The Late Arrival

The clock’s minute hand in the doctor’s office echoes as I wait clad in those flimsy paper gowns hastily designed for privacy. My feet swing back and forth nervously off the examination table's side. Soon enough there is a courtesy knock, a Hello and the doctor emerges. Just a few family history questions, says the doctor glancing at my chart. I see here you have a daughter. I nod and smile. What I’m about to ask isn’t just for our records, but for your daughter too – there may be hereditary conditions of which she should be aware. That hits me hard, and I volunteer information in rapid succession: Well, my mom, grandmother and great aunt died of cancer. I’m also realizing my mom dealt with depression, sometimes I struggle too. I make sure to watch what I eat – kind of – because people are overweight in my… STOP. STOP NOW the doctor interrupts. My feet haven’t stopped their nervous swing, and I shrink into a ball of bewilderment and irritation. The doctor continues, T...

Dear Citizens of the World: The past couple weeks have been a lot. Really. I’m not here to shake a finger in your face and tsk-tsk you, but geez, folks, I need air. AIR. Can we please have seven straight days of no mass shootings, no public executions, no drone strikes and no conversations dominated by deafness and shouting? Please. It’s just. Seven. Days. We don’t have to hold hands and sing Kum-ba-yah. We don’t have to like the same music or even pray to the same God. Really we don’t. But can we please see each other as human beings? If we can do that, just think of the possibilities: Maybe the hungry might not be so hungry for a week because we’ll feed them; and we'll feed them because we’ll see them as starving human beings instead of The Hungry . Maybe we’ll rally around the homeless, give them shelter, and help them reclaim their God-given dignity because we'll see them as human beings who are homeless instead of seeing them as The Homeless . ...

From shoulder to floor, he stands a little less than two feet tall. He is small, cuddly and a bit insecure. He is our fur-baby, Charley. Charley is no fan of fireworks, so Fourth of July weekend was traumatic for him, as it always is. I do what I can to ease the anxiety from periodically checking on him during our backyard cookouts, to letting him use our basement as a bunker, to closing all windows and doors, to just holding him when he naps. Because I'm THAT person. The weeks following official fireworks are somewhat easier on the poor little guy, but not completely. Neighborhood kids and adults occasionally let off bottle rockets, firecrackers and fireworks that briefly light up the night sky. Charley tattles on the pyrotechnic amateurs with a strange, guttural growl and a quick bark. I then repeat the shuttering, closing and holding until peace reigns again. Lately my fur-baby, however, actually meanders into the very rooms where I've left windows open. It's as...

'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free, 'tis the gift to come down where we ought to be, and when we find ourselves in the place just right, 'twill be in the valley of love and delight. When true simplicity is gained to bow and to bend we shan't be ashamed, to turn, turn, will be our delight till by turning, turning we come round right. -Elder Joseph Brackett The television is off and tragic reports continue without my attention or eyes. Twitter is still tweeting assorted fact-checkers, trolls and encouragers alike and continues to do so without me scrolling. Facebook is buzzing about lives mattering, hashtags, apologies, defending and continues to do so whether I check notifications or not. Right now, for my sanity and hope, I'll relish in the simple things and pray Elder Joseph Brackett was right. Simple is the road that leads home Simple is the color purple. Simple is a good meal and good conversation. ...

I pretend to be a tourist and poke around in one of the mall’s tourist kiosks. The tri-level display turnstile is adorned with them – postcards. Postcards tourists will send back home or save as keepsakes. The scenes vary, but all highlight landmarks and historical markers. The messages vary, but the common sentiment woven throughout is We’re having fun in and we’re kinda proud of it. Seems we’ve been sending postcards for darn near an eternity. Even when scenes and messages were dark. Men, women and children posed around mangled human beings. How cold does one’s blood have to had run to purchase these picture postcards, buy postage and mail them to friends and family? To say We’re having fun and we’re proud of it? To willingly be captured in these scenes, to willingly be closely associated with the inhumanity and hate mustered to create these scene in the first place. I’d like to think we are better and more sophisticated than that now , ...

My gut is all I have. This doesn’t discount my family, friends or my faith, because my gut instinct is tied inextricably to all of the above. It’s the second voice that whispers a welcome or a warning in the interest of keeping family, friends and faith intact. Teaching my daughter to trust her own gut is critical. I won’t always be here to give her the answers she needs. It’s gut-wrenching because I want to give her the right answers, but I know if I do that, she’ll never learn to trust her gut, or make decisions that grow into convictions. Most of the time, I end up sprawling myself strategically along the sidelines, allowing a toe or a foot or a half-shin to cross over into her decision-making territory while I pray she hears her gut and God’s voice and listens to them both. You’d think I was an expert at gut-listening-gut-heeding. You’d be wrong. Let the record reflect that I turned a blind eye, deaf ear and mute tongue during the relationship that was anything but ...