My 9/11 Story

I’d been looking forward to September 11, 2001 for months. My niece Leah was getting married on the 15^th in Hilton Head, South Carolina, and my daughter, E-Grrrl, was going to be the flower girl. Not only were we excited about the wedding itself but the opportunity it presented. Scattered up and down the East Coast, my siblings and I rarely saw each other after my parents died years earlier. Without a “home” to go home to for holidays, we all went our own way. The wedding was a chance for family time.

We’d decided to gather at Hilton Head and spend a few days together at the beach in advance of the wedding. Leah worked at a resort there and had gotten great rates on condos for us. Because my son, A, had just started kindergarten and was still settling in, E and I we didn’t want to pull him out of school. Instead E-Grrrl and I would drive down early and E and A would fly down and join us right before the wedding. We’d all drive back together.

I hate to drive and until September 11, 2001, I had never embarked on a major trip by myself. E-Grrrl was on the cusp of her fourth birthday and was still prone to wetting her pants. That morning managing the eight-hour drive by myself with a child with lingering potty-training issues was my biggest concern.

It was a perfect September day—crisp white clouds on deep blue skies. I was ready to head to the beach, ready to see my siblings, ready to celebrate Leah’s marriage. E-Grrrl couldn’t bear being separated from her brother and father and cried as we pulled out of the driveway and waved goodbye.

We were somewhere in North Carolina when the call came. In preparation for my first major solo car trip, I’d finally gotten a cell phone. When it rang, I didn’t even know what I was hearing—an electronic toy? I finally got a clue and pulled off I-95 and answered the phone after it had rung at least a half-dozen times.

E was calling to tell me about the Pentagon and the twin towers. He warned me that I might see troops mobilizing. The enormity of what he was saying slapped all the normality out of my life in an instant. Our country was under attack, and I was hundreds of miles away from my family, alone with my little girl.

Stunned with a jumble of emotions tumbling through my head.  Gratitude that E was home and not in his office near D.C. or at the Pentagon. Grief for all those who were. Anxiety that people might start pouring out of D.C. in a panic  and clog the highways, preventing E from picking  up A. In that moment of fear and confusion, all I wanted to know was that my husband was protecting our son. More than anything, I wanted us all to be together. But what about the wedding? What about the reunion? I debated whether or not to turn around and head home.

It was too much to absorb. What should I tell E-Grrrl? How could I explain? How could anyone explain what had happened?

The rest of the day is broken into shards of memory. Turning the radio on and listening to the horror unfold. Turning the radio off because I didn’t want E-Grrrl to hear too much. Turning it back on because I felt so disconnected by the silence as I headed South on an interstate on a beautiful fall day under an eerily quiet sky, the world seemingly falling apart in my wake.

Crying and driving and trying to put a brave face on for my daughter. Wanting to go home. Wanting to be with E. Wanting someone to hold my hand.  I felt an overwhelming urge to exit the highway and find a church where I could gather with others and pray. 

I wondered where the president was and why wasn’t he talking. The longer we didn’t hear from him, the worse I felt. What was going on? Rumors were swirling about what had happened, who was responsible, and what was yet to come. Even as the newscasters switched from referring to the events as accidents, and acknowledged they were acts of terrorism, I knew what they really were: an act of war. And I wondered then, and continue to wonder now, who our enemies really are.

Meanwhile, back in the car, E-Grrrl was having bathroom issues and I was constantly in the process of finding a restroom for her, only to have her reject it, get back in the car, and request a rest stop again 10 minutes later. The trip was dragging on and on and on, and I felt mentally and physically stretched thin. A series of violent thunderstorms blew in just as I hit the final leg of the journey. By now it was dark and I could barely see where I was going in the torrential rain and lightning. I’d been on the road about 14 hours, my head throbbing with thought, my eyes weary from having seen too much.

When I finally staggered into the condo, overwrought by all that happened, I knew that somewhere in the car along I-95, I’d crossed a line that would forever divide my life and history into “Before” and “After.” I wept in part because I knew my children would never even remember “Before.” Our life and our world would never, ever be the same.

