.”

Then my Potter will smile and chuckle and throw the clay back on the wheel.

No Particular Order II

A couple of years ago I followed the leading of my oldest daughter and published a list of things I wanted to do or accomplish. I have reread my list several times lately. Pondering, wondering and wandering. I am re-listing.

Here is the new list in No Particular Order.

Continue to hold hands
Sleep on a beach
Be a tool of healing
Continue to laugh—deeper and deeper
Run on the Cliffs of Mohr
Continue to speak my second language fluently
Walk three miles a day again
Ride a horse with confidence
Pray at the Wailing Wall
Hold and kiss my grandchildren (someday)
Tell the truth
Pray unceasingly
Spend the night in a castle
Publish a book—a good book
Be real
Create more art
Be transparent
Love my husband—more
Pick strawberries
Touch someone
Go on a pilgrimage with a few
Walk a prayer labyrinth
Practice righteousness
Stay in a lighthouse
See the Pacific Ocean
Take risks
Spend a whole day in utter silence
Cry at my daughters’ weddings
Study more
Make a difference
Avoid staleness and stagnancy
Love my neighbor
Sleep in a tent
Teach, teach, teach
Live life with my dearest friends
Be more consistent
Walk on the edge
Guard the shepherd’s back

Ancient Mother

An afternoon stroll
Walking, meandering
Spiraling inward.

A silent pull
Centering, pivoting
A woman’s curiosity.

Tree of Life
Welcoming, expanding
Fruit to feed immortality.

Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil
Prohibiting, restricting
Forbidden fruit—Elohim’s stipulation.

Out of the foliage
Slithering, sliding
Draped in glittering, scaly skin.

His target—a direct creation
Fashioned, sculpted
The last stroke of Elohim’s handiwork.

Former bright, shining one of the Hosts
Coaxing, enticing
Aware she could maneuver places he could not.

The subtle and deadly assault begins
Spitting doubts, hissing lies
He tempts the influential one.

The fork-tongued serpent contests
Wending, winding
Vaporous poison is emitted.

The helpmeet is restless
shifting, veering
She examines the fruit.

“Did Elohim really say?”


The Genesis writer is an incredible storyteller and has caught us in the plot now. The writer informs us the woman saw that the fruit was good.

Good for three reasons:

She (remember she has not been named yet) sees that this fruit is good for food. Of course it was. God proclaimed all things good at the end of his Creation. It wasn’t the fruit that was evil. However, just because something seems good for food and is edible does not mean we should ingest it.

She sees that this fruit (probably not the traditional apple) is lovely to behold. Unblemished. Aesthetically pleasing. We are drawn to all things beautiful—we long for things that have the stamp of purity and loveliness about them. But not everything is as it seems to the eye.

She saw (inferred, discerned) that the fruit was good for gaining wisdom. Her intellect was stirred and her curiosity heightened. But gaining wisdom is a far cry from “being like God”.

She began to covet. She began to want what she thought she could not have. She began to desire the forbidden.

And the mental dance commenced.

What was the Lord God hiding? What was he withholding? What had he been denying Adam and her? Why was God forbidding them to eat good, lovely, and stimulating fruit?

The snake begins to writhe; the subtlety turns to accusation. He is twisting the truth of God. He is baiting the trap. He wants the woman snared quickly, long before the cool of the day.

“You will not die. You will simply become like God,” he hissed.

The serpent told a warped version of the truth.

The woman is beguiled.

Deceived.

She seizes the opportunity. She thinks only of gain and covets to be like Lord-God; however, we must remember she was already like Him. She had been made in his image.

She eats.

And she turns to Adam and persuades him to take a bite.

What would our Ancient Mother say to us now?
If she could speak to us—what would she advise?

On this side of the garden, this side of history, what would she counsel?

She has received some hard repercussions through history. She has been blamed, accused, avoided, scorned, reviled and hated.

But she is our mother. When Adam named her (after the Fall), he named her Eve—Mother of all Living.

We are her living.

As our mother she has lessons for us to learn from her poor choices. She has principles for us to glean from her undiscerning decisions.

She would want us to pay attention regardless of our ages or the seasons of our lives.

Why?

Our mother lost many things that fateful day:

Her innocence. She experienced shame.

Her influence. Rarely would Adam heed her counsel now.

Her relationships. Fault lines, canyons and mountains now existed in her relationships.

Her immortality. Death was now inevitable. .

The serpent still slithers.

The methods and weapons he used in the garden are still in his arsenal today, and he has had thousands upon thousands of years to hone them.

Our Ancient Mother is whispering, “Don’t be deceived, my children.”

Transparency

Heavenly Father,

Flood our shadowed souls with your brilliant light.

Today may we begin to understand that you call us to be a transparent people.

