There are only so many tomorrows.

After weeks of hearing me talk about them incessantly, my friend, Lucas, came with me to visit Earl and Sarah about a week and a half ago. Their place really looks fantastic; a church group from Ohio came down for YouthFest and we were able to do a huge clean-up in the yard and paint the trailer. The results were remarkable, and Earl, Sarah, and their family were thrilled with them. And I was thrilled to have been able to help them to obtain something that they wanted so badly.

Lucas is a great story-teller, and I couldn’t wait for him to get to talk to Earl. Entering their home is always such a treat for me, and I was eager to share the experience with a member of my Jackson House family. Anything that’s worrying me outside their door melts away with Sarah’s bear hug and Earl’s kiss on the cheek, and I settle myself in for a visit filled with genuine warmth and hospitality. On this particular day, their son, Marshall, was over. He was freshly home from the hospital after nearly dying; he’d had a heart attack, and if his brother hadn’t found him in time, he wouldn’t have been with us that day. He filled me in on the details of his near-death experience. Forty-five years old, Marshall had almost a child-like quality about him. Despite his goatee and buzzed white-blonde hair, his perfectly round eyes and earnest manner in recounting the story reminded me of a kid trying to explain his way out of a broken window, baseball bat in hand. He lit up a cigarette as he detailed the shunts that had been put into his heart to prevent further complications. I allowed myself a small smile at this as I continued to give him my full attention.

We stayed for about an hour; Earl could have easily talked to Lucas about his truck-driving days all afternoon, but we had a few more stops to make before night fell. Earl and Sarah gave both of us big hugs, asked us to come again soon, and walked outside to bid us farewell. As we were pulling away, I saw Marshall with a new cigarette in his mouth. “Marshall,” I yelled out the window with a grin. “You just had heart surgery, dude. You gotta quit those things. They’ll kill you.” He smiled sheepishly, saying, “I know, I know.”

I attended Marshall’s wake tonight.

He was clothed in a white, slightly wrinkled polo shirt. His casket was very simple, with fake flowers adorning the foot of it.

I received word that Marshall had passed late this afternoon when Sarah called Family Advocacy - she’d apparently misplaced my number - and asked them to pass the message along, saying that she really wanted me to be at the viewing. I pulled into the funeral home’s parking lot, and was greeted with the sight of a huge group of people standing around outside the building. I walked toward the crowd, and spotted Sarah at about the same time she saw me. I saw her draw in a sharp breath, and she began to elbow her way out of the middle of her guests.

“There you are! I was afraid you wouldn’t get here!” She finally got to me and threw her arms around my neck.
“I’m so sorry, Sarah,” I spoke into her gray hair.
“Thank you, baby. He ain’t sufferin’ no more,” she replied, looking up with sad eyes. “Let me introduce you to the rest of my family.”

She took me around the parking lot, and I shook hands with the children I hadn’t yet met. Then she brought me inside to see Earl.

He was sitting against the wall, staring at the floor in front of him blankly. I’d only ever seen his eyes when they snapped with a bright blue flame in conjunction with a witty remark. Or when they endeavored - unsuccessfully - to hold back a sparkle under his hawkish white eyebrows in anticipation of a good story. Now, they were torn by an immeasurable pain that dwelled deep within them. It was as if I could see his broken heart through those eyes, and they caused my heart to break, too. He saw me, stood up, and hugged me. I told him how sorry I was, and his response was to ask about Lucas, to say that he thought the world of him, and to tell me how much he and Sarah loved me. Even at his lowest point, Earl took it upon himself to teach me about love.

Once inside the temporarily empty chapel area, I spent a few moments with Marshall and said a prayer for him and his family before the parking lot crowd began to make its way inside. While I was still at the front of the room, Sarah came in and slipped her arm around my waist. And that’s where she kept it as people began to filter into the room. At first, I was a little uncomfortable; I figured that her family would want to be next to the casket with her, and that I had no business standing there as she greeted the mourners. On the contrary, though, as each person came up to pay their respects, Sarah would hug them with her left arm - her right arm still firmly around me - and would say, “This is the CAP lady who painted my trailer. She’s my baby.” In between guests, she would rest her head on my shoulder, hold me close to her, and murmur all of her “why” questions into my sweater.

Earl came in to check on Sarah at one point, and he put his arm around her, holding onto my wrist which was resting on her shoulder. The three of us stood there in a familial embrace, the two of them exchanging looks full of hurt and worry for one another, and my heart threatening to burst at having the privilege of once again bearing witness to their simple and overwhelmingly authentic love story.

