The children were in bed, and I sat alone in front of the fireplace in the family room of my parent's home.  It had only been a few short months since Eddie's arrest, and though we were now safe, our world still spun out of control.  I watched as the flames reduced the logs to ash, and I wept.  "My life is just like that log, Lord.  It's been destroyed and I have nothing left to offer You but ugly ashes."  I read a beautiful passage in my Bible from Isaiah 61, then picking up my pen and journal, I poured out my heart to God in the following prayer:

I hurt.
You told me that you care.
&quo t;What can I do?" you asked.
Let me tell you.
Listen.
Link action with your words.
Hug my neck, hold me tight.
Call me, come and see me.
Let me share, look me in the eye.
I need to talk, and cry, and hurt.
I need to do those things.
Let me.

Don't look at me with shock, 
And condemnation.
I feel those things already.
Remember that healing takes time.
If you can't see immediate results,
Don't assume that I love my grief,
Or that I'm just feeling sorry for myself.

Affirm me
I need you, I need to believe in me. 
Tell me that I have worth.
Tell me again and again!

Tell me that the sun will shine once more.
Encourag e me to hope.
Let me be human.
When I fall, don't walk on me.
Pick me up, carry me if you must.

Little things mean a lot-
A fresh baked cookie, a bottle of bath oil, 
A hug, a card, a&nbs p;call.
Anything.
Anything to let me know that you know
I exist.

Don't pretend that I can handle it alone.
It's okay that you don't know what to say or do,
Neither do I.
I have never walked this way before.
Just don't stop trying, please.

Help me to walk again;
To be whole once more,
And when I am,
I will touch another with that same love.

Perhaps someday you will need me -
And I will come to you,
As you came to me.

- Ronda Knuth

Dear Paul, Diana, Andy and Ben,

It’s not always easy being a mom.  First, you birth them, then you bathe them, then you teach them right from wrong.  No matter how hard you try, with all that you do right, you're bound to do some things wrong.  You gently guide, praying that your mistakes will be minimal, and their understanding large.

Yours&am p;nbsp;is a sacred charge to keep: share wisely, nurture gently, discipline carefully, mentor gracefully.  Sometimes the living out is filled with joy, sometimes with pain, often it is a knotting of the two.  As long as you are mother, you carry the call in your heart.

Motherin g is a noble, sometimes thankless task, worthy of nothing less than the best. Constant motion, diligent care, eyes in the back of your head. There are no vacations or extended sabbaticals, it’s twenty-four-seven, three-hundred-sixty-five, winter, spring, summer and fall, ‘til death do us part.

You& nbsp;labor long and hard working in the mulch of experience, the muck of pain, constantly sifting the loam of their lives.  Mothers sow seed with care, the future in mind. Tiny sprouts peek their heads through the soil, and you find yourself stepping carefully lest you trample them underfoot. You pluck with vengeance, not always certain if what you holds is an auspicious flower or a stubborn weed.  Still, you have to try.  If permitted to remain, the weeds of discontent, bitterness, rebellion, and hate will choke out the life you have cultivated with care.  Even after the garden is tidied, you remain with heedful eye, hoe in hand, daring any weeds to return.

Nurturin g and plucking are only part of your mothering duties.  Protecting your small garden is necessary as well.  Day after day, you build first one mile and then another of solid boundaries - keeping out the bad, protecting the good. “You may watch that. “ “No, you cannot go there. “ “Yes, that's a good idea, go for it.” It is a never-ending act of balance.

A nursing breast, dry bottom, a lullaby are gentle rays of sunlight at the dawn of her babies days.  The sun rises and she warms their lives in myriad ways: a fresh-baked cookie, an out-loud giggle, a tight “you matter” hug, a whispered, “I believe in you.“  Happy memories blend with the bad, and write the story of their lives.  If left up to you, there would only be sunshine.  You want that there will only be blue skies, and gentle winds.  But, it will not always be so.

The dark clouds will come, reducing your sunshine to a distant journal entry written on the pages of their hearts.  The lightening will crash, the thunder will clap and your precious plantings will bend in the ferocious wind.  They will cover their heads from the pounding rain and cry.  You will be at their side, absorbing the storm with them, trying your best to shield.  Deep in your heart you will sorrow.

Yes, you want to protect, yet you must not always do so.  The question is how and when. The elements, though fierce, can build strong, hardy roots; they can also destroy.  The dilemma of motherhood becomes, “What if I protect when I should expose; expose when I should protect?”  You will not always choose what is right, but you will try.  You know it is best that they face the storm while under your loving care.  They hurt; you hurt.  Sometimes you are strong, sometimes weary and confused.

The water from the storm adds moisture to their soil, and when the sun shines again there will be new growth, maturity, and stability.  The rain is not the only source of wetness. There are times, in the dark night hours, when you will gently water with the tears of your soul, and most times they won‘t even know.

No, it is not always easy being a mom.  You hope that their feet will stay on the right path.  You have stood at the ’Y’ in the road, and you know that it is not always easy to discern the right way.  One path leads to pain and sorrow, the other to life and fulfillment.  You have not always chosen the right way; you do not want that for them.  Voices clamor for their attention, and you pray their ears will be deaf to the bad, keenly tuned to the good.  Still, there are those who wander, and you pray that soon,  God please let it be soon, they will turn their hearts toward home.

With the passing of the years, you gain added perspective.  No matter how well you have parented you will discover that it has been less than perfect.  With the realization will come gut-wrenching pain and the sorrow of regrets.  There will be tears for angry words, foolish misunderstandings, missed opportunities, choices that proved wrong.  You never wish for a time when yourr children will take a stand against you.  You want that always they will stand together against the world.  To be caught in the middle between those you love is a lonely place to be.

Some of the principles you hold dear will be tossed carelessly to the wind.  You will sorrow that they do not, cannot, understand.  There will be conflict and sorrow when heart-beliefs collide, and you will be left wondering and unsure, “Was I really wrong?”  You will remember a time when they just wanted to be understood, and you will find yourself wishing for the same.

A mom cannot always explain the trepidations of her heart, or the ache when one of hers exclaims, “You’re out of touch!” when really you are not.  “You don’t understand!" when really you do.  You know things with your mother heart you cannot find words to express.  They may interpret your silence as uncaring.  It is not.  It is sorrow, frustration, sometimes shame.

Even if they weather the storm, pruning is just around the corner.  More often than not you hold the sharpened shears.  To allow them to grow at will, requires no effort at all.  It is the pruning that shapes and prepares them for tomorrow.  Knowing thus, you tenderly wound, anxious for a harvest of bountiful fruit, apples of gold, framed against the backdrop of your devotion.

First steps, skinned knees, junior high, broken romances, job, college, marriage, babies . . . on and on it goes.  In the beginning your words are plenty, tender, tough.  With the passing of time, they are fewer; you've said all that you can say and life becomes the primary teacher.

&ldq uo;Momma-knowing” comes with experience; it is not part of the start-up package.  When you were a young mother, you had energy but not always wisdom. And, when are iold, your vigor will lessen, but your understanding will be large.  You learn to pick and choose your battles knowing that some things matter very little, others very much.

One day they will think you old and silly, probably long before you actually are.  They talk, you know they do, and you wonder, when you are weighed in the balance, if the scales will tip toward gracious, good, and kind.  If it does not, you hope they will be merciful.

Sometime s they understand the beating of your mother heart; most times, they do not.  Your trepidations they call needless worry; your concern, meddling; tears, manipulation; ideology, idiocy.  When you curb their independence and they say, “But, I am grown!” only youe will understand the aching in your breast.

How do I know these things?  I know them because I am your mom.

I have lived my life with my arms stretched toward tomorrow, and I have lived my life wanting to hold my children in today.  I have not always done well in giving you wings.  I wish that I could have you as you are now, and yet as you were then.  It was easy when you were babies, you did not question or struggle, you simply rested in my love.  And, when you were toddlers, I was you hero, and the sunshine of your lives.  As children you reached for independence, still you wanted me when you skinned a knee, or life did not make sense.  Your teenage-years were, well . . . teenage-years.  Sometimes we did them well; sometimes we did not.  But never, ever, even once, did I sorrow that you were mine.