September 11, 2006

Insomnia

2:14 a.m. Sleep recedes like a blanket that slides off the bed, and I’m wide awake—vulnerable to the darkness, my fears uncovered.

I worry about my son as he inches toward adolescence. So many concerns as we try to strike a balance between equipping him to be independent while providing enough structure and consequences to hold him accountable for his choices. Isn’t there a verse somewhere in the Old Testament that celebrates a time when “justice and mercy have kissed”? I can’t remember it here in the dark, so I pray in my heart to balance justice and mercy as I struggle with parenting my son. 

The dark knows no boundaries and my anxieties balloon and rise. I wonder about how we’ll transition back to life in the U.S. when we return in 2008. Where will we live and where will the kids go to school? They went to private schools before, but I’m not sure we’ll be able to afford that option if we move closer to Washington. Wondering about my work situation…and whether I’ll ever live in our cozy Cape Cod on Cleveland Drive again. The night is full of questions, not answers.

Like a toddler, I bring the blanket to my cheek and listen to E breathe. I look for a comfortable place to rest my mind and my body. I try to exhale my fears, to push them away and let them drift into nothingness.

Sunday morning is coming with all its rituals--pancakes and bacon and all of us together around the kitchen table and then church and communion, with the four of us lined up in a pew and then along the altar rail.  Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts. I have to keep faith that we're going to be OK.

September 10, 2006

Crap I can do without....

Decorative throw pillows. A warning to the pretty pillows on the bed, pretty pillows on the sofa, pretty pillows in the chair—be useful or die. I’m tired of looking for a place to put you when I want to use the furniture. I’m over 40 and I’m so freakin over pretty, which brings me to…

Moisturizing lotions with glitter in them. Makers of Olay Quench and Jergens Natural Glow, this applies to you! I’m an adult woman with dry skin who knows it’s ludicrous for women over 21 to sparkle like a Disney character. Leave the pixie dust out of the lotion! If I wanted to glow, I’d live on Three Mile Island, which may be the origin of the…

Big honking brown slugs from hell that are everywhere these days. They’re as long and fat as my pinky and look like mobile turds with antennae. They leave more shiny snot trails than a preschooler with a cold.

Hmmm. Key words for this post: Useless. Nuclear. Sluggish. Snotty.

That’s the PMS muse talkin’.

September 8, 2006 

Ten Unexpected Perks of Living in Belgium

There were many things we eagerly anticipated when we were preparing to move to Belgium. A slower paced life, the opportunity to travel across Europe, proximity to a large city with a bustling international community, beautiful architecture, medieval ruins, and of course, beer, frites, waffles, and chocolate. Certainly we’ve enjoyed these things, however some of the best perks of expat life are small ones that are easily overlooked or taken for granted. For that reason, I offer this list.

Ten Unexpected Perks of Living in Belgium

1. Flowers everywhere, not just in people’s gardens but in public parks, in window boxes, in hanging planters lining the streets, in climbing arrangements at bus stops, and in carefully tended corner beds and traffic circles.

2. Very little trash. The absence of “convenience stores,” limited fast food franchises and Belgian’s reverence for sit down meals mean people don’t eat on the run—and this national habit translates into less litter on the streets.

3. A shortage of outages. At home in Virginia, the spring and summer were a prime time for severe weather and thunderstorms which frequently led to power and water outages and fried electronics and appliances. After 18 months in Belgium, I haven’t experienced even one power outage and not a lot of severe weather.

4. Thank you for not calling. Telemarketing calls, the bane of U.S. households, are almost non-existent here. I think I’ve only received two.

5. Bright spots in dark days. The skies may often be gray, but the red brick and tile architecture is always bright, and the street and highway lights make walking and driving at night so much easier.

