Friday Tidings

She was one of Mom’s friends. They shared a love of books and all things artsy.  So, when I read her obituary, I couldn’t help but remember her.  Of course, the obituary had no mention of the heartache I know she endured—the loss of her husband to a younger woman.  Reading the flowing account of her life, there was not even a hint of animosity or judgement, only the delight she found in her children and after they were grown, exploring her world and creating beauty with her gifted hands.  She was an artist, but she must have also had an amazing heart and looked at the world and it’s people through a lens of love. I admired her strength. I wondered if it came from an inner storehouse. She seemed to focus on what she had, not what she’d lost. I don’t think I would have fared as well as she did.  When bitterness would have been easy, she redirected her life to find beauty in places she hadn’t looked before. She healed. Her obituar

Arthur Brooks, president of the American Enterprise Institute, recently commented that Americans don’t have an anger problem with one another as much as having contempt for one another. We see it in politics, but do we really have contempt for one another in our daily life?  That troubles me. Then I saw it happen. I was on the bus heading to the Seattle ferry. My fellow passengers included a business man with a briefcase, a couple about my age with large suitcases, presumably on their way to the airport for a vacation getaway, and a teen boy. Halfway there, the boy, who’d chosen the back seat, lit a cigarette.  The smell quickly wafted through the air. The bus driver asked over the intercom if that was cigarette smoke he smelled. He pulled over. The driver walked down the aisle to the source of the smoke, and sternly, but calmly asked the boy if he’d been smoking. “No Sir.” the boy lied, but responded respectfully. The older man sitting nearby, grumbled l

Mom and I were sorting a box of old photos—a project she wanted to finish before her health worsened. At the bottom was a painting of a young woman I didn’t know. “That’s Gee.” Mom said. I met Gee once in my life. It was a hot summer day in 1965. We were packed for a day at the beach. Then the yellow rotary wall phone started ringing. I watched Mom answer it. Her hand went to her heart, and she exclaimed, “Gee? Where are you?” Dad didn’t know who Gee was, but reluctantly made a 60 mile trip to collect her from the bus station. Gee and my grandmother were best friends in nursing college. And throughout those years, Gee had been like a second mom to my mom. At the bus station, Gee quickly spotted Mom, and with energy I didn’t think an old person could have, she ran to wrap her arms around her. This woman looked ancient—with leathery tanned skin and gray hair spun into a tight knot on the top of her head. It had been twenty years since Gee committed her life to servi

Jackie’s son is battling to win a war with illicit drugs. On the final day of August, she joined a community of supporters as they took the Walk for Recovery on International Overdose Awareness Day. Her daughter, Sherry and husband Randy have lived out the terror and anguish of this war too. It’s about saving the life of someone they love.  Standing with them in the photo are their friends, Toby and Linda. They know their pain intimately, because their son is a recovered addict. He now supervises a recovery home for men.  As they talk about the sons they love, you can see a mixture of hope and sorrow—of lost years, but thankfully not lost lives. They’ve balanced their love with forceful demands for treatment. The road to recovery isn’t straight for drug addicts, because each addict must battle the allure of the drug-infested detours along the way.  Life isn’t easy, and drugs have become the escape. That’s why when recovering addicts share their stories, they