Friday Tidings

The winter wind can be bone-chilling at Ediz Hook, a 3-mile-long sand spit, along the waterfront of Port Angeles. I wore a heavy coat and scarf. I had agreed to meet John Halberg—a local rowing enthusiast at the aged boathouse that was part of his vision for the future. We both shared a mission to help youth.   In a financially strapped region still emerging from its former logging days, there were plenty of youth needing hope and direction.   John found the key in his coat pocket and opened the broad doors that revealed shiny kayak-like boats. This was my first glimpse into the world of rowing. John had been a University of Washington crew member before I was born. He then coached college teams. He knew the discipline required and the intensity of competition. Now he saw it as an opportunity for rural kids too. But like most things, it came with a cost. Hence our meeting. We talked about potential grants and fundraising efforts. The boathouse required repairs, new boats (or shell

  The day before our wedding, I took the three crisp twenty dollar bills my aunt had given us as a wedding present and went to the jewelry store. For that amount of money, back in the late 70’s, you could purchase a thin gold wedding band. The jeweler made sure it fit Tom’s large ring finger.  That money could have bought some more essential things, but I wanted my husband to have this symbol of my love and commitment with him all the time. But after a few years, with the rough farm chores, his ring looked like it was even thinner. I went to a jeweler and looked at new rings. They had gone up in price along with everything else in the mid-80’s. But I found one I liked and had them put it on lay-away.  Each month, I put just a little bit more on that ring.  Two years later, on Christmas Eve, we’d been invited to a friend’s home for an unusual request—Tom was going to dress-up as Santa for their little daughter’s delight. Tom was an incredibly good Santa. I knew he would be. He even had

If you haven’t had a chance to meet a Christmas elf, let me introduce you to Claudia. By day, she works tirelessly for her clients in the real estate market. But throughout the year, she is stowing away stuffed animals, puzzles, coloring books, crayons, and a plethora of children’s gifts. Then, along with her fellow elves, she loads up brightly wrapped presents and heads for the hallways of Seattle Children’s Hospital. In a season when children are happily singing Frosty the Snowman and Jingle Bells, other lie in hospital beds waiting to get better. Claudia and her elf team bring wagons full of toys and distribute them to very sick little girls and boys. Parents look on with smiles and an elf often hands them a coffee gift card that lets them know others care about them here. Christmas is a tough time to be in the hospital. But cheering littles ones is what Claudia knows best. Her own niece, Sophie, spent weeks and weeks at Children’s Hospital as she recovered from a heart transpl

It was a couple weeks before Christmas, and I booked one of those family emergency flights trying to get from the tip of Washington to the edge of Florida in time to see my grandpa. He’d had a massive heart attack and was in intensive care. My aunt said it wasn’t hopeful. I wanted to see him one more time.  Florida was balmy and welcoming. Palm trees lined the streets and were strung with festive lights. A little plastic tree on the nurse’s station desk was one more gentle reminder that Christmas was coming. Grandpa was lying in the bed looking very much like his gruff college professor self. I smiled and he raised one eyebrow in slight surprise, and I heard his trademark chuckle. I pulled a chair next to him and began a mostly one-way conversation about what had been going on in my world. He soon fell asleep. I began thinking about the Christmas celebrations we once shared long ago. The week before Christmas, Grandpa always made a grand appearance at our home. Grandma had made

I calculated that I’d walked past the badly weathered Take Your Time sign about six hundred times. The sign was once bright red and the lettering clearly visible. Now it’s cracked, with peeling paint, and I wonder how many more seasons it will last. The sign looks old, but its message remains as vibrant as ever: Take Your Time. I thought of how time has changed my life in the years I’ve been walking past that sign. I love my To-Do lists, crossing everything off, before I can take my time for anything else—which can include people. Sometimes in my list-crossing rush, I forget to take my time to enjoy the moments.  But I walk by this sign on the way to my grandkid’s home. It’s as if God knew I needed a reminder every week, to take my time to enjoy them—really listen to them, and experience life with them. Forget my list. Watch them grow. I hope the sign has helped others like it helped me. Too bad it’s nearly gone. So, I was delightfully surprised a few weeks ago, seeing a new