6 The staff of life. Every village has at least one bakery, more often they have several, and it’s a pleasure to walk to the bakery in the morning and see familiar faces. The pastries are a feast for the eyes as well as the stomach, and the wide variety of fresh breads adds substance and flavor to every meal.

7. Walk this way. There’s an abundance of parks and green spaces to amble through, sidewalks that make life easy for pedestrians, and bike paths that encourage cycling. It’s a pleasure to walk here whether you’re in the city or your village.

8. Life with the dogs. At any given moment, there is always someone walking their dog through the neighborhood. Belgians seem to enjoy their time on their end of the leash as much as their dogs like being on the other end. While there doesn’t seem to be a common standard for cleaning up dog messes, there does seem to universal agreement on the value of a well behaved pup. The dogs here are better behaved than most American children.

9. Fresh eggs. It’s not uncommon for people to have chickens, even in densely populated areas, and that means if you're lucky, your neighbor will share his fresh eggs.

10. Church bells and clock towers. In my little village, I love hearing the bells toll the hour as the day rolls along. It soothes me and makes me feel part of something larger than myself. It’s a paradox that the chimes that mark time feel timeless to me.

September 7, 2006

The Gilmore Girls--Season I

I’ve never been into TV and my television viewing is limited to occasionally popping in a DVD after the kids go to bed at night. After reading a lot of online buzz about The Gilmore Girls, I bought a used copy of the first season to watch. Last night, after months of catching an episode here and there, I finally finished watching the first season.

For those not in the know, the sitcom revolves around the lives of Lorelei and Rory Gilmore, a mother and daughter duo who are often mistaken for sisters. Lorelei, the only child of wealthy, old-money parents, scandalized her family and social circle when she became pregnant and gave birth to Rory at the tender age of 16. Years later, despite her success as a single mother, the past often comes back to kick her in the ass.

I’ve found The Gilmore Girls to be an enjoyable and original show but one I can’t quite relate to. It’s not quite a drama, not quite a comedy, and it operates in an alternate world. The story is set in Stars Hollow, a quirky community peopled by predictably eccentric characters. Amid all the neurotic borderline nutcases stands Rory, the 16-year-old Harvard-bound supergirl who is so wise, responsible, and kind that she’s a freak in her own right--in a good kind of way.

Lorelei, her fast-talking, miniskirt wearing, coffee-addicted mother, is like a 7^th-grader on speed. Impulsive, loud, and, at the age of 32, still caught in an adolescent rebellion against her conservative parents. Her rapid-fire delivery of rambling monologues is supposed to be funny, but I only find it mildly entertaining. Mostly it’s distracting, as if the scriptwriters are showing off how clever they can be. It makes Lorelei an annoying character.

The dynamic between Rory and Lorelei is like that of girlfriends. They share clothes, paint each other’s toenails, watch movies together, take turns making the coffee, eat nothing but junkfood, and have all the same friends. They even attend town meetings together. It’s a fun concept, but I admit I can’t always suspend my disbelief and swing with the breezy relationship. Of course, that explains why Stars Hollow is presented as a fantasy of a small town—Lorelei and Rory couldn’t exist anywhere else.

My favorite character is Emily Gilmore, Lorelei’s mother. She’s a bitch with a heart of gold. A typical upper-crust New England matron, she’s still confused and scandalized by Lorelei’s behavior, her abandonment of the life she was born to lead, the opportunities she squandered, and most of all, her refusal to be part of her parents’ lives until the cost of Rory’s education demanded she borrow money from them. Emily can be harsh and manipulative in her relationship with Lorelei. In contrast to Lorelei’s relationship with Rory, Emily and Lorelei’s exchanges are tense and peppered with sighs and eye-rolling. But above all, Emily loves Lorelei and while wounded by her rejection, she  is taking small steps to better understand and accept her daughter and her choices.

I like watching how conflicted Emily is as she explores Lorelei's different values and standards, and the realistic way she often takes one step forward and then two steps back in her relationship with her daughter and granddaughter. The actress playing Emily manages to convey the characters rigidity, strength, and vulnerability.