Your& ;nbsp;need for me will lessen in the days to come, yet I will continue to be needed.  It is a bittersweet time in life.  I have gotten rather used to the selfless investing of me into you. Each act of kindness, each tender tear, each silent vigil, each restless night has been the dropping of a golden coin into the treasure chest of your years.  You will not know for a very long time that it is full because I have loved you.

I remember when I carried each of you as babes, snuggled safely in my womb.  I swayed with the music of my heart, wrapped my arms around my swollen tummy, and sang you my silly songs.

Each moment of each birth was remarkable, miraculous, painful, worth it.  I would do it all over again for the joy of holding a soft, innocent body close to mine.  I counted fingers and toes, touched silken tufts of hair, and smelled deeply of baby sweetness.  Who knows the number of sleepless nights, colicky walks, tummy aches, and diapers by the dozen?  You were too tiny to know, and I too full of love to care.  I gladly danced the mother dance, shaping the character of your lives with my ardent love, and passionate prayers.

Answers to questions were easy when you were very young, unless of course you count, “Why do we have fingernails on our toes?” and “How do bosquito’s say goodnight?” Your questions became more difficult with the passing of time, and I wished I knew everything.

With the coming of your own babies, there will be fresh understanding.  You will whisper, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, “Now I understand.“ 

Some things I wish they understood today.  Like why I want them close, just because I love them so.

No, it’s not always easy being a mom, but I wouldn't trade it for the world.

And, I would do it all over again just for the joy of having, knowing, loving you. 

Mom (Ronda)

A blustery north wind crooned a haunting melody as it blew relentlessly across the open field. Shivering, Ruth pulled her coarse woolen cloak tautly about her slight frame in an effort to ward off the chill. She wished she’d been blessed with an ample body like her mother; the cold never seemed to trouble her. Dark ominous clouds threatened on the horizon obliterating the light from the harvest moon and casting a pall over the desolate countryside. It was the perfect backdrop for the drama playing itself out on the stage of her broken heart. In the distance she could hear the pitiful bleating of the small lamb and knew the deed had been done. “Oh, God,” she wept wiping furiously at the tears on her cheeks, “Will you also break the leg of my wayward son?”

She would forever remember the day last spring when the wee lamb had come to join their burgeoning flock. Life was hard, and the entrance of this tiny ball of fluff into her life brought unexpected joy to her days. She pressed his playful antics to her heart, delighting in each one. In one short week the lamb had transformed the normally docile chief shepherd into a veritable bundle of nerves. After only three days he had dutifully dubbed his new charge, Mischief. That one needs a shepherd of her own he had complained to Josiah, Ruth’s husband.

The memory brought a gentle smile to her lips. She’d heard the expression “dumb as a wooly lamb” many times - had seen it evidenced repeatedly in their own herd. Chief Shepherd was especially diligent with the flock knowing that if a lamb wandered away, it would never find its way back home on its own. He made certain to lead them beside still waters for they would surely drown in a swiftly moving stream.

Mischief was the exception. rather than being daft, she seemed endowed with genius. Such a clever one she was, often waiting until the shepherd’s back was turned, before quietly disappearing. Now you see her, now you don’t, Chief Shepherd could be heard to mumble before turning on his heel in search of the wayward lamb. The other sheep came when he called, this one feigned deafness.

Last week Mischief had coyly waited until the shepherd stopped to tend a wounded ewe. The moment his back was turned, she vanished. When he found her hours later, her foot was firmly lodged in a crevice between two rocks. She was shivering with cold and desperately hungry from her impromptu fast. Chief Shepherd had chastised himself severely for his carelessness. Tired and angry, he’d flung her firmly over his shoulder, and pled for a truce all the way to the fold, C’mon, Mischief, give me a break. You’re not the only lamb in my care.& lt;/p>

Yesterda y she’d narrowly escaped a ravenous lioness scavenging victuals for her hungry, young brood. He didn’t want to lose Mischief. If his plan worked, she would increase the value of the masters flock seven-fold with her own young one day. They had paid a premium price for her, all of which meant nothing if he could not keep her from an untimely death.

Ruth had inadvertently overheard Chief Shepherd’s conversation with Josiah, “I hate to trouble you, sir, knowing the stress you’ve been under what with your boy leaving and all. But, we’ve got a serious problem.” Josiah had listened with customary patience, and then had instructed the kindly shepherd, “You’ll have to break Mischief’s leg, and then while she heals, carry her under your robe where it is warm. Carry her where she can hear the beating of your heart. Tenderly nurse her, and when the leg has healed, she will have learned to love you. She will never wander again.“

Later, when confronting her husband, Ruth had been furious. Josiah had defended his decision with a gentle reminder, better pain at the hands of a loving shepherd, then pain in the jaws of a hungry predator. She guessed, as she stood looking out into the darkness, that her grief for the little lamb was intensified because Mischief reminded her of her own son - restless, cunning, rebellious. Did her own dear lamb lie, even now, alone, broken and bruised? Anxious lest she wake her sleeping husband, Ruth stifled the sob in her soul. “Come home, my son. Marcus, please come home.”

We don't go there as often as we used to. When we were young, my brothers and I hurried through Saturday morning chores knowing that when our work was done, more often than not, we'd get to go to Taco House.

Tacos, burritos, chalupas, guacamole . . . but "voted family favorite" were the cheese enchiladas. My official transition from childhood to independent womanhood came the day I chose to eat my first bowl of green chili.

When I married and moved to Texas I craved that green chili so much that my folks brought me some on dry ice when they came for a visit. On an extended visit from our home in Norfolk, Virginia, I gave up nursing Diana so I could have green chili without upsetting her tummy. Yup, I took to Green Chili like a duck to water.

Andy lost a pacifier once between the window and a stationary booth at Taco House, and howled in protest when we had to leave it behind. Every one of my children graced a high chair there, then a booster, before being big enough to sit unassisted in a booth. Now I'm working on that process with the grandkids.

Three of my four children honed their work skills waiting tables and washing dishes at Taco House. Their familiarity with the menu and the fact that we were practically family virtually assured them of a position. Ah, yes. I have a mental portfolio chock full of memories from that little restaurant. I go there now as much for the memories as for the food.

One of my favorite memories took place a couple of winters ago, just before Christmas. The temperatures outside were brisk, typical of a Colorado winter. Taco House was decked out in its holiday best - twinkling lights, seasonal greetings on the windows, and the same o'le massive holly wreath on the wall that has hung there since time immemorial.

The restaurant was packed that day. So were our schedules, which explains why Andy and Ben came in one vehicle and I in another. We maneuvered our way through the crowd to an orange booth in the rear and slipped into seats that had long ago stopped cushioning derrieres.

The guys ordered cheese enchiladas without onions and the parts to a number four dinner. I ordered - what else - green chili. While we waited for our meal we caught up on one another's day and sipped iced cold Coca-Cola. Once our food arrived, we devoured it between ongoing chit-chat over what-not. Finally full Andy and Ben readied to go.

&quo t;You sure you'll be all right, Mom, if we go ahead and leave?"

&quo t;Oh, yea. I'll just pay the bill and make a stop by the bathroom. You go on ahead. See you later!"

I paid the bill then coat and purse in hand meandered through the tables to the ladies room. Brrrr it was cold in there. They don't heat that little cubby hole. The only light comes from a bare bulb overhead, and a very tiny window near the single commode. I locked the door and took care to finish my business in record time.

I washed and dried my hands, gathered my purse and coat, and turned to leave. I pulled on the knob and the door held fast. I checked to be sure it was unlocked. It was. Laying my belongings on the sink, I used both hands and pulled a little harder - nothing. Remembering the restaurant burgeoning with patrons, I gently tapped on the door, "Hello??? Anybody there??" Nothing.

I knocked a little louder. "Helllllooooo????? Can you hear me?" Nothing.

Shiverin g as much from cold as escalating panic, I wracked my brain for face-saving measures. I would not make a scene. I WOULD NOT.

Just before launching into full blown alarm, I remembered my cell phone. Be still my heart, help is on the way.

I dialed Rob all the while begging, "Please pick up the phone, please pick up the phone."

