Nicole Y. Walters

She closed the door behind her and locked it.  Eddie didn’t want anyone to walk in on her.  This was a big deal . . . a private moment.  Today is the day, she decided.    She stood in front of the mirror and studied her face.  A generous grin widened it considerably.  She was cute, and not just because she thought so either.  Other people told her too, especially the little old ladies at church.  They were always shuffling up to her before service with sun on their faces.  “Oh, chile!  Looka how you don’ grow’d!”  “Lawd Jesus, this is sho’ll a cute gal hea’!”  “Rever’nd,” they would say to her father, “You gon’ have t’ look after this baby fo’ she gets snatched from under you.”  Looking at her milk chocolaty skin, deep brown eyes, her round, playful nose, her proud cheekbones, and her pillowed lips, Eddie couldn’t agree more.

She stared at her reflection for a long time.  Longer than usual even.  She wanted to remember this moment.  Make it indelible, permanent.  She turned her face at various angles and took in how the shadows from the mirror’s light changed its contours.  Eddie wished she had one of those photographic memories like the heroes in those mystery books she loved so much.  At this, she snapped her eyes shut like they were a camera shutter and she taking a picture.  Eddie sighed and poignantly lifted her narrow fingers to her puffy lips.  She kissed them deep and long before reaching them out to touch the lips reflecting back at her from the mirror.

Eddie was never one to lack dramatics.  How could she be with a name like Edith?  It was a lot to live up to, and every chance she had Eddie did her best to do just that.  Like the time when she was 8 years old and sang “O Holy Night” for the school’s holiday concert.  It made perfect sense to her that when she sang the words “faaaaaaaaaaaaaaall on your kneeeeeeeeeeees, O heeeeeeaaaaaaaar the angel vooooooiiiiiiiiicccceeeeeeees” she did, in fact, fall on her knees.  She found it strange that people were still talking about it a year later at the next holiday concert.  Though she had another solo, Eddie was disappointed to discover that none of the words to Feliz Navidad lent themselves to interpretation.

Then there was the incident this year during her campaign for school president when she brought in a homeless guy during one of the debates and promised to create more community service opportunities for her classmates to help people like old Mumblin’ Pete.  She won the election.  It was a landslide.  Eddie loved doing things with ceremony and flare.  This thing would be no exception.

Okay.  Enough.  Eddie stopped looking in the mirror and started rifling through the messy bathroom drawer where she kept all of her necessities and such.  She noisily shoved the multicolored hair ties, fine-tooth combs, wide-tooth combs, stretchy headbands, half-full bottles of perfumed lotions and body splashes, and hair gels to the front of the drawer and reached for the plastic box she kept hidden in the back.  She pulled it out and shut the drawer with her hips.  She held the little clear container in her hands and then clutched it to her chest.  She remembered when she got it like it was yesterday.  Of course, that made her begin to remember a lot of yesterdays.

She tenderly recalled her first bike ride when her dad deliberately threw himself between Eddie’s falling pink two-wheeler and the angry pavement to keep his promise that he wouldn’t let her skin her knees.  She got misty eyed when she thought about the burial service she conducted when she was just eight-and-a-half for her hamster Fluffy.  He died at the ripe old age of two years, longer than anyone thought he would survive Eddie.  She gathered her mom, dad, that sweet Mrs. Langer from next door, and Angie from across the street in the backyard for the funeral.  Eddie held the Stride Rite shoebox containing Fluffy’s brown and white remains in her hands and gave a rousing eulogy.  She extoled Fluffy’s patience because, though she admitted she might have provoked him a time or two, he’d never bitten her.  She lauded his vigilance in keeping physically fit by religiously running on his wheel.   She praised his wisdom in hiding behind her dresser when Mr. Robinson discovered him escaped from his cage and scared the crap out of him with his loud barking.  It was a lovely going home.  Eddie even sang Precious Lord just like her mother did on these kinds of occasions.