The first few episodes were uneven and a bit over the top. It’s been interesting to see the characters settle into their roles and the writers respond with scripts and storylines that play off the chemistry among the cast. The show gets better as it goes along, which means that even though I didn’t LOVE it, I’ll be watching Season 2 on DVD when I need to unwind before bedtime.

September 6, 2006

Retail Therapy

Today I woke up tired and irritable. Gone was the sweet smiley mom who had spent Saturday at an amusement park with her kids, who then stayed up until after midnight making a birthday cake and special breakfast dish for her son, who cheerfully attended church on Sunday and hosted guests on Sunday afternoon. Today I just wanted to flop on the sofa and be alone. Too bad that wasn’t an option.

E, ever energetic and hard-working, got up early this morning and went on a long run, and then planned a day of hedge trimming and yard work. He put the labor in Labor Day. In an effort to separate my bickering children and do something productive, I dragged my crabby ass out of the house with my effervescent daughter in tow, on our way to the mall, my spirits slowly rising

While I often hit the mall in the States, this was only my second time in a mall since moving here 18 months ago. E-Grrrl, an enthusiastic shopper, was dressed in a dark pink polo dress with a big white bow in her light blonde hair. She looked like a bon-bon and eagerly grabbed my hand as we headed up the stairs into the mall. We were on a quest seeking gifts for four people. Fun, fun, fun.

First stop: the cosmetics section of Galleria Inno where I paused at the L’Occitane section to sniff candles and soaps and read lotion labels. I especially loved the Verbena scented products and the shea butter moisturizers. E-Grrrl sampled the children’s colognes and briefly considered buying a bottle until she realized it would cost 34 euros. Still completely in the thrall of my Guy Dellforge perfume that I bought when Lynn was here in July, I didn’t even consider trying a new cologne, but I made a mental note of the one E-Grrrl favored (Papillon), in case I decided to splurge for her birthday or Christmas.

E-Grrrl is a compulsive nail biter trying hard to kick the habit so she can delve into my nail polish. She found a bottle of bitter-tasting liquid to paint on her nails to keep her fingers out of her mouth. It was expensive. But then I considered how hard she had been working on breaking her bad habit for weeks now. I couldn’t let her down when she was motivated and making an effort. Into the basket went the nail biting remedy.

With our cosmetic purchases in hand we continued on our way, stopping in a toy store next where E-Grrrl debated the merits of various Clickits and Polly Pocket sets. She wanted to think things over before spending any allowance, so we agreed to stop back later.

Next stop was Go Sports where I was searching for a pocket knife as a gift for a friend of A’s in the States. I’m singularly non-athletic but I love athletic and outdoor clothing stores. I didn’t find a suitable pocket knife there but did find a Columbia shirt on clearance for myself, plus a top for a girlfriend. I’ve been craving a pair of Adidas soccer slides but didn’t try any on.

Near the checkout, E-Grrrl picked up a small massage device and whisked it down my spine. Oh, it felt so good. Eight euros!?! She tried it on me again and my sore back sighed and loosened up a bit. I decided to buy it—cheaper than massage therapy.

E-Grrrl needed a bathroom break so we had to double back and find one at the entrance where we came in. Then we went to the nature store, another favorite of ours, full of everything from telescopes to hats to gardening supplies to New Age music to aromatherapy fragrances and cool kids toys. In the children’s section, I found the perfect pocket knife for A’s friend.

Nearby was a locked vertical display case with jewelry in it. An amber necklace caught my eye—two silver wire cables with light and dark beads. Not very expensive and in the warm golden colors that I wear all the time. Choker length too. Still I was resisting its lure, grateful the locked case kept me from taking the necklace and heading straight to the checkout. I was slowly backing away when I spotted an employee nearby unloading a box. My resolution crumbled. I asked her in French if she would show me the necklace. And then once I tried it on I had to have it. I realized at the checkout that the price tag I'd seen in the case applied to the matching bracelet, not the necklace as I'd thought. Didn't cost a lot but it cost more than expected. Oops. 