Soon the ringing was interrupted by his deep, bass voice, "Hello. This is Rob. How may I help you?"

&quo t;Hi, honey. It's me! I'm Fine. Just fine."

&quo t;Well. I do have one little problem . . . I'm stuck in the bathroom at Taco House."

He chuckled and I relaxed. Being a typical male he launched into fix-it mode.

&quo t;I tired that, Rob. They can't hear me over the noise. . . NO, I'm NOT gonna do that, everybody will hear me. Tried that too. It won't budge. Look, would you mind just calling and asking them to let me out?"

I pushed the off button on the phone, slipped it back into my purse and pressed my ear against the icy door. I waited. He'd have to look up the phone number so this might take awhile. Man, it's getting cold in here. Finally, through the din of voices I heard the phone, ring-ring-ring-ring.

"Hello, Taco House." Pause. "You're kidding!" I distinctly heard laughing.

In a minute, Brian the cook knocked on the door. Being a typical male he launched into fix-it mode. "Pull on it again." I did. Nothing.  "Try turning the knob while you pull on it." I did. The doorknob came off in my hand. By now everyone in the place knows someone's stuck in the bathroom. Pause. "Okay, look there's a window in there, open it up and I'll bring you a screwdriver."

Soon there was a rat-a-tat-tat at the window. I turned the crank, slowly, slowly opening the stubborn old window until my rescuer and I were face-to-face. "Oh, it's you!" he said, "I should just leave you in there." Funny. Very funny.

He pressed the screwdriver into my hand, then instructed me to take the screws out of what was left of the mechanism on the door. I unscrewed them one by one until there was nothing left in the door but a small, round opening. Anchoring my finger firmly in the hole I gave it a tug and the door swung open wide.

Every waitress in the place was outside the door waiting for my timely release. So much for anonymity. Brian was laughing. They were laughing. I gathered my purse, coat and remaining dignity, said my thank-yous and walked red-faced through the horde of curious patrons and out the door.

Thanks to Taco House I've come full circle from a dependent child, to an independent woman, to a dependent woman.   I don't even remember the last time I got to go to Taco House by myself.
Ronda Knuth

Dear Friends and Family:

Next to Colorado, Kentucky must be the closest place to heaven on earth. What a beautiful state! If my family and friends would go with me, I'd move there in a heartbeat.

Asbury College in Wilmore, Kentucky is lovely and quaint. The town is no bigger than a minute. There's a Subway Sandwich shop, a convenience store (with nickel ice-cream bars and pizza) and a country market across from the school. We saw a tiny police station and son Andy wondered if Barney Fife was on duty.

The people were friendly and warm which made it easier for me to leave my middle-son behind.  He'll do fine once he gets past the first few days of homesickness. We missed orientation which made it a little hard to "learn the ropes" but others jumped in to help which was a real blessing. We arrived in a downpour without an umbrella.

Did I mention downpour? Much to my delight (you know how I love the rain) we experienced several. The first storm I remember with clarity. We were just outside WaKeeney, Kansas. One second we were flying down the interstate, the next there was a terrible racket and I looked to see Andy's bicycle peeking in the rear window. It only took a few minutes to get it back on top . . . just enough time for Grandpa and Andy to get thoroughly soaked.

It was a normal trip, except for certain moments which could be defined as distinctive.  I mean on a scale of 1-10, with ten being normal and one being not, we hovered somewhere around 3.5.  We did the typical travel stuff - took naps, drank soda, and talked about a lot of things like our childhood, girls, deceased family members, theology, "bachelor laundry," . . . you get the picture. And, we asked status-quo questions: "Are we there yet? When are we going to eat? Okay who had the keys last? Can we find a bathroom soon?"

Unique to this trip was the frequent repetition which made for many moments of mirth.  We took turns between driving (a coveted position), sitting in the front and sitting in the back. We talked a LOT even though it was hard to hear what the other was saying. Grandma quipped, "Just call us Pete and Re-Pete."

My folks weren't the only ones with questionable hearing.  Andy and I (okay mostly me) found it necessary - on a recurrent basis - to ask, "What did you say?"

There was one time when I was really glad Andy asked. He looked momentarily befuddled then queried, "What did you just say Grandma?"

&quo t;I asked Grandpa if his legs hurt after riding all day."

Andy started laughing and said, "Oh, I thought you asked him if he was a eunuch after riding all day."

On the way back to Colorado, somewhere between Russell and Limon, Grandma accused Grandpa, "You're not listening!!" It was time to activate "The Emergency Finger System." Using the pointer finger only: Up and down meant yes; side-to-side meant no. Mom would ask a question. Dad couldn't hear. I would listen, then wiggle the finger and dad would shake his head accordingly. We had some very creative conversations.

I've been thinking you might be interested to hear that I learned five important lessons on our trip.

1. Time means little on a journey.  Time zones mean less. Who can remember if it's Colorado, Kansas or Kentucky time when your bone-dead tired? The clock is a fuzz, if you can see it at all. There is a better, more reliable indicator to know when to call it a night: when you see Golden Arches where there are none, and trucks which do not exist, it's time.

And, if someone sincerely asks (as they did on OUR trip) why you didn't stop at the Denny's Restaurant we'd just gone by to book a room, it's PAST time. Don't laugh at them. Don't let them behind the wheel either unless you really don't mind sleeping in a booth.

2. In the beginning fatigue will occur primarily in the evening. However, by day four it will be your constant companion. When the waitress looks at you oddly because you just ordered a burger over medium, don't take it personally.

3. Culture shock is inevitable as you venture further south. Knowing that is half the battle.
When the waitress says she's going to get you fresh Ketchup, don't anticipate a tasty, homemade concoction. She simply means that she will be returning with a bottle which has not been opened.

Don't expect the ladies to tag along if you ask, "You guys want to go to Applebee's?" In the south He + She= Y'all. "You guys" refers only to the guys.
Need a suntan? Ask a local. Who needs sand and surf when you've got the back of a pickup truck in a Wal-Mart parking lot? Andy just shook his head and laughed, "I just saw the most red-necked thing. . ." His determination not to poke good-natured fun at southerners lasted until day three, then he threw caution to the wind, "This is too good to pass up!"

4. Expand your horizons. You're going to meet a lot of people; take time to get acquainted. There are many fine folk in the world. Missouri Granny was not one of them.

I met her at a Rest Area. Think of Granny from the famed "Beverly Hillbillies" television show.  Got it? Except for a few minor differences, they could have been sisters. She may have been a smidgen younger though it was hard to tell. She had a strong southern accent, a booming voice, and the strength of a truck-driver in her good arm. She dressed her petite frame in high tops, a fou-fou skirt (I don't know what else to call it) and a non-descript blouse. A drab little hat perched on top her head.

Granny' d had a stroke somewhere along the line. Her right arm hung loosely at her side and she shuffled as she walked. It didn't take a logistician to figure out we were going to reach the Travel Center door at the same time. Her husband, a grumpy old fellow, was helping her. Until they made it I inside, I moseyed on over to oooh and ahhh over some dead flowers by the entrance.  I made my entrance soon after and promptly wished I never had.

You know, sometimes it's best to just leave well enough alone. My mercy gift kicked in and I was anxious to help. I waited close by while Grumpy turned to the right and into the men's room. Missouri Granny headed for the door in the middle. With her left arm she gave that door a mighty pull. WHAM. It slammed back against the wall.

Seeing no usable commodes in the storage closet she backed out and headed for the door marked "Women." I reached for the handle to open the door for her, then just as quickly backed away.

&quo t;Aah kin do it!" she barked. "Aah've had me three strokes, but this erm and this lag STILL work."

She went in just as Grumpy came out. "Whatsa goin' on?" He glared and I swallowed.

You may call it what you wish - progesterone depletion, brain fog, carnality.  All I know is that I got myself in a heap of trouble this weekend all because of attitude.  The first time I handled it all right . . . I guess.  As long as the lady doesn't come to the support group I facilitate in January. 

The second time?  It was a washout.