Eddie very nearly burst into a full bawl when she thought about the night, just a year ago, when her mother announced that it was time for her to get a training bra.  She’d run up the stairs to her room and flung her body across the bed.  No!  No! she cried into her pillow.  Her mother sat down next to her heaving body and sweetly rubbed her back.  “It’s okay, Eddie,” she hummed.  “It happens to every girl at some point in their lives.  It’s natural and nothing to be ashamed of, you’ll see.”  Her mom stroked her spongy ponytail.  “You’re growing up, sweetie . . . and into a beautiful young lady at that.”  Eddie wouldn’t argue with her on that point.  Eddie looked at her budding breasts beneath her floral t-shirt as she pulled it tight against them.  She turned her body from one side to the other.  It wasn’t so bad having breasts after all, she thought.

Eddie got herself together.  She had a task to do.  She stared at the little plastic box in her hands before placing it on the countertop.  She closed her eyes and pointed a finger.  Eenie meenie minie mo, she said, tapping it across the box.  She opened her eyes.  No.  No.  That would never do.  Eenie meenie minie mo.  Sadly, this result was no better.  Eddie peeled off the sticky label and opened the box.  Her heart wanted to beat outside of her chest.  It reminded her of the time Jonathan Poe picked her first for his kickball team.  She was all butterflies and air.  With the same kind of love and care she’d seen her father use basting his famous pork ribs on the grill, Eddie slowly lifted each of the tiny tubes from the box and laid them side-by-side.  They looked so pretty, like little jewels or fairy wands or the sparkling tails of shooting stars.

Eddie set aside the two that were eliminated earlier during her eenie meenie minie mo test.  She nervously picked up each remaining one and held it against her face.  She put aside two more.  One, two, three . . . ten, eleven.  She had more narrowing down to do.  This one is too dark.  This one, too light.  This one, too much like Dana’s.  This one . . . ohh . . . yeah, maybe this one.  Yuck!  This one is way too glittery.  That one Eddie threw in the trash.  And on it went for five minutes until there were at last only three.  Now Eddie closed her eyes and once more conjured the foolproof eenie meenie minie mo gods until her finger landed providentially on the absolutely, positively, most assuredly best one there was.

Eddie filled her lungs with the deepest breath they could hold.  She picked up the chosen vile and twisted off its top.  Or, she tried to.  She wiped her sweaty palm on her jeans and grabbed the top again.  It budged.  Eddie gave herself a final stare in the mirror. There was no going back from here.  She nodded a reverent okay.  It was the same look her mother gave her father during his sermons sometimes.  It said,  “That’s right, honey.  Say it.  Share it with the people.  Tell the truth.”

The wand was small, but it might as well have been magic as far as Eddie was concerned.  It had as much power to transform as anything that required a hocus pocus.  She held it between her shaking fingers, raised it to her face, and . . .

In two fluid motions, Eddie Aldridge became a woman.  Sort of.

When she could finally stop from smiling, Eddie pressed her lips together.  They slid easily over the thick, slick coating between them.  She puckered her lips and admired their new, freshly coated, shiny burgundy blush.  She knew, from someplace deep and wise within her, that her life would never be the same from this moment forward.

Eddie went downstairs and walked into the living room where her parents were watching TV.  She stood there, silently, until they took notice of her.  “Oh, Eddie,” her mother said.  “Don’t you look pretty!”  Her mother threw a look at Eddie’s father and raised her eyebrows.  “Why, yes, Eddie,” her father added, “You are a vision.”

Eddie bowed her head as if to say “thank you” and turned for the front door.  She was sure that Angie would want to be a part of this significant moment with her.  Before she walked out, Eddie turned to her stunned parents.  “Mom.  Dad,” she said holding her head high, “It’s Edith, okay?” Without a word more, Eddie closed the door behind her.

RIP Da'Amos

While we were sunning and funning in Cancun, my sweet mother-in-love was mourning the loss of her furry companion of ten years, Amos.  Amos was an 8-poundish yorkie terrier who sort of weaseled his way into all of our lives.  Barbara bought Amos home and the first night we met him as a family he sized us up as much as we did him.  Only around 4 pounds then, he rebuffed every overture we made toward him by barking as loud as his quarter-sized lungs could manage and sticking as close to underneath to Barbara as he could.  Over the years and through many antics though, Amos was as much a part of our family as anyone else walking on two legs and sharing the same DNA.