After leaving the nature store, we went to a stationery store where we love to admire notebooks, fancy papers, scrapbooking tools, stencils, and art supplies. With school starting, it was jammed packed and after a few minutes of trying to navigate in the crowded store, we left.

By now I was all shopped out and had bought gifts for everyone. I wasn't interested in checking out the stores on the other side of the mall corridor. We went back to the toy store where E-Grrrl bought a Polly Pocket set.

On our way to the Metro, we struggled to resist the siren call of Australian ice cream cones. By the time we caught the bus to our village and dragged ourselves home from our stop, I was exhausted. E-Grrrl generously agreed to work on my back with the hand massager.

“Wait,” she said, “Let me cut the tag off.” She traipses off with it, grabs the scissors, cuts the plastic thread, and drops the massager onto our ceramic tile floor where it breaks into four pieces.

Sigh. Whimper. Sigh.

I won’t admit how much that hurt.

Remembering my mom...

It’s been 14 years since my mom died. For a long time, she and my Dad rode parallel rails of declining health, breaking my heart bit by bit. My Dad died Fourth of July weekend, 1992. My mom died on Labor Day weekend, two months later.

My mom was Italian, the first member of her family to be born in the U.S. I was the youngest of her six children, born when she was 40. When I was in second grade, my grandmother came to live with us in our tiny Cape Cod in New York. My grandmother lost her legs to diabetes and was bedridden—and my mom cared for her as well as for all of us. As I sometimes feel stressed by my much less demanding domestic life, I wonder how my mom did it all. Like any good Italian, she was warm-hearted and affectionate and never skimped on sharing her love or her cooking, but lord, she worked so hard.

She cooked all our meals in a kitchen that had about two linear feet of counter space, she washed our clothes, carried baskets of wet heavy laundry up the narrow basement stairs, hung them on a clothes line to dry, and then ironed everything we wore. She made sure my grandmother had a daily sponge bath, brought her meals on a tray, and emptied and cleaned the bedpans. She scrubbed the kitchen floor on her hands and knees, kept the curtains clean, and hated the spiders that crapped on her windowsills. My mom was part of that generation of women who judged their worth by the cleanliness of their homes, and she cleaned with a vengeance. Our house was always spotless.

When I was in 6^th grade, we moved from New York to rural Virginia. I don’t think my mom ever forgave my dad for transplanting her to the South. Her sister bought her a plaque that said “Bloom where you are planted” but the move completely rattled my mom. It was too much change for her. She was isolated both geographically and culturally and for years wished she’d never left New York.

In hindsight, I think the move may have triggered episodes of depression. She was always loving and warm but she often seemed sad to me, clinging to her domestic routines as if they were a life preserver that would keep her afloat in dark seas. It became harder and harder to get her out of the house, she seemed anxious .  She didn’t really socialize, though she loved to have people visit her and was thrilled to cook for a crowd. Every day, my oldest brother’s kids would get off the bus at Grandma’s and have an afternoon snack there, a daily routine she cherished and looked forward to.

When I went away to college, she wrote me several letters a week. I loved letters from home and thought her efforts were fully for my benefit. It wasn’t until years later that I realized how much she must have missed me, how hard it must have been on her to have her last child leave the house. Once I was gone, it was just her and my dad, and it seemed to me all the disappointments they had in each other bubbled closer to the surface.

I was in college and getting ready to get married and move to Oklahoma when my sister died of cancer in 1982. In 1983, my father had a stroke that left him with permanent brain damage, and in 1984 my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer that had spread throughout her lymph system. Yeah, it was every bit as bad as it sounds. In the 80s, my mother’s world got smaller and darker, though in her characteristic style, she soldiered through it with a lot of prayers and grace. Unfortunately, I was living a 1000 miles away and more than a little desperate to return to Virginia.