Let me set the scene for you.  It's Saturday night, sevenish, snowing, and I'm very tired. Hoping to beat the six to seven inches that's been predicted, I don my winter coat, and dodge snowflakes en-route to my favorite grocery.  I'm feeling pretty good.  We haven't had a good snow since last winter and it puts me in the Christmas spirit for I am, along with the rest of Colorado, dreaming of a white Christmas.

It's a known fact that women are capable of multi-tasking.  We can do a hundred things at once - and, do them with finesse, thank you very much.  Grocery shopping?  Piece of cake.  I can do that with one hand tied behind my back, and a book in my hand ( I CAN to!).

Somewher e in my sub-conscious a plan takes form, "Push the cart, load it up, and solve pressing problems 1-10."  Having charted my course I shift into never-never land.

She's at fault, too, you know.  She could just as easily been in produce, or dairy, but she decided to be in baked goods.  I'm vaguely aware of her presence, but figure I can maneuver around her without any trouble, after all I've both hands on the cart, no book in sight, this just isn't that difficult . . .

It doesn't even register that I've miscalculated the distance.  Anybody can make a mistake, right? I mean, really.  She should have moved.   No, I do not hit her . . . directly.  Just a measly 1/8" the other way and she would have been praising my carting abilities, Now that's what I call a seasoned shopper.  But, huh uh.  My reputation suffers irreparable harm the second I make contact.  I don't exactly recall making contact, but evidently I did.  Seems like I do recollect a slight movement in my peripheral vision of one said black purse rapidly moving in a downward trajectory beginning at her shoulder, and ending with her wrist.

I say, evidently, because honest it doesn't even register that I've entered her sacred space.  At least not until I'm on down the aisle.  That's when I hear it, "WWWEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLL EXCUSSSSSEEEEEEEEE MEEEEEEE!!!"

I should turn around, go back and say, "Oh, I am so sorry," but, for the life of me the only thing perched on the end of my tongue is a barbed, "Like I MEANT to DO THAT!!!!!!  Why were you standing there in the first place?"

It seems the better part of valor to overlook HER offense and keep on going.  I take on one more cognitive task thinking of all the things I could have said in retort:

&quo t;You rang?"

&quo t;Yes, my dear, how might I be of assistance?"

&quo t;I'm sorry, you appear to be having a difficult time right now.  Were you traumatized as a child??"

&quo t;And, a Merry Christmas to you fair lady."

&quo t;Do you know Jesus?"

What I really wish to say is, "And a bah-humbug to you  my dear."

Of course, I'm not totally stupid.  For the rest of my venture I am on enemy alert, keenly aware that she might be down the next aisle, or hiding behind the potato display waiting to whip me with that big, black bag.  For a moment I am seized with paranoia, What if she's waiting for me just outside the door?

I have opportunity to seethe every time I think about that woman and her purse for the rest of the evening, but I placate my conscience with a reminder that at least I kept my mouth shut.

Wish I could say I handled it that well on Sunday.

By Sunday morning I have justified my rudeness, and when I wake there she is, Atta.  Atta Tude to be precise.  She's patiently waiting by my bed, slippers in hand.  I guess she snuck in the door with me the night before. I'm not sure where she slept.  She's bigger than I remember, a little crustier, but I call her sister, drape my arm across her shoulder and drag to the bathroom to get ready for church.

While I comb my hair, she sits on the side of the tub, and we just kind of chat.  She mentions in passing, "To bad you had to get up a whole hour early for choir practice.  You really could have used your sleep."  We high five, and I take comfort in knowing that at least some one is aware of my sacrifice.

She chatters non-stop all the way to church.  "Remember that woman at the store last night?  She sure was testy. If anybody ought to be in church this morning, she should be.  Speaking of church . . ."  I should make her stay in the car, but I don't even try.  By now, Attitude and I are buds, walking arm in arm.  She gently reminds me that I don't really want to be here, and I grumble, "Yea, I know, but I don't have much choice." I'm ready for battle.  The only redeeming factor is my new Christmas dress in which, I might say, I'm  looking mighty fine.  Not wanting to spoil the effect, I replace my scowl with a facade of contentment which lasts approximately 37 seconds.  Just long enough to walk through the sanctuary doors, and discover that we are wearing, of all things, choir robes.

I don't do choir robes.

As a matter of fact, we haven't done choir robes in this church the whole time w've attended this church.  Maybe you wear them EVERY Sunday, but, we don't.  We don't even wear them every decade.  Which brings me to my next point, I know they haven't been cleaned in at least that long.  My new dress looks a sight better than these old choir robes.

&quo t;Whose IDEA was THISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS?" I blurt out.

Atta is fairly bursting with pride.

I throw her a less than friendly look.  Mortified I think, "I can't believe that came out of my MOUTH!"

Hoping to soften the blow I say, "Menopause and choir robes just don't mix."

No one smiles.

Neither does any one take credit for the choir robe idea.   I'm thinking, This is just great. Just great!  I've hurt someone's feelings and can't even say sorry because I don't know whose stupid idea this was in the first place! 

Fully satisfied that her mission has been accomplished, Atta rises, turns and walks out the back door leaving me totally on my own.

It doesn't make matters any better when my newly adolescent son Ben walks by, wrinkles his nose and says, "You smell like celery, Mom."

Right.

Yup.& ;nbsp;

It was a washout. 

My two teenage sons and I follow our growling stomachs to the local fast-food restaurant.  Lunch trays in hand, we maneuver our cokes and spicy-chicken sandwiches through the crowd and settle at a table.  Andy takes a bite of lunch, then pauses, a look of utter incredulity on his face. His blue eyes begin to twinkle.

&quo t;What‘s up?" I ask.

He points, and I follow his finger to a table across the way.  Discreetly, I turn hoping to get a better look.  Over by the window sits two cute kids - a brother, in the throes of terrible two‘s, and his "should know better, but doesn’t care" pre-school sister. They're having the time of their lives.

Their mom is in line ordering lunch and, from time to time, she looks their way content that all is well. Obviously, we have a better view then she does. Brother has the saltshaker; sister has the pepper.  With finesse they work together creating a modern work of art.  Shake, shake, swoosh, swoosh.  It’s amazing how much one of those containers holds.

We mothers understand these things; one sitting nearby catches my eye, and we share a smile knowing certain judgment is coming.  Having "been there, done that" I almost feel sorry for the unsuspecting mom.  It’s just a matter of time . . .

Hunger calls my name, and I bow to the task at hand.  There is no need for me to look; Andy is giving a blow-by-blow account, "Auuugh! No!! They’re licking the table with their tongues." 

Silence.

&quo t;I don’t believe it! She’s pouring it on his head."

Mom inches her way toward the cashier, money in hand.  The color of their table has changed from subtle blah, to patchwork black and white.  Tension mounts as Mother picks up her tray, and stops for straws and napkins.

We&r squo;re nearly breathless with wonder.  How will she respond?  Will she blow?  Will she cry?  Will she turn red, and huff out the door?  Will she speak between clenched teeth, as mothers are prone to do under pressure?  Thoroughly captured by the unfolding drama, we strain to hear her words.

Mother rounds the corner, and quietly says, "You are in trouble." Then she does the one thing we hadn’t thought of. She does nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  No angry words, no tears, no huffing out the door.  She doesn’t even speak between clenched teeth.  Sitting her tray on a nearby table, she motions for her miniature ruffians to join her.  They leave the patchwork for a new subtle, blah table and begin to eat.

I&rs quo;m not the only mom sitting mouth agape.  I’m thinking, "Any mother worth her salt (and pepper) would surely say something.  I don’t know, like maybe, ‘You made the mess; let's get it cleaned up!’ "

Even if she decides to extend unmerited favor to her erring offspring, surely she will do something.  I don’t know, like maybe clean up it herself.  Only in my dreams.  They devour their lunch, oblivious to the stir they have created.

I look at her.

I look at the table.

I look at my sons, and they look back at me.

Ben questions, "Mom, are you going to clean it up?"

&quo t;No, I‘m not, but I’m tempted." I’m also tempted to tsk, tsk, and throw a look or two while I wipe away the masterpiece.  I am tempted to declare something, I don’t know like, "Honey, let me help you be a better mother."