I often teased Marc by calling Amos his brother and saying that Amos was the brother I should have married.  The kids each had their special nicknames and games for him too, Cole calling him “Da’Amos” and Ryan insisting that Amos could understand every fricken word he said and could, reciprocally, communicate back with his eyes, facial expressions, and gestures.

Amos.  We’ll miss him, his constant and unnerving stare, his demanding temperament, and the way he relentlessly and joyfully retrieved the precious sock.

When I found out the sad news, I called Barbara with my sympathies and condolences.  I was sad with her.  Amos was a great companion to my mom-in-love.  And, in truth, when we moved away from her over a year ago, I found myself even more grateful for Amos and the relationship he provided to her.  When I hung up the phone, I prayed for Jeanie, that she would be at peace with the firsts.  You know what I mean . . . the firsts. The first night without him snuggling beside her in bed.  The first morning when there isn’t any need to let anyone out.  The first time the UPS truck comes and the sound of barking is strangely absent.  The first time you grab the keys and don’t have to ask the question, “do you want to go?”  The first visit to Grandma’s without Amos in tow.

I prayed grace over her firsts . . .

Firsts can be hard, can’t they?  We find such comfort in our routines and, sometimes, whey they are upset, so are we.  But firsts also represent newness, too.  First steps might be painful, but they mean that we are moving, progressing, going forward.  Maybe into a temporary and painful unknown, but we are alive, feeling, pulsing onward.

Let’s not be afraid of firsts.  Let’s lean into them.  And, let’s keep welcoming them and looking at our firsts as opportunities to learn, perfect, refine, and experience.  Really, every breath is a first, don’t you think?  Every day.  Every moment.  Every time we say yes to what life brings, crazy as it can be sometimes.  We can choose to look the first in the eye and say I see you, you are here to teach me something, I am here to learn and take your treasures into my next first.  Let’s be brave, compassionate, and expectant of love in the midst of whatever our firsts may be.  And, if you’ve never been those things before, then there’s always a “first” time.

Peace and Blessings,

Nicole Walters

I’ve had the pleasure of spending the past several days beneath the sunny skies of Cancun. I’ve enjoyed the beach and the breeze with three of my favorite people, my husband, obviously, included. He and I have woken early each morning, to catch the first breezes of the day and walk the shore. We call those moments, whether on vacation or back at home in Seattle, our “walk / talks”. I like . . . no, I LOVE our walk/talks.  As our thoughts turn from those we love to situations that concern or challenge us to our dreams and hopes for our futures, our time – step by step – becomes a moving meditation, prayer in motion.

Yesterday, my birthday eve, Marc and I walked Cancun’s shoreline, enjoying the expansive and picturesque view. We talked about our boys, each attempting to dive further into their own lives and become more of themselves as we watch and pray with baited breath for their success. Bringing them into the conversation brought them into our experience . . . on a beach . . . far away from them. I love how that happens.

We talked about how much we’ve appreciated our first vacation together with another couple. We expressed our love for Rob and Lisa, and our delightful wonder at finding the two people who found each other with whom we have so much in common and enjoy such an easy friendship. That was cool.

We talked about our sex life, which is fun to do wearing little more than a swimsuit and feeling flirty and pretty and like a girl. That’s all the detail I’ll share on that.

We neared the end of our walk, and as we strode back, we approached a couple, a much older one, in front of us who were on their own walk / talk. While I couldn’t hear what they were saying, I watched her hands move, animated, as she gestured freely. His hands stayed laced behind his back as he listened. I chuckled at the more mature version of us. I wondered how many years they shared together, and how many promises made, challenges overcome, and graces extended in their passing . . . and then I noticed their footprints in the sand.

I know nothing about their journey except that, in that moment . . . older and wiser than the two following them . . . this couple walked it together, leaving a temporary path for others to follow.

Today is my birthday. I am 43. In my 20s, that felt so old, but from this vantage point, I experience it quite differently. There is still so much more, God willing, to discover, explore and experience in life ahead.

My birthday wish is this: that no matter what my future years bring –  highs and lows, ups and downs, and life in all of its splendor –  I’ll walk the journey before me joyful, determined and expectant of God’s goodness.  I’ll do so that should others follow in my footprints, they would be likewise blessed.  I’ll try.  I’ll succeed.  I’ll fail.  And then I’ll try again.