Unmasked and unveiled.

You do not call us to exploit and exhibit every detail of our lives. You call us to disclose and show them to you.

When we bring our dark details before you,
when our shadows are opened to you,
when they are admitted into your presence you dispel the darkness.

Transparency begins with you. No matter what we bring to you, your love and faithfulness never changes. With and through you we gain the security and confidence to be transparent with others. When our security is rooted in your abounding, grace-filled love we can begin to be who we really are. We begin to live out our purpose because you have seen us and loved us.

Enable us, Father, to be courageous enough to face our shadows. When we try to hide we create more darkness. We put up blinds and curtains in an attempt to close out others. We don't want them to see our shadows. In doing this we block out part of the light. Then we have to try and create light inside. We turn on lamps and light candles--but they are never quite enough. They never produce the kind of light that floods in when we bare our windows--pull back the curtains and raise the blinds.

It is our nature now to hide. We have been hiding since the Garden of Eden--following Adam and Eve's example. Hiding because we are exposed and ashamed. We attempt to cover ourselves. We attempt to cover our shame.

Our attempts are inadequate.

Like Adam and Eve you call out to us. You ask us to come out of hiding into the light. You did not leave Adam and Eve naked. You did not leave them with their shame uncovered. No, you covered them. You enveloped them in the garments of grace.

Transparency is not revealing everything to everyone. Transparency is coming out of hiding and allowing You to cover and clothe our naked shame.

You will call us out of hiding. You will ask us to come out of the shadows. To stand exposed for a brief moment before you. Then you will cover us.

Help us, God. We are afraid. We are frightened of transparency. We are afraid of disclosure. We are afraid of removing our masks. We are afraid of being unveiled. We don't want others to see us naked. But that is not what you ask of us. Only before you must we stand naked.

Unveil us, Almighty God. then clothe us with the garments of your grace so that we might go out among others who are hurting and ashamed. Cover us, so we might bring others to you to be clothed and covered.

Unmask us, Heavenly Father. Make us transparent. Give us the strength and courage to open our blinds and curtains so others might see what you are doing in us and be encouraged.

And in our transparency may you be glorified and lifted high for all to see.

Amen and amen.

Blind Spot

“It’s a test.”

My co-worker’s eyebrows lifted with utter assurance when she said this statement to me. Later I thought of watching television as a child. Always on Saturday morning in the middle of Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids the TV screen would change and a man’s nasally voice would state, “This is a test. This is a test of the Emergency Broadcast System. This is only a test.”

On June 1st my daughter traveled across the equator. She traveled a distance of over 5,000 miles to serve for almost two months in a Hospital of Hope near Cochabamba, Bolivia. During those two months we communicated a couple of times a week through Skype, Facebook and Gmail. During the entire length of her stay I rarely ever worried or was concerned about her safety. (Though I learned later there was reason to be.)

At noon this past Sunday she was scheduled to fly out of Bolivia and arrive in Kentucky in the early afternoon on Monday. After Saturday morning all communication was gone.

On Sunday I began to think about all of her connections and layovers. Every time slot was crucial. If she missed one connector then she would miss another one. I thought that most likely she was traveling alone. And her phone was turned off.

Monday morning my heart was uneasy. Scenarios began to parade around in my head. I was concerned. I talked with her father (he was going to pick her up at the airport); I asked him to contact me as soon as he touched her. I was teaching a creative writing class and kept my phone close to me—with the volume turned as loud as possible.

Friends were praying.

This is when my co-worker said, “It’s a test.”

My mind was a frantic mess. One minute I was calm, reasonable and logical. The next I was fretting. Every time I was anxious I attempted to immediately let her go back into the hands of the Father. My daughter belonged to him. I kept trying to remind myself of this truth.

I had entered a blind spot.

I couldn’t see or hear Katherine.

Twenty-four hours of silence.

I didn’t know whether she had made her connectors or how long her layovers were.

My phone rang during class—ten minutes before her flight was due to land—her father said, “I have her!”

“How does she look?” I asked.

“Beautiful!”

I stopped in the middle of my class and took a few moments of silence. I needed to pray and thank my Father.

Later that night we were all sitting around a table on the porch listening to Katherine’s stories. She began to tell us about everything that happened when she left Bolivia. (Remember my concerns from earlier in the day.)

She went to church; she planned to leave quietly from there to catch her first flight. When she got up to leave the congregation realized she was leaving for the United States. They dismissed church and most of them went with her to the airport. A tradition had been started earlier in the summer—the remaining volunteers would go to the airport to see the others off and to pray for their return trip. When the group circled to pray for Katherine the entire airport lobby was filled.

And she had another volunteer traveling with her for part of the trip.