As the evening wore on, I came to understand that my role there wasn’t “transient volunteer.” It wasn’t even “CAP lady.” For some beautiful reason that continues to be beyond my understanding, Earl and Sarah had made me a part of their family. I didn’t have to ask for it, and I didn’t even know it was happening until I was already in love with them. They allowed their broken hearts to expand to include me. And for that, I consider myself to be incredibly blessed.

Angel

I’m partial to the FoxNews channel.

As such, I’ve never watched a single broadcast of CBS Evening News. Nor did I ever catch Katie Couric in her role as the perky wake-up call on the Today show. On the whole, I’m fairly unfamiliar with much of her work and, frankly, entirely uninterested. The same cannot be said for Clara.

Clara is the roommate of one of my participants who currently resides in a nursing home. My participant, Violet, is a doll. Her hands are crippled beyond repair or use with arthritis, and one can tell by spending time with her that her mind is starting to go, but she bears the carriage of a true southern genteel lady. She is reserved and soft-spoken, but entirely warm and graceful, with impeccable manners. When I give her a hug, her head of wavy white hair fits perfectly under my chin, and I could easily wrap my arms around her tiny frame twice.

If the proprietors of the Owsley County nursing home searched the entire county - no, the entire state - I don’t think that they could have possibly found a roommate for Violet less compatible than Clara. She isn’t old; I’d place her at about fifty. She has brown hair cropped close to her head, and she’s a big lady - in size, presence, and volume. She’s definitely a few fries short of a Happy Meal, so to speak, but I really love chatting with her when I go in to see Violet. Granted, she bogarts the conversation in such a way that I often have to bring Violet someplace else in order to catch up with her. However, the resulting laughs make the minor inconvenience totally worth it.

Clara is the biggest Katie Couric fan I’ve ever met. I mean, I wish I loved anything as much as this woman loves Katie Couric. When she first found out that I hail from New York, her round eyes grew wider, her mouth hung agape, and she asked in an awe-struck voice, “Do you know Katie Couric?” When I answered in the negative, she threw her hands up in the air, sat back, and said, “I’m ashamed of you.” Well.

In the visits that were to follow, we often touched upon the topic of Ms. Couric. Over time, I was able to alter my original answer to the point where I could speak freely about my numerous discussions with the anchor, referencing our BBM correspondence and frequent coffee shop conversation. During my last visit with Violet, Clara handed me a piece of folded yellow paper and gravely gave the order to pass it along to my good friend, Katie. The following passage is a faithful duplicate of the words written therein:

#1 Reporter in the World

To = my best friend Katie Couric =

I want to meet you in person, you can say you are on assignment. I have watched loved you and admired you for years.
fly into Lexington Ky., rent a red Toyota Camry, come to Booneville, Ky., the nursing home. Make sure you make it interesting.
Your best friend Clara

(over)

Eventually, I want to be called Angel.

Katie, I asked Charlotte at the Hazard hospital how you were, I was told I was you. Katie, will you it was or is possible, help me and let me tell you the truth about God and Jesus and me.

I will tell the truth.

As I took the note, Clara looked up slyly at me and asked, “Are you an angel?” I smiled, shook my head, and said, “No, but I’ve been told that you are.” She threw back her head and howled with laughter. As Violet and I slowly walked down the hallway lined with people forgotten and discarded by society, I could hear Clara’s laugh still, punctuated by the exclamation, “An angel!”

And yes, I am absolutely sending that note to Katie Couric.

Another mark against flip flops.

Since I’ve come here, I’ve had to defend my flip flop wear on more than one occasion. Granted, I had to do that all the time in New York, especially during the winter months. But there are enough people on Long Island who forego the comforts of closed-toed shoes to make me look relatively normal or, at the very worst, like a rebellious bohemian (thanks, Dad). Here, it’s generally regarded as nuts. Presumably, this is because shoes were such a precious commodity for most of my participants when they were growing up, so the idea of someone choosing not to wear shoes - particularly in snow or mud - is pretty crazy.

Nevertheless, as I have for over four years now, I continue to stubbornly wear my multi-colored collection of two-dollar, rubber-soled podiatric noise-makers. So, when it was decided that my housemates and I would help to clean up our street with some of our neighbors in recognition of Earth Day, I thought nothing of setting out with a pair of basic brown flippies. We split up upon leaving the house, armed with bags, gloves, and a tenacity that would have put Al Gore himself to shame.

My friend Kristen and I headed up towards Camp AJ. We skipped our way along the road, looking for pieces of trash to pick up, bursting at the seams with a burning desire to rid Sandlick Road of any and all refuse. Imagine our chagrin when we discovered that there weren’t nearly as many “trashes” on the road as we’d anticipated. Not wanting to be the team that came up short, we started to look off-road for our treasure. I suppose it was about fifteen minutes into the project when we thought we’d hit our payload.