Happy birthday to me.

Peace and Blessings,

Nicole

My earliest memory of Marc Walters happened somewhere around the 3rd grade. He and I sat next to one another in Mrs. Coleman’s class where, on this particular day, she gave a lesson in cursive writing. Standing over our shoulders, she critiqued our efforts. After looking at the either too big or too little loops that shaped my p’s, b’s, or q’s, she pointed to Marc’s paper as an example of how alphabets could look, of how alphabets could be.

Taking a long, slow look at the paper next to mine, I recall laying aside my elementary pride and, reluctantly, agreeing with her. Though I can’t remember what the words were on the page, I remember that they were written incredibly well, with a care and embellishment beyond our 7 or 8 years.  I remember that the boy sitting beside me created something beautiful.

Thirty-five years later, there are still times when I look at the things Marc does, the words Marc says, the life Marc lives and marvel at how incredibly well he does them . . . with a care and embellishment that continues to impress this heart of mine and that still seem beyond our 43 years.

Tomorrow, God willing, January 3rd, 2012, marks our 25th wedding anniversary. Needless to say, I’ve been reflective of our lives together, an invitation made even sweeter because of the time we recently got to share with our family and friends over Christmas. Together, he and I beheld our now adult sons, grown, beautiful and loving. We dove, further . . . deeper, into our new and complete love for our daughter-in-love. We nurtured those friendships that have been meaningful to us collectively and individually, and that have encouraged us in our journeys. We embraced mothers and grandmothers, thankful at our good fortune.

It’s been a full life. I’ve been a lucky girl.

Lest I paint an incomplete picture, the past 25 years haven’t been all wine and roses. We have drunk deep from the cup of vinegar. We have, through clinched teeth, clutched fistfuls of thorns, our very own crucifixions. I can say with an absolute confidence that, while no one has loved me like Marc Walters, no one has hurt me like he has either. He can absolutely say the same. Valleys . . . we’ve walked through our share, either led there by a decision he’s made, or one that I’ve chosen. Spurning the sunshine for lesser, darker paths, we’ve stumbled blindly into the woods and fallen by the way side. But, for reasons too numerous and nebulous or maybe even too sacred to name, we’ve somehow found our way out and up, to today . . . this eve of our anniversary.

It must have been some magical concoction of prayer, resilient innocence, ancient community, wells of grace, Divine sovereignty, surprising selflessness, and the power of choice, administered through open mouths and open hearts, in varying measurements, at various times. Whatever the reason for our standing, I’m glad we still stand, closer, perhaps, than at any other time. We stand.

This past year for us has been unlike any other. For the first time in our married lives together, it is only Marc and I, alone. Twenty-five years ago, with a spitty-mouthed Ryan on my hip, we took our wedding pictures. And then, five years later, came our beloved Cole. And, then came and went time, memories, and living, sometimes so fast that I hardly saw any of it, that I hardly held any of it in my hands. Time passed, slow, fast, clumsily, liquidly, so full of dinners, laundry, football games, skinned knees, and various hair colors and dress sizes. Time. Passed. Passes. Passing.

At 42, I’ve probably less time before me than I do behind, and I want to spend it with intention, in a way that I couldn’t understand or appreciate at 24, when the reverse was true. For me, that means many, many things, not the least of which is pausing, frequently, to take long, slow looks at the man still sitting beside me and the beauty he continues to create. Not in the words he’s written upon a page, but in the love he’s inscribed upon my heart.

Peace and Blessings,

Nicole Walters

For the past few days I have had the privilege of having my family under one roof. Given that, at other times of the year, we live across three states, being together is not at all something I take for granted . . . not like I used to when we all four occupied the same square footage.

This heightened awareness of gratitude never fails to open my eyes to things that might have otherwise gone unnoticed; a loving touch shared between my son and his wife, absentminded wrestling between siblings, spontaneously erupting laughter at nothing in particular. These moments of ordinary living become precious, shiny things when we choose to let them, to see them.

Looking back over all the meals shared, gifts exchanged and memories made, it’s become clear to me that the most precious moment of the past few days is one in which I really had no part, but that I had the good luck to witness.