In the end I opt to put my lips together and say nothing, but I feel sad.  One day mom is going to lament, "I just don’t understand my kids." She’s going to wonder why her little angels have no respect for personal property, or social skills, or her. I understand why. Maybe someone will gently say, "Do you think maybe it goes back to the early years when you missed the teachable moments?"

I recognize this is a teachable moment for me and mine. The drama we have just witnessed speaks volumes.  Just to be sure, I deliver a lesson of my own in Personal Responsibility 101.  "Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he won’t depart from it," which being interpreted means, "Nip it the bud."
Ronda Knuth

Hubby Rob and I have stopped at a small coffee shop in downtown Colorado Springs.  Neither of us ate before making the hour-long drive to attend the funeral of a long-time friend. “Would you like to stop somewhere for a cup of coffee, and a roll?” Rob had asked.  We found a quaint little shop with a banner stretched across the front saying, For Locals Only.

Half in jest I quip, “Think we’ll be welcome?”

&ldq uo;Guess we’ll find out,” he says taking my arm and steering me through the door.

The December wind has chilled me to the bone; a cup of hot tea is just what the doctor ordered.  I scan the room, and find a table sitting in the sunshine.  It isn’t very big, making it just right for us. Ahhh, now this is the life.  No phones, no kids, just peace and quiet.

But, I digress.  I turn around in my chair to see what is going on.  And, to see where Rob is in proximity to what is going on.  I nearly choke when I see him striding toward the group of four from which the expletive has arisen.

Fibro-fo g. It's just one of the many symptoms of fibromyalgia, also known affectionately as "thorn in the flesh" or "pain in the toosh." It's estimated that 7-10 million Americans have it, most of them women which, in fact, explains why we of the gentler sex sometimes say and do the unexplainable. Because it is an "invisible illness" it is not readily noticeable to the undiscerning eye. Which, in part, explains why those of us who have it are often discreetly described as, "One card shy of a full deck" or, "Not the sharpest knife in the drawer."

I'm sure that's what the man at the filling station thought when my car wouldn't start this morning. I was late for an appointment, and it was bitterly cold as I filled my tank to the top with high-octane fuel. I lost precious seconds fine-tuning my attitude when I had to go inside to retrieve a receipt. "That's why it's called pay at the pump," I grumbled. Back at the car I turned the key, still in the ignition, in anticipation of the blessed heat soon to warm my frozen feet. Nothing happened. I tried again. Nothing. I turned off everything that could remotely be conceived as a drain on the battery. Nothing.

I've only been marooned half-a-dozen times in my thirty-plus years of driving, thus, I am considered a novice - totally ignorant of the survival skills one needs when one is stranded. By now, the cold is seeping through, setting up house in my bones. I consider all my options. Hubby? Still in sales meeting. Daughter? Twenty minutes away, and cradling my first-born grandbaby. Son? No cell phone.

Destitut e and very cold I swallow my pride, discerning as I do which of my fellow patrons might be inclined to show mercy to a stranded, frumpy woman. I spot one frosty-looking gent, just lowering his ample girth into the warmth of his vehicle seat. In spite of his scowl, I convince myself that he looks like a kindly soul. Fixing him in my sights, I begin to gingerly cross the icy lot. He notices, and unashamedly hastens his preparation for departure. I notice, and unashamedly begin signaling him with appropriate hand gestures- which being interpreted mean, "Stay right where you are, I have need of thee."

I quickly determine a course of action-

First, I will don a sweet grandmotherly smile (I can do that now, you know).

Secondly , I will schmoooosh. "You look like someone who might be able to help me"

Now, I'm no dummy. Having reared a house full of boys I'm quite adept at reading the masculine mind. On the one hand, I can tell he really wants to tell me, "NO!" But, on the other hand, well... really... could you in good conscience tell your granny, no? He quietly acquiesces, "Just let me pull my car over by yours."

Pulling cables from the trunk, I assure him that the battery is almost new. "I just can't imagine why it won't start." He hooks the cables to my car, and then to his, and I turn the key. Nothing. He waits, I crank, and begin to panic, "Wonder what the going rate is for tow trucks? Bet this is going to cost a fortune to fix."

He ambles over to my car puzzled, "Must not be the battery. Must be something else." He pauses - then suggests, “You wouldn’t happen to have your car in drive would you?”

Red-face d, I offer my heart-felt thanks, mumbling as I do, “Well, you learn something new every day, don't you?" I don't look back as I pull away from the pump. Don't need to. I know what he's thinking as he watches me go, "There's smoke in that thar' chimney, but ain't nobody home."

I realize I've had a momentary brain-fog. Why in heaven's name didn't I think to explain? I'm sure he would have wanted to know: "The severity of Fibro-fog fluctuates from day to day, as well as from person to person, and is directly affected, and exacerbated, by our degrees of pain, fatigue, sleep quality, stress, and other known or unknown factors.”

That's why my car wouldn't start!

That's my story, and I'm stickin' to it!

Ronda Knuth

It was pretty routine, if you don't count the incident with the milk. I'd exchanged small talk with the cashier and sympathized with the sacker over his bundle of defective bags. I'd watched nonchalantly as he sacked my groceries; paid scant attention as he bagged the milk. Then I watched in horror as the carton ripped through the bag, hit the floor and exploded, raining dairy on everything in close proximity including me.

I responded with a measure of composure, if it’s possible to have poise while wiping two-percent off ones person. I was the picture of patience as the milk was mopped and a new carton procured. I waited calmly for my remaining groceries to be bagged. On the way out the door, I patted myself on the back. You go girl! Now, that's what I call grace. Pushing my cart with one hand, I used the other to cinch my robe of piety a bit tighter about the middle. Lookin' good!

I drove the mile-and-a-half from store to home feeling rather fine. Once home, I opened the trunk, then groaned out loud. To my dismay, every single bag had a gaping hole. You have got to be kidding! Great. This is just great. Frustrated and tired, I launched a mental tirade. Talk about incompetent! I oughta report this . . . Mumble, mumble, groan, groan.

Normally attitudes aren't fertile ground for heavenly whispers, but today was the exception. As I stepped across the threshold, carefully carrying the first bag, I heard God’s gentle rebuke, “Let him that is without sin cast the first stone.” Words of conviction straight from the mouth of Jesus.

He was in the Temple, before an audience comprised of novice scholars, religious academia, the ever-present scheming Pharisees, and one lone woman caught in the act of adultery. Shame her, trap Him - that was their intent. Standing the woman before Him they charged, "Teacher, this woman was caught red-handed in the act of adultery. Moses, in the Law, gives orders to stone such persons. What do you say?” < /p>

Bending, Jesus wrote in the dirt with His finger - hardly the response they expected. How long He remained there, or what He wrote, we don’t know. His accusers waited impatiently, determined to press for an answer. Finally Jesus stood, declaring as He did, "Let him that is without sin cast the first stone.” Then He bent down and wrote in the dirt once more. Maybe He wrote forgiveness, maybe He wrote grace. Whatever He wrote, when He looked up the woman stood alone before Him.

&ldq uo;Woman, where are they?” He asked, “Does no one condemn you?”

There are other more prestigious eateries in town, but I like Taco House. The food is so-so; it's the memories that keep me coming back. Since I can remember, my family has frequented the simple café, munching its chips and salsa and downing ice-cold sodas. I like to fancy I became a woman the day I ate my first bowl of their green chili.

This visit is no different from the thousands before. Slipping into the booth across from my 16-year-old daughter, Diana, I casually skim the menu then opt for a piping hot burrito smothered in (what else) green chili. That settled, I scan the restaurant taking in the odd assortment of patrons - some obviously on their lunch break, others kicking back just relaxing with friends. My nose is assaulted with a delightful assortment of south-of-the-border scents making my mouth water in anticipation.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see our waiter approaching the table. He looks dapper in his blue jeans and spiffy white t-shirt. Though I've never asked, I'd guess him to be twenty-something-ish and worldly wise. He's friendly and efficient, hence the title we've bestowed on him of Favorite Waiter. Without benefit of a serving tray, he manages our table settings, a basket of corn chips, a bowl filled near to the brim with zesty picante sauce and two tall glasses of water.