We both spotted it at the same time: a neat little row of cans and bottles down the embankment, resting comfortably on a bed of dry leaves. We knew what we had to do. For God, country, and Mother Earth, we had to get down there to retrieve them. We picked different places at the side of the road to make our way down the steep slope and gingerly began to sidestep to the bottom. Kristen made it down quickly and successfully. Me? Well, not so much.

I slipped and slid the short way down which, in and of itself, was nothing to write home about. It’s no secret that grace is not a God-given aspect of my nature; I mean, let’s face it, how I’ve made it this far without major catastrophic incident is miraculous. Kristen and I both laughed at me when I stopped. Mid-snort, though, I looked down to address a sudden, sharp pain in the bottom of my foot. And, wouldn’t you know it, there was a broken soda bottle stuck in there. It’d gone right through my flip flop and directly into my heel.

Kristen and I just sort of contemplated it for a while. Then, given that the puncture was on the bottom of my foot, it started to bleed pretty freely. Kristen sprung into action, removing the bottle and promptly cuffing my jeans so as to avoid blood stains (following the order of my own priorities). We were pretty much at a loss for what to do next after that, so she helped me back up to the road and I began to limp my way back to the house, leaving Valley Forge-style bloody footprints on the pavement.

Lucas intercepted us and graciously offered to help me back up to the house, volunteering himself as a human crutch. I swear, it really wasn’t that bad. It looked much worse than it actually was. All the same, he patiently cleaned and bandaged the wound, and I nearly felt as good as new. I carefully limped out into the kitchen, where I was asked by the housemates coming in - fresh off the victory won from an hour’s work of picking up trash and beautifying the earth - when my last tetanus shot was. I couldn’t remember, but reassured them that I’d be perfectly fine and that the inoculation would be entirely unnecessary. I was quickly voted down, though, and when the threat was made to call my dad about it, I consented to bring myself to a Booneville clinic.

The waiting room of this particular clinic is decorated appropriately for its clientele. The beige walls sport three different mounted animals, and I overheard one patient telling another about the coon he’d killed in his yard just a half hour before. When everything was said and done, though, I got the shot. I did not get lockjaw. And I will continue to wear flip flops until my arches fall. But, given that my grandmother’s reading this, I’ll make the promise to wear thick-soled shoes for the next trash clean-up.

Fireflies

I saw my first fireflies in Kentucky tonight.

When I was a little girl, the only day that could come close to rivaling the sheer, unbridled joy of Christmas morning was the first day of fireflies.

Seeing them tonight immediately transported me back to Winding Lane. My brothers and I were up with the sun and, after nourishing ourselves with Cap’n Crunch and ice cold milk, we took off running, carpe-ing that diem like it was our job. We’d warm up with a neighborhood bike ride around the block (on the sidewalk, of course). The more, the merrier. Next activity up would be driveway hockey; I would usually either play in net or spin the Jock Jams turntable on our old boom box. Around this time we’d break for lunch. We’d sit out in the backyard and eat the tray full of sandwiches that Mom made us and contemplate life as only a child under the age of eight can. Then it’d be back to business. Tag, hide-and-seek, Nerf wars. Boy, our schedules were packed. We’d drag ourselves into the house for dinner, sun-drunk and breathless, wolf it down as quickly as possible, and head back out for the best part of the whole day - twilight.

I think even at that age we understood the magic of the hour. The air smelled sweeter, it weighed heavier on our tiny, sweaty brows. If we’d been playing wiffle ball all day, we’d have to stop, because the ball would play tricks on our eyes in the hazy gray light and the bases would start to disappear (I would inevitably be the first casualty in this circumstance, and I often had the bruises to show for it). We’d play a few rounds of tag but, frankly, it’d been a long day of running and tagging and laughing, and it was time to rest. Porch lights were on, and we could hear the murmurings of our mothers sitting outside with each other. The grass felt so cool on our dirty little feet, so we’d plunk down in it and spread our arms out to the darkening sky and soak it all in like we were the only people on the face of the earth and all of this was for us.

And then, there they were. Little points of light winking at us from above. Like stars, but stars that we could catch and hold and whisper our wishes and secrets to. Oh, man. At that moment, my little heart knew no greater bliss. Summer lasted forever and every single day would be spent like this one. My brothers and I would never get older, and we’d always be best friends with the boys on the block. Our moms would always be there to keep an eye on us, and the fireflies would light up the night sky for all eternity.