I finally moved back to the state in 1990 and visited my parents one weekend a month, a routine that meant so much to me. The good times didn't last, however. My parents were involved in a car accident in 1991, and my mother was seriously injured, transported to a major hospital an hour away to be treated by trauma doctors. She and my dad recovered from their injuries only to have their fragile health and independence stripped from them in the aftermath. It was horrible. The marriage, which was tenuous at best, fully disintegrated in that final year and a half.

While my dad grew increasingly frustrated by his poor health and limitations, my mom was remarkably patient and serene in the face of her suffering. Her vision had been permanently damaged in the car accident, her femur broken, her body and internal organs torn and bruised--yet she never lost her trademark thoughtfulness and warm personality, even when the cancer moved to her bones, causing constant pain. She had her hip replaced to remove cancerous bone and keep her mobile as long as possible, but we all knew what was coming.

Mom died in my sister’s home on September 6, 1992 with my oldest brother nearby saying the rosary. She was 70. We buried her next to my dad; the dirt on his grave was still fresh, the headstone not yet set.

In October, I helped my brothers clear out my parents’ house and settle the estate. All the pain I’d suppressed to cope with their suffering and their needs those last years had to be confronted now that they were gone. I cried every day for six months. When we visited my older brother on the farm, I averted my eyes when we passed my parents’ house. My dad had built the house with his own hands, and I didn’t want to acknowledge it was now home to someone else. It was more than 10 years before I could bear to display photographs of my parents in my home. It was just too painful.

What I learned as I navigated the grieving process was how hard it is to come to terms with the memories I had of my parents. There was a desire to remember only the things I loved about them and our family life, and yet idealizing it all seemed the worst betrayal. It was hard to find some objectivity, to allow myself to remember how their marriage had faltered and yet not be concerned with assigning blame; to think of all they’d gone through and what I had and hadn’t done without nurturing regret. It was a process of finding acceptance as well as truth. I not only mourned them but how their lives could have been better. 

Now my parents rest comfortably in my memory though I still miss them, especially my mom. How I wish I had her around to help me navigate parenting and middle age. Above all, I wish my children had had an opportunity to know my parents. All that I have to offer them are my memories, old letters and photos, and the lessons my parents taught me about hard work, sacrifice, faith and family. In the end, that has to be enough.

September 3, 2006

On the second day of September...

I  became a Technorati whore. Why? Because what else do I have to do on a Saturday night after the kids have gone to bed?

I thought when I launched my blog last year that I claimed it on Technorati,(Technorati Profile) but apparently I did not. Seeing as my blog is only read by a small select group of desperate sophisticated readers seeking plodding thoughtful  posts, I hadn't bothered with having Technorati decimate my self-esteem by ranking me in the blogosphere and advertising how seldom anyone links to my blog. 

But now I see I can start a whole new tradition of checking my blog ranking every Saturday and getting drunk in response to my ranking every Saturday night. This is sure to keep me out of trouble and hungover in church. Yeah. I'm a role model for bloggers everywhere.

On the last day of August...

I berated myself for not sticking with my resolution to lose my expat fat. My closets are loaded with clothes I cannot wear. Bad, bad, bad Grrrl!

I reminded myself that I’ve exercised every day this week, and now that the kids are back in school, it’s much easier to avoid junk food and mindless eating.

I celebrated finishing my postcard scrapbook and relished the idea of doing an artsy scrapbook that focuses on words, not photos.

I drank three cups of chai.

I put away all the clean laundry and carried all the dirty laundry to the basement to be sorted. I washed two loads. It’s sad that I consider this a major accomplishment.

I packed my sandals back up in boxes, convinced it will not be warm enough to wear them again until next May because I turned on the heat two weeks ago. I’m OK with that.

I threw away my oldest pair of moccasins, two pair of slippers, and my kids’ outgrown shoes. I gave up on the navy sandals and put them in the giveaway pile. I noticed that my black walking boots are reaching the point where a coat of polish doesn’t help enough, but still, I can’t let them go.

I wondered what happened to my son’s navy sweatshirt.