He is close, so close, when happens. As if in slow motion, I watch the bowl of sauce tip precariously to the side. His attempts to stop the inevitable are futile. Fresh-from-the-refrigerator picante spills over the edge and waterfalls into my lap.

Mortifie d, Favorite Waiter, apologizes profusely, “Oh, no! I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry!”

It takes mere moments for the pottage to seep through my now multi-colored skirt and down between my legs. Grabbing a napkin, I wipe at my skirt, desperate to stop the unwelcome flow. I'm aware that our waiter is still standing at my side in shock. Knowing he feels horrible, I quickly assure, "It's okay. Really. I'll just wipe it off. I'm not going anywhere special, so it doesn't matter. Look, it blends right in with what I'm wearing!"

Glancing upward, I realize with equal shock that I am not the only casualty. Favorite Waiter is wearing picante sauce, too. Beginning at the crest of his shoulder, angling down across his stomach, and stopping shy of his waistband is a brilliant red stain. He looks worse than I do!

We eat our meal, pay the bill and grin as he quips with a cautious smile, "Everything okay, except for the clothes?"

Once in the car, Diana and I succumb to laughter. "You know," I say between snickers and guffaws and catching my breath, "I feel sorry for him. He has to wear that shirt for the rest of the day. We ought to go to the thrift store and get him another one to wear."

The smile on Diana's face vanishes as she levels me with a mature beyond her years look. In an even, measured tone she says, "We ought to go to the store, Mom, and buy him a new shirt. It won't cost very much."

So, that is exactly what we do. On our return, I appoint Diana as our emissary. Slipping through the side door, she timidly hands Favorite Waiter the brown, paper bag. Curious, he looks inside. Then he smiles, one of those grins that stretch from ear to ear. "No way!" he says, "I deserve to be punished, not rewarded!"

And, that's when I hear it - the still, small voice of God. "That, daughter, is what grace is all about. Not giving people what they deserve, but what they don’t deserve. Reward, not punishment. Forgiveness, not condemnation. Love, not anger."

Thanks, Lord, for your marvelous grace and for whispering to my heart at the strangest times, and in the strangest places.

Ronda Knuth

Though the waiting area next to the Radiation-Oncology department of St. Joseph Hospital is spacious, I feel like I am suffocating. We make our way to a wooden bench next to a gently flowing waterfall, and make small talk. "I heard them read the twenty-third Psalm over the PA system a little while ago," she says, "they said today might be a hard day."

A wheelchair across the way cradles a tiny woman in its cold, unmoving arms. Angry burns from radiation wrap like a necklace around her reddened neck. I'm sure she would rather be on a cruise basking in the warm, soothing rays of the Caribbean sun. Instead, she faces rays of another kind - blistering, unmerciful, unwelcome. "Faithful are the wounds of a friend," scripture says. Some friend this radiation. She has no choice but to walk arm in arm with her. Anything less will cost her, her life.

Through the window I see another woman walking. Tall and stately, but obviously ill. A turban covers her balding head. Her floral print dress hangs loosely on her body and I wonder if her foe is breast cancer. I wonder, too, what tomorrow holds for her.

We settle onto a bench just outside of radiology, a cup of hot chocolate cradled in our hands. Neither of us really wants it, we just hope that it will warm our tummies, and soothe our battered souls.

She starts to speak, then stops and begins to cry. "I can't believe we're here. Why can't God just take us when He's ready instead of letting us suffer?"

I immediately think of all kinds of theological sounding things to say. You know, things like, "Suffering makes us strong, conforms us into the image of Jesus Christ. Why, I'm learning that there is added purpose in our suffering when it gives courage to others in their grief." It would make a great outline for a sermon, but today it lacks punch. God seems to whisper in my ear, "Put your lips together and hush. She doesn't need a sermon, she needs a shoulder."

It's sad. To another person, on another day, I might actually have said those words. But, this is not just another person, this is my mom. And, it isn't just another day. This is the day my dad becomes an unwitting contender in the battle for his life.

We cry together, then sit quietly for a while. "It would be okay," she says, "if you just woke up one morning, and God said, 'this is the day' and then He just took you home."

"Yea," I say, "You could get up, make your bed, brush your teeth and then just go."

"You wouldn't have to brush your teeth," she muses.

"Or, make your bed for that matter," I quip. We share a smile, and then we do the difficult thing; we just sit and wait, each of us lost in thought.

This is all new to me. We have had lots of cancer in our family, but it has never been my dad's cancer before.

Yesterday I sat in the parking lot near a small lake south of town and cried. Broken, and confused, my head throbbing and my stomach churning. "I don't want my dad to die," I sobbed over the cell phone to my husband, Rob.

The sun was setting when I pointed the car toward home. Turning the corner into our neighborhood I was suddenly aware that I could not even remember making the drive. Dad and Mom have always been my tower of strength, now I must be theirs. "Father, help me," I prayed, " I need to be there for them and I don't have anything to give."

Early this morning He whispered one simple phrase to my heart, "That's what grace is for."

Sitting beside my weeping mom, and drying tears of my own, I feel so helpless. I wish for words to make it go away. He gently reminds, "It's okay that you don't know what to say. Trust me with her hurting heart; trust me with his broken body. Let Me care for them. That's what grace is for."

I feel so small, and very much alone. He reminds me that life is tough. "I know it's hard. I will be your strength. Let me carry you. That's what grace is for."

The future seems so bleak. God whispers, "Don't fear tomorrow for I am already there."

I rest in knowing they are His, and He will never leave them. I'm tired, but my heart is at peace. I snuggle into the Father's arms and He holds me.

And, that's as it should be

That's what grace is for.

If being real means that I struggle with the weakness of others, and wonder at my ability to handle a difficult situation, but in that awareness You join me on my journey, quickening my heart, and sharpening my senses, then let me struggle . . . let me wonder . . . let me be aware.
If being real means that I grapple with where I am in the world, but in my wrestling You stand by me, call my name, and bear me in Your everlasting arms, then let me wrestle on. Hold me such that I cannot loosen Your grip.

Lord, I want to be real. If being real means that I question and there are no answers, but in my questioning I learn to trust Your Word, Your character, Your love, then let me question, let me listen only to Your voice.

If being real means that I am confused, not knowing which way to go- that I struggle with sadness and wonder why You are silent- but in that bewilderment You walk with me, then let me be unsure, let me seek Your face, clinging tightly to Your hand.

If being real means that I am exhausted to the core of my being, but in my weariness You sit by my bed, and sing to me, Your fingers entwine with mine, and You gently whisper my name, then I will be weary resting in Your tender care.

If being real means that I hurt, or walk with another who is hurting, and in that time of intense emotion You are there soothing, teaching, lovingly speaking, "You are my own," then for You I will walk on, my hand safely tucked in Yours.

Lord, I want to be real. If being real means that my body must ache, and sometimes I forget to smile through the tears, but in my pain You become my strength, my comfort, my joy, then I will ache on safe in the shelter of Your embrace. Not because I welcome suffering with open arms, but because I welcome You. More importantly, You welcome me.

When I am faithless, You remain faithful.

God of my life, let me lean on You. Fold me closely to Your bosom.

Bathe me with Your presence. Not just my hands and feet, Lord, but all of me.

Ronda Knuth

O.K. Since I know you’ve been dying to ask, I’ll just admit it . .  it’s not easy driving a shiny new coupe, and pretending like it’s yours. But, somebody’s got to do it. That’s one of the perks that comes with being married to a car salesman.

Perk number one, of course, would be our customers. We have wonderful customers. Happy ones, sad ones; smart ones, simple ones; fat ones, skinny ones. Dark ones, light ones. Some of them are the nicest people. Some of them become dear friends. Oh, just so you know, we don’t call them perks to their face.

Running a close second is marital harmony. You learn to pick and choose your battles with a schedule like ours. There aren’t a whole lot of lines in the sand. We’re pretty happy together. Might as well be, since we’re not together long enough to appreciate a full-blown fight.

Speaking of husbands, I can promise you I never have to worry about Rob looking at another woman.  Never. When Rob says, “Will you look at that?” I know before my head even turns what he’s oogling, a ’52 Ford, or a ’65 Chevy, or a . . . . . being a ’53 myself . . . . oh, never mind.