Love was so incredibly simple then. We existed, therefore, we loved. We loved absolutely everything, from the grass crinkling under our necks to the balmy breeze brushing over our scraped and sun-tanned legs. Our wide eyes drank in those tiny glowing spots in the big night and we felt warm and safe in the arms of the universe. “Vulnerability” meant nothing to us. We were invincible. At least until September.

Somewhere along the way, I think we tend to lose sight of this love. Love becomes a word, a thing convoluted and contrived and confused. We forget that love is. It doesn’t have to be explained. Excuses don’t have to be made for it. We don’t have to look for it, and it doesn’t have to find us. It shouldn’t hurt, and it shouldn’t make us to be something that we aren’t.

We know love when we lay down our weary heads and find comfort waiting for us there. When we don’t have to try to justify our existence; we’re accepted and cherished in our pricelessly broken states. When a light as tiny and seemingly insignificant as that of a firefly can lend meaning to our entire being, and give us hope for a million tomorrows.

Evenin'

Neighborliness is something that people around here pride themselves on. And it’s something that struck me as one of the greatest differences between eastern Kentucky and Long Island from day one. Sharing is a given; since so many people do without, those with are almost always happy to lend a hand. There’s a strong sense of community and hospitality that I’ve never experienced anywhere else.

This evening, one of my housemates was baking bread for the dinner he’s preparing for tomorrow. We did most of the shopping for it last night and, when confronted with the conundrum of whether or not to purchase eggs, I assured him that we had plenty in the fridge back home. Well, turns out we didn’t. He discovered this halfway through the dough-making process; the recipe called for two egg yolks that were not currently in our possession. Luckily, they would be brushed onto the risen dough, meaning we had plenty of time between the braiding and the brushing to go out and acquire the necessary comestibles.

See, the problem with Smalltown, USA is that nothing stays open very late - something to which I’ve yet to grow accustomed. So, when we set out at just past nine, I figured we’d have some luck somewhere. First stop was IGA. Closed at nine. Then, RiteAid. Closed. The gas station? Well, they had milk, Lunchables, and bologna. No eggs. My friend had the idea that the Hilltop Pizza across the street from the pumps would be able to sell us a couple of eggs. Unfortunately, they had none on the premises, though they did genuinely seem like they would have been glad to assist us if they had.

We surveyed our options. Being that we currently reside in farm country, we contemplated trying our luck with finding an actual egg-laying chicken which would be willing to part with some of her handiwork. Ah, but where there’s a farm, there tends to be a sawed-off shotgun. So, that was a no-go. We figured that our best plan of attack would be to head west through Sand Gap; there are a few convenience stores there, and surely one of them would be open and have eggs. If all else failed, we’d drive straight on to Berea, home of the nearest Walmart.

Suddenly, inspiration struck. The nights are getting warmer here, and the front-porch-sitters have begun to make their way out to their nocturnal posts. Why not test this Southern hospitality theory and try our luck?

We passed by a Church of God that had a large white colonial next to it. There were three figures sitting on the front porch. It was decided that the following would make a better story than “we drove all the way to Walmart.”

“You’re doing all the talking,” I told my friend as I turned the car around on a dirt road and pulled into the driveway.

I parked my New York-plated Cobalt and we both nervously climbed out. As I sauntered away from my vehicle, trying to project a more confident air than I felt, I heard the word “evenin’” escape from my lips. Straight up dropped that “g” and replaced it with a casual, folksy apostrophe. The silence I received in response indicated that I wasn’t fooling anyone.

My friend chimed in, playing the Christian Appalachian Project volunteer card like I’d never seen it played before. The man and woman on the porch looked at us warily, but not in an unfriendly manner. My friend went on to explain the situation, and before he could even finish, the lady smiled warmly and asked, “How many eggs do you need?”

As she ran inside to help us out, her husband informed us of his love for eggs, particularly the fried variety. We small-talked about the places from which we came until his wife returned and, beaming, handed us our two coveted eggs. We thanked them profusely and, cradling those eggs like they were newborn babies, scurried off to our car. We were practically giddy as we drove home, so excited were we to have been treated with such grace and good will by two perfect strangers.

My friend’s bread turned out beautifully. And Glen and Penny - because those are their names - will be getting a loaf of it tomorrow night.

Go now.

You are forgiven.



It’s easy to get overwhelmed in life, even if you’re living in Paradise. And it’s not necessarily always a matter of negative energy bogging us down. Sometimes we can get so swept up in the excitement and movement of every day that we forget to bring our feet back to earth and take a breath.