I wondered how my daughter ended up with so many t-shirts.

I tried to guess what might still fit the kids next summer and what I ought to just get rid of now. That’s harder to do than it sounds.

I didn’t practice yoga. I should have.

I thought about my massage therapist, who is coming back to Brussels next week after spending three months in South Africa. My back has missed her.

I thought about my son’s upcoming birthday and made a list of everything I need to do before the weekend.

I haven’t done anything on the list yet.

I resolved to look for my kids’ lost reading glasses. I think they’re somewhere in the house. I hope I’m right. If not, cha-ching, cha-ching. $500.

I endured the excruciating process of supervising my son’s homework, a process fraught with tension, drama, and frustration for all parties. His weakest link? Writing. Yes, you heard that right. Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone, the writer’s child can’t write. God has a sense of humor.

My son told me he was all out of erasable pens. I put three in his backpack on Monday, each one LABELED with his name. Three pens gone in four days. Sigh.

I didn’t say, “The next pack of pens is on you, bud.” But I thought that.

I made meatloaf, one of his favorite meals, for dinner. I know he’s having a hard time transitioning to school.

For the second night in a row, he had a meltdown before bed because we won’t get him a guinea pig. He keeps saying “It’s not fair.” Oh no, it isn’t. All we hear about is what he DOESN’T get as pets. Never mind the lizard, tadpoles, frogs, bugs, grasshoppers, hamsters, fish, cat, and dog. Sigh.

I watched Gilmore Girls after the kids went to sleep. I love Emily Gilmore--she's a bitch with a heart of gold.

And tomorrow, I celebrate the start of the weekend and the start of my favorite month.

Life may be boring but you know, it’s good. 

It makes me wonder

Yesterday while I was on my daily walk, I ruminated over how my faith has changed over the years, and I wondered whether I was going forward or going backward in my spiritual journey. I was pondering those questions when I met a man who was walking his dog along a dirt lane.

People in Europe are quite reserved and not prone to greeting passersby or engaging in any kind of casual chit-chat with a stranger. However, this person not only spoke to me but greeted me warmly in English, commenting on the beautiful morning.

I was surprised, almost shocked, not only by his friendliness but that he knew my language.

When I responded in English, he asked if I was English, and I explained, no, I was an American. He noted that I didn’t have much of an American accent.

When he said that, I couldn’t help quoting a comment that my English friend Bernie had made at a party a few weeks ago. He’d said, “I don’t speak with an English accent, I simply speak English. You, however, speak English with an American accent.”

I shared the comment because I thought it was clever and funny, though David, the man on the lane, responded in a serious way, saying something to the effect that no matter where we’re from, we have more in common than we think, that every person deserves to be treated with dignity. (Hear that Bernie! I think that applies to grasshoppers and cake eaters too. Ahem. Everyone else,  don't mind the inside joke)

Anyway, while assuring me he wasn’t a “Bible Thumper,” David recommended a book to me called Conversations with God. He said it had made an enormous impression on him, and that it was a spiritual book rather than a strictly Christian one. He even told me where I could buy it locally.

I don’t believe in coincidences.

I think it’s beyond remarkable I met a friendly, English-speaking person on quiet dirt road who recommended a book called Conversations with God just at the moment I was launching my own conversation with God on the meaning of life and religion.

The book is written by a man, who in a fit of anger and frustration, dared to ask God the hard questions, scrawling them on a legal pad, and then was shocked when he felt God was actually answering them, sending him messages to record below his questions.

Let me tell you—this kind of thinking is not my thing. The first word that comes to mind when I hear about people like this is "fruitcake."

 And yet.

 And yet.

I don’t believe in coincidences.

Can I put aside my distaste for spiritual self-help books and check this one out?

Can I remain open to the idea that perhaps I’m meant to read it, whether I like it at first or not?

Can I put aside my skepticism and cynicism long enough to accept I can still learn something from someone who may be a fruitcake or an opportunist?

I’ll let you know.

August 31, 2006