One favorite perk is the late model vehicle Rob drives home at night. We’re supposed to drive around in it, and make people salivate, crave, and dream - you get the picture. As Christians, we try never to push it to the point of envy. There are company rules.  Still, on occasion, I confiscate the keys, slide behind the wheel, start the engine, and put on airs.  For a few, brief minutes I sport around the neighborhood, in that shiny new coupe, and pretend that it’s mine.

Lest you begin to burn with envy, you should know that there are drawbacks in being married to a car salesman. If you’re going to communicate with any level of intelligence, you have to learn to talk their talk. They have a language of their own. With practice, extended car warranty, platinum program, rebate, and drive shaft roll off your tongue most near as easy as laundry, chicken, colic and mumps. I’m not complaining, mind you, there’s a silver lining to every cloud. Not only have I expanded my vocabulary, I’ve, also, become adept at interpretation. For instance, “I’ll be there in ten minutes, honey,” really means, “give or take an hour. Or, two. Or . . .”

Of course, the dynamics of the human factor must be considered. It’s rare, but nonetheless, occasionally we have a truly cranky customer who wants it done. Yesterday.   Or, the one who insists that Rob turn water into wine. He’s quite awesome folks, but He ain’t Jesus.

And, though it’s hard to believe, it can be rather trying during those few, brief minutes when I sport around the neighborhood, in a shiny new coupe, and pretend that it’s mine.

Seriousl y!

I had one of those trying days not long ago. There was so much to do. My mind chugged along like a sluggish locomotive, on a steep incline, on a blustery, snowy day. Gotta do, gotta do, gotta do, gotta do, gotta do, gotta do . . . Wooooh- woooooh. Everything had urgent stamped on its backside. The “to-do’s” become as insistent as quarreling siblings.

Nine-yea r-old Ben kneels beside the rust and green striped couch in the family room. Though intent, the prayer he utters is brief and to the point. Moments later he stands, announcing with bold confidence, “I prayed that God would help me fly.”

What& ;rsquo;s a mother to do with an announcement like that? Encourage and hope my prayer cancels out his? Ignore and hope he soon forgets? Out of the corner on my eye I watch, keenly aware of every move he makes. He’s not one who is easily dissuaded. Picking up two pillows he sticks a hand in each pillowcase and presses them firmly against his body.

He&r squo;s confident that he can fly. I’m confident he can’t. As if reading my mind, he turns and says, “That’s right, you don’t have faith!” He runs, and jumps into the sky. He's airborne for a second, then disappears from view. A loud thud is followed by a groan. Aeronautical mishap number one. The pilot is uninjured and I breathe a sigh of relief. Now that the experiment is over, I can return to my work.

Every mother worth her salt knows when quiet is too quiet. Before I have time to investigate a small, insistent voice says to no one in particular, “Come on, you’ve got to hold me up!”

&ldq uo;Now what?” I ask, turning to see.

I should have known. Holding a plastic sword perpendicular to his body, he pauses to explain, "This will catch the wind and hold me up." I should just say, “Look, Ben, it ain’t a gonna’ work.” But, I’m caught between a rock and a hard spot- we'd just finished a science lesson in which I'd bragged, "Thomas Edison didn’t give up, Ben! One thousand times he failed, yet even then he refused to be discouraged. Know what he said? "Now I know a thousand things that won’t work!' "

There was no stopping that boy, and there’s no stopping mine.

A myriad of prospective implements now covers the couch, all intended to aid Ben in his quest to fly. He tries first one, and then another. Under his breath he murmurs, “I can’t believe it. None of my flying machines are working.” I watch as he lifts a small, red plastic chair onto the top of an old table. A blue balloon clenched in one hand he commands, “Watch, I can fly!”

&ldq uo;Does this look like it will work, Mom? I prayed for God’s angels to lift me.” Before I can answer Ben kicks the chair out of the way and he is airborne.

Silence. “Ow!”

&ldq uo;Were the Wright Brothers really real?” he asks. I assure him, that they were. “I was just not believing in, God,” he says, and jumps again. An uneasy hush follows then another "Ow!"

He quickly reassures, “No problem, Mom. I just twisted my ankle.”

I am captivated. He is not going to stop until he can fly. Again, he positions himself for lift-off. “I’m going to die, Mom! (My son, the hero) I think the runway is too short.” I offer a bit of motherly wisdom, “Perhaps, Ben, God doesn’t want you to fly?”

&ldq uo;I don’t know.” Is that a shred of doubt I hear? Perhaps. Unfortunately, it’s not his ability that is in question. He suggests that the lesson we have studied is fraught with error. With certainty he contends, “I know that the Wright Brothers never flew. My machine is better than theirs!” Of course. That‘s it. History is wrong. Obviously if he can't fly, neither could they.

I breathe a silent sigh of relief. It's over. Hurrah! Maybe now we can go on to other things. But, nooooo . . he’s found an orange, plastic propeller, and jumpy shoes. “If I die, Mom, tell Andy he can’t have my toys, OK?” Pillows secured to the bottom of his feet (hence, the term jumpy shoes) he moves into position and we have take off.

He crashes.

I said what I should have said at the beginning, “Now do you think God doesn’t want you to fly?” His response is terse, and to the point. “Did the Wright Brothers give up? Well, neither will I!”

&ldq uo;Why don’t you try, Mom?” (Maybe, Ben, when it snows in Phoenix, in July.)

I really wish he would give it up. We all have empty dreams.

&ldq uo;I know what I need! A parachute! Watch God,” he says. “If you’re not going to help me then my parachute will!” I think about telling him he's bordering on sacrilegious, but decide experience might be the best way for him to learn. If God isn't going to help him fly, neither will a cheap cotton. He jumps. He crashes and his parachute flutters settles over his head. “Aaugh! I’m claustrophobic!!”

&ldq uo;Why doesn’t God want me to fly?” he asks, digging out from under the sheet.

&ldq uo;I don’t know, son. Maybe it’s just not time.”

Pause. “I know!” Obviously, he’s heard nothing I have said. “I just need to start lower. That’s it!!” He grabs a rope, and heads for his next point of takeoff, "If this works, Mom, you can put it in the newspaper, Little Boy Can Fly Like Wright Brothers.” I wait while he secures the pillow to his back with the rope.

He jumps.

He crashes.

That's not joy ringing in my ears.

&ldq uo;Maybe it’s time to do something else,” I suggest.

In a single breath he blurts out, “What do you expect me to do, Mom? What other kind of inventor do you know of? What should I do? Be Christopher Columbus, and leave home? Be William Bradford, and go join the Indians? Be Thomas Edison, and invent the light bulb? Maybe try winning a war by being, Abraham Lincoln? I don’t think so, Mom! But, being a Wright Brother is a good idea! Do you expect me to try any of those other things that won’t work?”

No, no, of course not.

I try to persuade him that even the best men in history took time to think and plan before trying something new.

It goes right over his head.

&ldq uo;I need your help on this one, Mom!”

I pretend not to listen.

&ldq uo;Come here, Mom!”

I go. Did the mothers of other great men have to go through this?

He&r squo;s seated on the floor, both feet crammed into a single pillowcase. The sheet is secured around his waist with a rope, the other end he twirls in the air like a propeller on a helicopter.

&ldq uo;This will work,” he says, “Can you lift me up, and throw me on the couch?”

&ldq uo;No, Ben. I can’t. You’re too heavy.”

&ldq uo;Please? Come help me, please!”

I pretend, once more, not to hear.

There is silence- then, “Ben, to Ronda. Ben, to Ronda.”

&ldq uo;Oh, all right. What do I have to do?”

&ldq uo;Just help me stand up.”

&ldq uo;Be careful, Ben. Your feet are tied together.”

He brushes my words aside, and says excitedly, “Look, Mom, I want you to be the first to see me fly! I’m bound (just a little play on words), too!”

&ldq uo;O.K., Ben, I’m watching.”

He crashes.

Now he has made a ramp out of pillows, (surely, we’re getting close to the one thousand mark) and, he’s made wings out of a sheet.

&ldq uo;I’m going to try your desk. But, first I need practice.”

Practice isn’t successful.

