“Great Art and the Gods”

Picture Kristina, Joelle, Zoe, Mark, Joey (all aged 5) and me (aged 38) taking off from the Unitarian School for San Diego’s Fine Arts Museum complete with five apples. I thought I might help these kindergartners experience beautiful images of color, mood and texture. Children who are sensitive toward beauty, I believed, could never be destructive. I did not suspect that on this outing I’d be pinned down by religious inquiry, leaving me longing for strong drink. . .

Read more at uuworld.org Spring 2007 issue

“A Prayer for Earl”

On a cold November morning Earl Smith knocks at my back door. I can’t imagine why he’s come. Framed by our northern Arizona landscape, Earl looks like a bundled-up prospector—wrinkled face, stooped body, clutter hanging from his belt. He fits the rustic scene better than I do in my robe and slippers. I marvel at the view of winter behind him because the rocky desert is covered with patches of snow. Snow is not my natural habitat.

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“California, 1942”

“Can I get some free paper from the butcher?” I asked Mother and climbed into the passenger seat of our black Chevrolet. The feel of the scratchy upholstery on my bare legs made me feel secure. “I told Mrs. Oldham I would—for a banner for Scouts.”
“Yes. You ask him yourself and be sure to thank him.” Mother’s glasses shone as she turned around in her seat and backed the car out of the driveway. She had a stern look, as if we were going on a long trip costing a lot of money. We were making the weekly drive to the grocery in our Southern California town, San Gabriel, named for an angel.

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“Comanche Child”

“Mom! The adoption searcher just called. They’ve found my birth family!” My daughter’s voice over the telephone from central Oregon sounded thick with urgent joy. “I couldn’t even talk to the lady,” she went on. “I started crying . . . I can’t believe it!”
“That’s wonderful,” I said, meaning it.
We’d been searching for Margaret’s birth family for ten years and had never broken through the barriers of secrecy.

Read more at motheringheights.net in the 2008 Anthology

“Water into Wine”

John and I drove into Prescott to Doctor Caccavale’s office, the Arizona sun of late February glaring in our eyes. Leukemia had made my husband’s pale complexion transparent, but he chose to do the driving. I squinted at the San Francisco Peaks in the distance, noticing a sunlit dusting of snow on the two points.
The doctor told us that John had only a short time left.

Read more at verbsap.com in the archives

Find the essay “Brave Heart” in Cup of Comfort for Single Mothers
available at bookstores.