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Today my mind flits between two homes.  Neither are mine.

The first, of course, is here in Brazosport.  Spending time amongst familiar surroundings and faces is always good.  Yet, there is something about returning to a place that makes one feel as if they are returning to life from the grave.   It’s a bit chilling to think this way, but I’m not the only one to have these thoughts.  In an email yesterday, a local friend wrote these words — “Rhonda and I just hang our heads and say, “We sure do miss Janell….”.

Perhaps I need to read Thomas Wolfe’s final novel, “You Can’t Go Home Again.”  I anticipate a few gifts waiting in this title, which may speak to where I am in life right now.

And where am I today in life?  I am haunted by that seasonal song  first sung by Bing Crosby  —  “I’ll be Home for Christmas” — realizing for the first time, that this song will never be true for me again.  Home and the hope of new gatherings of family around the fireplace that Mom kept burning bright all died with Mom.

In my mind today are thoughts of Dad and the nursing home where he now lives.  It is Tuesday after all, and every Tuesday afternoon is devoted to spending time with Dad.  I wonder how Daddy is today.  Is he more there than not?  Friends are kind to ask after Daddy’s state of health.  To one friend yesterday, I recall saying that Dad was just a shell of his former self.  And that his shell was really broken and fragile, carried by others from one place to another, to attend to the business of living.

Daddy will never be home again.  And I don’t just mean the home he shared with Mom, but the the here-and-now home of this world.  And these seashells that litter the beach, that we pick up on our long walks with our dogs…these seashells remind me of Daddy.  Some are paper-thin just like Daddy’s skin, a little frayed around the edges.  Rarely do I find a shell left fully intact from its rough and tumble ride on the surf.  Most of the washed up shells on the beach are mere shadows of their former glory.  I pick them up carefully and wash out their sandy remains to take them home with me.  They will become a sacred souvenir to remind me of my time here at the beach.

One unexpected gift of our trip is it will allow me to once again go home for Christmas.  I’ll go bearing gifts of washed up  broken seashells from this eastern sandy shore that so far has been absent of visible sun and blue skies.

It will be to my own home that I go, the one that sits in Mesta Park.  If one doesn’t leave home for long, one can go home again and it will feel and smell like home and nothing much important will have changed.  Except for this one change:  There in Mesta Park, I will become the home to which my family goes to for Christmas.

This Way and That

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I kept missing turn-offs today as I was negotiating Lake Jackson’s crazy curved roads.  Twice I ended up taking the long route to friend’s homes. After my second roundabout, I couldn’t help laughing at myself; apparently, the absence that makes hearts grow fonder also makes memory grow fainter.

I never lost my sense of direction, but I admit to losing my local driving mojo.  Today reminded me of those first weeks of Brazosport life in the mid-80s, when I drove around town looking for a familiar landmark.  Within Lake Jackson, there are few shortcuts but many scenic ways to get from one point to another.

Lake Jackson has been written up in national publications more than once for their street names;  trees  and flowers name streets here, unless it’s one of the few that end in ‘Way.’

Most of the ‘Way’ streets take you to the heart of downtown.  This Way and That Way and Parking Way and Winding Way and Circle Way and Center Way are major downtown arteries.

Further afield, just north of town, are two more Ways.  Neither directly leads to downtown proper,  though both intersect with This WayAny Way is a residential street while His Way is more driveway than street.  To follow the narrow paved path of His Way lands you and your car in the local Nazarene Church parking lot.

I didn’t drive on any of the Way streets today.  But I did find my own way to a few familiar landmarks.  I was a little late of course.

Angel Wings

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There is a metaphor for life hidden in today’s fog smudged horizon of sea and sky.

Truth is, we often don’t know where out next step or thought will take us.  The fog opens only as we step or think our way into it.  We may make plans toward a certain horizon, yet lay them aside for something else that comes along.  One step leads to another until many steps down the road, we have become the people our steps and thoughts have made us.

All the people, places and experiences I have known have,  in some imperceptible way, shaped me into the person I am today.  Had I not known them, I would be different.  Most were small differences.  But at times, I was pointed toward changes that opened up life toward fresh horizons.

And yet, those life opening events did not appear important at the time.  I recall one change that came by one who was not much more than a friendly acquaintance.  Our husbands were friends and she and I were along for the ride.  Who can say why Paula took such an interest in my failure to land that elusive first accounting job?  But she did.

Paula held no important position in the community.  Nor did Paula hold an influential position at the bank where she worked.  So when Paula told me she was going to put in a good word on my behalf, with the public accounting firm that served as the bank’s independent auditor, I didn’t believe anything would come of it.

But I’m glad she didn’t see it that way.  The discouraging fog that often hems us in from helping others was just not in Paula’s line of vision.  This small hourly worker, who later became a waitress, went up to the firm’s hiring partner and landed me an invitation to interview.  All I had to do was call and schedule a time.

I placed the call with memory of many rejections still fresh in my mind, only to learn from the receptionist that the firm wasn’t hiring.  Had Paula not followed up, I would never have shared the bad news.  But rather than letting the matter drop, Paula decided to hold the accounting firm accountable for its seemingly wishy-washy actions.  Of course, the audit partner didn’t know the receptionist was screening job candidates on her own.

After the fog cleared, I had my first accounting job, a gift from this girl who refused to give up on me when I had given up on myself.  And while I know I thanked her, she can’t know what her one intervening action did for my life because I didn’t know to tell her.  It was only much later that I realized what she had done, and by then, our paths had already parted.

There are many fog lifting experiences like this in my life.  And I imagine we  all have experienced them, if we but take the time to remember them.   We are beneficiaries of people who take an unexplained interest in us.

These life-givers are the George Bailey’s in our everyday lives that teach us it’s a wonderful life indeed.  Of course the fog keeps them from seeing their own greatness.  But I’d like to think that, just like George Bailey, they get that occasional glimpse through an angelic message of glad tidings.

Dear George,

Remember no man is a failure who has friends.

Thanks for the wings!

Love, Clarence