Doesn&am p;rsquo;t matter to, Ben. Obviously in denial, he proudly announces, “O.K. I had one practice! It will work!!”

It doesn’t.

&ldq uo;So, I’m not the best inventor.”

Trying to be helpful I suggest, “Maybe you should start with smaller things.”

&ldq uo;How do you expect me to get smaller wings?”

&ldq uo;Not smaller wings, Ben! Smaller things. Maybe you should try to invent something easier. Something simple, then go on to bigger things.”

&ldq uo;I’m not giving up!”

&ldq uo;I didn’t think so.”

Now the sheet covers his head, and drapes over his shoulders and arms. Excitedly he says,

&ldq uo;This is what I need. If I crash, the sheet will soak up the blood.”

He falls. Thank goodness there is no blood.

&ldq uo;I don’t think I’m ready for this. I was all set to take off. I just need to start up higher.”

I decide it’s time to speak the truth in love when he asks, “Do you think I can do this?”

Slowly I shake my head from side to side and feel like a heel when he says, “Thanks for the encouragement.”

I&rs quo;m getting tired now. Really tired. He just won’t quit. I wish I’d never heard of the Wright Brothers.

&ldq uo;Watch, Mom. Soon I’ll be off and in the air and you’ll say, ‘How wrong I was! My son can fly!’ ”

He wrecks.

Silence.

Silence that lasts too long.

&ldq uo;Are you dead, Ben?”

&ldq uo;No. It’s strange, Mom. As soon as I got up there I tripped over my wing and fell back.”

He&r squo;s discouraged now. “How come I keep falling, Mom?” (I wish his dad were here, he’s better at this than I am.)

&ldq uo;Well, Ben, the stuff you’re using to help you stay up isn’t helping you to stay up!” (Profound)

Incredul ously he says, “So, you’re saying you want me to give up the dream?” (Did I say that???)

&ldq uo;Never. I’ll never give up the dream!”

He positions himself once again to jump. I don’t think he is even listening to me. “Watch, Mom. Oh, that’s right. You don’t think I can fly.”

He prepares for take off. We have lift off. . . and. . . he crashes.

&ldq uo;How did you know, Mom?” (I don’t know, Ben. Sometimes mother’s just know these things.)

He tries to persuade me that he’ll succeed if I just believe that he can.

&ldq uo;Other people can do somersaults, I can’t. Other people can do cartwheels, I can’t. Other people can’t fly, I can!”

He thinks for a moment, and then continues, “I just had the greatest idea pop into my head, Mom.” (I can hardly wait to hear it.) “I can’t fly! I’m not a bird!!!” (Thank goodness he’s finally giving up) So what I need is a bird costume. I wish more people were here to see me.”

Thank, God, we are alone.

&ldq uo;I know what I need.”

&ldq uo;What, Ben?”

&ldq uo;I need Grandpa to build me some wings. Then I can fly.”

Thank the Lord, Grandpa is out of town for a week.

A scary thought flashes through my mind. Tomorrow we study Louis Pasteur.

Out of the corner of my eye I see, Ben. He’s over by the rust and green striped couch in the family room. He’s just said to no one in particular, “Maybe I wasn’t meant to fly. Maybe I just need to do what normal boys do. I’ll try an obstacle course.”

His voice changes to mimic that of an adoring, little girl. “Oh, look, he’s so brave and sweet.”

And, he’s off!

Daughter Diana and I are to meet for our weekly jaunt to the gym. Lest you worry needlessly, let me hasten to assure you that I am not having a love affair with treadmills and belly crunches. But, I am crazy about her.

Having spent a restless night, tossing and turning, I don my baggy sweats and frumpy top and set my face like a flint toward the gym. I don't really want to be there, but I promised. When our agreed upon time came and went, I began to taste reprieve.

I leave two voice messages for her, sorta' hoping she won't get them in time. Then I can say with a heart of integrity, "Well, Honey, I TRIED to call but you weren't home." One more minute, I tell myself, then I'm outta here.

She's always had a knack for timing. Key in the ignition, and foot on the pedal I'm ready to go when the cell phone rings, "Oh, Mom, I forgot." I was so close. With a sigh and an extension of grace, I agree to our amended plans, "Why don't you pick me up at home, and we'll go for a walk at the park?" That's preferable to the gym . . . how hard can a walk be?

So as not to be overly encumbered, I'd stored my bulky purse in the trunk upon departing from home. Once at the park, I tuck the keys out of sight in the panel on the door. It's a fool-proof plan. Now I'm free of purse and keys! "Don't hit the lock," I say to my darling daughter, as she pushes the button and we simultaneously shut the doors.

Uh, huh. You are so quick.

The shock wears off in a matter of seconds as our predicament becomes clear. No purse - no keys - no drive. "Well, we'll just have to walk to my house," she says. It's not exactly a skip and a jump, or a simple spit across the Holler. Off we go, out the park and across the busy street. The fact that I bounce like jello with every step I trod tickles my funny bone. I giggle. She does not.

As traffic bears down on us she calls back over her shoulder, "You're going to get run over, Mom, if you don't walk faster than that." Like I'm not trying to hurry . . .

Down the street, and up the hill we go. Thank goodness she has a hidden key at her house. Being the limber one, she climbs the fence, reaches into the secret hiding place, fishing for the "just in case we get locked out key." It isn't there. She's so much like her momma. Her other set is inside her purse, sitting next to mine, in the locked trunk.

The house windows are all closed, and "No, Mom, I didn't leave the door unlocked." We spend too long trying to find a way in. She bends the screen while attempting to take it off the back window. I'm just standing around, looking pretty, trying to offer moral support and wondering how we're going to get out of this one.

The 80-degree October weather is sweltering. I don't know what makes me do it, but I reach up, give that patio door a push and voila it slides wide open. While she insists it was locked, we walk into the coolness of her welcoming kitchen.

Diana has studying to do and since her schedule is full, I offer to drive her car to the dealership to get an extra set of keys from Rob.

&quo t;Why CAN'T I?" (I am NOT whining) For some reason she is reluctant to hand over the keys. I don't know why - other people drive without their glasses (on the dash in my car), or their driver's license (in my purse in the trunk). "Look, I haven't had a ticket in years.  I can see up close.  It'll be alright."

But, noooooo. "I'll take you, Mom."

Her sanctification has been stretched to the limit. I hate to be the one to throw the match on her combustible impatience, but this is a battle I simply must win. I'm not strutting into a million dollar dealership in smelly sweats and a frumpy t-shirt. "Diana, I am NOT going in there looking like this."

She ponders my dilemma, then walks to the closet, and pulls out a long, black dress. "Put this on!" I twist and tug and pull, stuffing my bulging body into the garment - a remarkable feat considering I'm a 16W and she's an 8P. My red shirt adds contrast and cover.  I smile when she says, "You look darling, Mom." You betcha. My Chevy tennies are replaced with her more stunning ones, and we're off.

On the way I quip, "Look at it this way, honey, it's an adventure." To which she replies, "I hate it when you say that."

It probably has something to do with being twelve. Or, maybe it’s just that he’s his mother’s son. Whatever, everything looks bigger, badder, teetering on catastrophe to Ben. The dangly thing hanging under the car was nearly his undoing. “Will it fall off mom? Are you sure it’s gonna be O.K.? What if we’re going down the road and it starts scraping? It’s made of metal. Couldn’t there be sparks? What if it starts a fire? Mom, it could explode. I think you better pull over now! Mom, do you think we should call dad??? OH, MOM . . .”< /p>

Why it had to be his ear is beyond me. I didn’t mean to do it. So, okay, we were in a hurry, and all, but really. It could have waited, but I have this thing about unruly hair hanging over masculine ears. We couldn’t do a complete detail before Sunday service, but at least I could do a quick trim.

One minute I’m clipping away, the next the morning stillness shatters with an horrific howl. I look down into his once trusting, brown eyes, to see a look of shock, and utter dismay. Then just like that they fill with tears.

“What, Ben, what?”

“Auuuugh! My ear, my ear!” He takes off at a dead run for the blue chair in the living room and nestles into its waiting arms, while steadfastly refusing mine.

I’m thinking, “Good grief, it can’t be that bad.”