When they got to their next connection, two missionary families met them at the airport. They ate lunch together and stayed with the girls for the entire duration of the layover including the two hour delay! At last she boarded the plane for Miami and was able to make her connector for home despite the two hour delay.

While Katherine was sharing, I began to cry.

All I could hear was the Lord’s voice:

Tamera, I am in control. Nothing is beyond me. I took care of Katherine—better than you even imagined. You must learn to trust me in the blind spots. Trust me with the places you can’t see. Trust me when you are thrust into the darkness and your vision is gone and your hearing is impaired. Know that I am good and faithful. Let this experience be a reminder for you to trust me.

This was a test.

Only a test.

William

For we walk by faith, not by sight. II Corinthians 5:7

Jesus said, “When he [the shepherd] has brought out all his own, he goes on ahead of them, and his sheep follow him because they know his voice. John 10:4

Recently William came to see me.

I glanced up as he was approaching the counter.

“Hey, William!”

“Hello, Tamera. How are you today?” he responded quickly. (I broke into a smile; he is one of my favorites.)

We chatted for a couple more minutes. He and his wife wished me a great day. As he walked away I was very aware I had just experienced something quite extraordinary.

William cannot see. Glasses do not aid him. Laser surgery will not help him. There is no cure.

William is blind.

William recognizes me by my voice. I only have to speak a few words, and he discerns who I am. Even though I am invisible to him, he knows me. He has memorized the sound of my voice. He knows its accent, dialect, and its cadence. Often he will even recognize my voice on the phone.

Sadly, William is blind. Someday he shall see, but in this here and in this now he is blind.

William, however, has honed his other senses. His hearing is acute, keen, sensitive, and very discerning.

It has to be.

Sometimes William will walk places alone—with only his cane and his shadowy, murky vision to aid him. He can do this because his hearing has been honed. He hears what most of us miss. He hears the layers of sound and the meshed symphony of noise and is able to quickly discern and select what he needs to hear.

William is only concerned about the immediate space around him—the reach of his cane. In the radius of his cane he listens and discerns voices, activities, instructions, dangers, warnings and greetings. He registers sounds far beyond him, but he doesn't attempt to navigate the corner that is twenty feet ahead of him. William takes one step at a time.

For now, in this world, I am blind. My Father is invisible to me. I cannot see his form; I cannot see his figure.

But I can hear his voice. I can recognize and select his voice from the chaos and din around me. It is possible.

William has learned to walk by faith.

I want to be like William.

Mercies

Good Morning.

Thank you, Father, that your mercies are new every morning.

They are inexhaustible.
They are fresh.
They do not have to be portioned or rationed.

Your mercies are like the little boy's fish and loaves. There will be some left over when everyone is full.

Your mercies extend to the cracks, niches, and corners of me that I have forgotten.

Your mercies are not dependent on me. Glory!

Your mercies penetrate the cemented parts of my heart.

Your mercies are like oil poured out and it moves along the rivets and ruts of me and softens as it runs.

I am anointed by your mercy.

I am a recipient this morning of your unending, unfathomable mercies.

I don't understand this kind of mercy.

Thank you.

Even now I can feel them soaking into the crusty edges of my attitude.
Even now I can feel your mercies anointing my weakened heart.
Even now I can feel your mercies soothing the rough places of my soul.

I need to go and gather my baskets.
There will be leftovers today.

ButI won't need them.

You will send me fresh mercies in the morning.

Phenomenal Women

Phenomenal Women

What a summer!

On June 1st my second daughter traveled over 5500 miles to Bolivia. She is spending her summer working in a Hospital of Hope. This morning my oldest daughter flew to a major city to work in inner city missions work through the July 4th weekend. And Monday my two youngest daughters will travel to my Alma Mater for a week-long teen convention.

My daughters. I have written about them before; I have talked about them frequently. They are incredible women. Actually they are phenomenal women.

Recently I discovered Maya Angelou’s piece Phenomenal Woman. Then shortly after I stumbled across a random CD of Ruthie Foster. Foster recorded Maya’s poetry as a song, and it has played quite loudly in my car many times since. (Luckily when I sing the car is empty!) I saw and heard my daughters in its voice.

(If you would like to read the poem, follow this link: www.poemhunter.com/poem/phenomenal-woman/ )

My heavenly Father has transformed, conformed, and formed incredibly phenomenal women in my four daughters. I see his handiwork and fingerprints all over them and it expands my heart. They are such wonderful, lovely and gracious blends of their father and me—but, and even more, they are all unique.

Phenomenal is defined as something or someone who is highly extraordinary. Very early on the girls’ father and I strove (and still do) to instill independence and strength and compassion in our daughters (there are times when I laugh and think we might be guilty of overkill).

We wanted them to be phenomenal—extraordinary.