I found myself falling into that familiar pattern recently. It’s funny: I recently spoke with my brother, who told me that the question of whether or not I ever have a bad day here in Kentucky had been raised back home on the island. I had to laugh. When I look at my past blog entries - which happen to be how most of you keep up-to-date on what I’m up to down here - I really do appear to be walking on clouds, conducting a blissful existence filled with rainbows, wildflowers, and sunshine. For the most part, this is remarkably true. But there is the occasional sensory overload, a few days where I realize that my mind, body, and soul are moving at different rates of speed and I need to find a way to refocus my energy on what I’m here for (in other words, whatever the Boss is wanting).

Holy Week is such a perfect time to tackle this task. It’s such a naturally grace-filled time; even if you’re not trying to get closer to God, He’s nearly impossible to avoid. On Palm Sunday, an announcement was made after Mass that confessions would be heard at the church on Wednesday, accompanied by Eucharistic Adoration. Now, despite the fact that the thought of Confession makes me start wringing my hands (as you Newman kids know quite well), I was missing my churches on Long Island very much: my dark, hidden back corner at St. Joseph’s, the reverence and community of the Holy Hour at the seminary, even the musty old chapel at Joe’s Place. And I was feeling like I was trying a little too hard to be in control. So, I decided that I had to make it there. And, though it kept me up most of the night before, I went.

I won’t go into the gory details of my imperfections. I don‘t have the necessary space here, nor do I have the interest of my readers (well, that may not entirely be true, but if you‘re reading this, chances are you have a fair enough idea of all that’s wrong with me). Let’s just say that, upon leaving the church, I felt a much-welcomed sense of peace within me. The sun was casting a golden glow on everything, and with my friend driving home, I let the wind hold my hand outside the window and run its fingers through my hair.

We got back to Camp AJ, and my friend wanted to check on the status of a jugline he’d set out earlier. We hopped into a canoe, yours truly landing directly in a very chilly puddle of water. The night was pleasant, and we rowed out to the jug floating on the surface. Well, he rowed. I made a valiant effort. Thank God, these people seem to have quickly become accustomed to the fact that, for all of my good intentions, I tend to be a complete and utter gong show. I think they get a kick out of it for the most part, actually.

Anyway, having realized an absence of fish on the line, we spent a few minutes drifting, listening to the sounds of the birds and frogs chirping in the twilight. We eventually made it back to the dock and, being that my jeans were already soaked, I was seized with the notion of getting the rest of me equally wet by jumping into the lake.

This isn’t nearly as crazy as it sounds, guys. I’m the only one in my house who hasn’t done it, yet. The night was getting a little chilly, but I was still on this Penance high and, damnit, I was going to make the most of it. So, after ten minutes of “You won’t do it”s and repeated false alarms with my friend (who really couldn‘t tell until the very end whether or not I was serious), I jumped.

Ladies and gentlemen, I have never been so cold in my entire life. That dark water closed over my head, and every square inch of my skin was electrified by the cold. My lungs compressed, and I couldn’t even feel my blue-jeaned legs as they propelled me to the surface, where I gasped for air, wide-eyed and watching my friend enjoying my shock a little too much. He jumped in, too, of course, and we scrambled back up onto the dock, shivering and laughing before jumping in one more time for good measure. Then we tore up to the house in my car, windows down and blasting Led Zeppelin almost louder than we could sing along to it.

How awesome it is to be free. To be able to shed the mantle of guilt and pain and worry that gets heavier every day you’re on this earth in order to fold yourself in an embrace of love and forgiveness that’s always there and always has been. To quit letting your shortcomings hold you back from all that this life has to offer. To jump in and get the thrill of your life, to climb out dripping and shaking and smiling and thanking God for letting you wake up that morning. To get a second chance at a fresh perspective. To feel alive because you are.

Well.

Sometimes there are just no words.

I love language.

I love to read. I love to write.

I love to tell stories. I love to hear stories.

I love to ponder and contemplate and wonder.

I chose to be an English major based solely on the fact that I’m endlessly fascinated by words and their meanings, how we can twist them and manipulate them and string them together to create something beautiful and meaningful. What incredible power a simple word can have! A few letters combined in the right sequence can lift a person up or strike him down, change his life for the better or completely destroy him. Our most precious traditions have been passed down and recorded by voice and pen; the stories that make us who we are are composed of words that echo in our very souls.

The tragedy of it all is that words fall short when they’re needed most. At the moment I want to harness the power I know them to have, I realize that all of it dwarfs in comparison to the idea I wish to convey.

So, I can’t tell you exactly how I met God today. Just know that He’s here, and He’s really lovely.