Maya speaks of the “inner mystery of a woman and that it is to be found in the arch of her back, the sun of her smile, the grace of her style, the fire of her eyes, and the flash of her teeth.”

So today I was thinking about my daughters. And on the back of my eyelids, clips and movies were rolling—power points of each of them. For a split second I could see the sun of Anna’s smile, the flash of Katherine’s teeth, the fire of Abby’s eyes, the arch of Olivia’s back.

I am blessed. Utterly blessed.

This week, Katherine will pull a Bolivian child into her arms and make him not only smile, but laugh. And she will splint a broken leg with cardboard. This week, Anna will hand food to a homeless woman and look her in the eye. And Anna will never forget her face. This week Olivia and Abby will attend a conference, but more importantly they will participate and be involved in a community. They will laugh, cry, encourage, and pray with this community and begin to learn what it means to be an integral part of God’s Body.

And Momma?

Momma will pray.

Assembly

Gather your people,
Oh, Almighty God.
Assemble your Body,
Oh, Mighty King.

Please speak to us:
Extend your invitation throughout the expanse of our land
and to the edge of its borders.
Let the winds be your messengers
and draw your people—
And let us have ears to hear.

You have summoned us by name.
Calling and rousing us from afar—
our terrestrial, spiritual, and emotional positions
have not hindered or impeded you.

We have been named the called out ones.
Call us out, O God,
And gather us together to become the assembly of the saints—

We can feel the rise and draw of your Spirit.

You are settling us according to your purpose.
You are arranging us according to the gifts you allotted.
You are placing us on the invisible battlefields of your choosing.
You are positioning us in obscure arenas.
You are establishing us in seemingly insignificant theatres.

We wait with Christ’s Ecclesia for your instructions.
We are at attention.
We stand at ready.

While we wait:
Raise in us a revived spirit of worship.
Instill in us a renewed mind of unity.
Tender in us a refreshed heart of teachableness.

Assemble us and transform your Body, Oh Lord!


Psalm 149:1 (NIV)

Say What You Need to Say

I went to bed and woke up with this deep sense of urgency to write—this longing and yearning to translate the inner language of my soul. Yet I know not where to begin.

I tell my students that the writing well must be primed. Sometimes you have to stand and pump the handle many times before the water begins to trickle from the spigot. Yesterday, I told the class you must write every day in order to keep your writing muscles strong and toned. (I am mixing metaphors, sorry). I haven’t followed my own instructions, and my muscles have weakened. It doesn’t take long for them to atrophy or for the pump handle to become rusty.

In class a student shared that he had a hundred ideas about what to write, but didn’t know where to begin. I am not sure where to begin either. I have made notes for months, but the stories have remained unwritten. Ideas have floated without anchors; they have waited patiently to be moored on the screen.

I must simply prime the pump.

One day at work one of our lovely, regular patrons came in to pick up her books. She stood and chatted with us, and I noticed a locket she was wearing. It was a large gold locket just a little bigger than a silver dollar. The locket was inscribed, but the printing was far too small to be just simply a date or a mere sentiment.

I asked questions.

The locket was a gift from her husband. He had recently passed away, and I was afraid I was invading a sensitive place, but she kept sharing. Her husband had written her a love letter, and to ensure its preservation he had it engraved on this locket that she now wore around her neck.

As she shared her story she held the locket in her hand and rubbed her thumb over its front and back—a gesture, I am sure, she wasn’t aware of and repeated often.

She smiled and said, “We were married for 52 years, and I enjoyed every minute of it. I miss him terribly.” There was no self-pity, no despondency, and no regret in her voice. Just matter-of-fact statements. She picked up her bag of reading materials and walked away.

I was left in tears.

How often do we voice our love to those we hold the closest and dearest? How often do we take the time to ensure that they will know this even if we are gone? What measures do we take to make sure they have some token, some symbol, and some memento so that they might remember?

This precious lady was so pleased to share her story, and in sharing she kept her own memories alive. In telling me the story of her locket she was able to relive and remember all the circumstances and events surrounding this gift.

I am hoping that for a brief moment she felt him near. Perhaps for a small increment of time she was able to see him and hear his voice reading the words etched on the face of the disk she wore around her neck.

I have the feeling the words were not eloquent—I am sure they were not Shakespearian or Browning sonnets, but they were his words and his declaration of love for her.

Often we don’t say something to someone for fear of our words being inadequate or concern for their lack of eloquency. We hesitate because we don’t want to be misunderstood or we are concerned we won’t be understood at all. These are not adequate or acceptable reasons for silence.

The heart has a way of learning how to translate and interpret.

This precious woman had translated her husband’s words. They have been a solace and a balm in his absence.

John Mayer sings, “Say what you need to say.”

As I held that locket in my hand—I realized this wonderful woman’s husband had said what he needed to say.