My two sons were busy in the kitchen, each piling their plates with Christmas leftovers, hungry for lunch. My oldest son, Ryan, having warmed his food, poured himself a hefty glass of lemonade, leaving the container close to empty, when he asked his younger brother, Cole, what he wanted to drink. “Lemonade,” he replied. And here’s where my eyes tear.

Pouring the remainder of lemonade into another glass, Ryan raised both of their glasses and, over the sink, proceeded to pour out of his glass and into Cole’s. Even Steven. Enough for you. Enough for me. I’ll give of myself, so that you might also have. We’re in this together, and there’s more than enough for us all.

Brotherly love.

May this next year bring about many demonstrations of brotherly love in all of our lives. May we give of ourselves, and receive from others. And, come what may . . . no matter what this next year brings, I pray that your glasses are always, always half full.

Peace and Blessings,

Nicole Walters

Christmas.  During this time of year, Christians around the world celebrate the birth of Jesus . . . an incarnation of God, in human form; humble, manger born, poor, a carpenter.  Despite his humble upbringing, his message of love, hope, peace, and grace still rings beautifully around the world, beyond his time on this earth, and farther than he every physically traveled while here, walking upon it.

Such a powerful message through such modest means.

I believe that God still speaks, often using the same subtle tactics as employed through a child, born among barn animals, to unrefined parents.  Less bullhorn, more whisper.

Walking the streets of downtown Seattle with friends this past weekend, I think I thought I heard him.

“Shoe shine!”  Anyone who walks Pine St. downtown has at least heard that call.  “Shoe shine!”  It’s said in a gruff, almost intimidating way, like a quarterback calling plays at the line of scrimmage.  Instead of “Down. Seeeeeeet.  Hut!” it’s  “Shoe shine!”  I, myself, have never stopped for a shoe shine, but, from now on, I think I will.

Happily wading through the Christmassy spirit that has pervaded Seattle’s downtown, some visiting friends and I walked near the “Shoe Shine” man and, instead of passing right by, my girlfriend decided to stop to get her boots shined.  The next several minutes were filled with absolutely engaging banter, funny narratives about the merits of a well shined shoe, and anecdotal relationship advice, all during what would end up being a hell of a shoe shine.  I looked down at the brown skinned, white bearded, joyful face of the man regaling us and asked, “what your name, dude?”  His bright eyes looked up at me and said, “Eddie” through his toothless grin.  ”What’s yours?”

“I’m Nicole,” I responded.

Then, out of the clear blue, he proclaimed. “Well, I can see you are a singer.”  His eyes twinkled, a bit mischievously.

What?  Huh?  ”What did you say?”

“You’re a good singer, huh!”

Nervous now.

In two seconds I span my past year in Seattle and can come up with no rational reason Eddie might be saying this to me.  I exchange a teary-eyed glance with my friend who knows how painful this year of musiclessness has been for me, and then I clumsily excuse myself from Eddie to go gather my emotions before they run away from me and I, them.

I miss singing.  I miss music.  I miss a band.  I miss a mic.  I miss songwriting.  I miss . . . I miss . . . I miss.

For all of the “missing” I’ve done, it warmed my heart that something of what I used to do and used to be was still obvious to the little, scruffy prophet hustling his craft on the street.  God, shining shoes.  Perhaps, one day, I will sing again.  From Eddie, I experienced a little bit of love, hope, peace, and grace.

Such a powerful message through such modest means.

Peace and Blessings,

Nicole Walters

You only have to be in Seattle 5 minutes before you discover that Tom Douglas knows a thing or two about food, restaurants, and, in particular, coconut cream pie.  Within four square blocks, you’ll find at least five Tom Douglas restaurants and they all have at least one menu item in common. You guessed it . . . the coconut cream pie.  It’s delicious, and you needn’t be a coconut cream pie fan to think so.

Today as I walked the streets of downtown, visiting the women’s shelter, post office, and grocery store, I headed toward the Dahlia Bakery to get a cup of soup for lunch.  Tom Douglas also knows how to make a mean pot of soup.  As I approached the bakery, I noticed a sign they had displayed prominently at the door that read, “Sing us a line from your favorite Christmas carol and get a coconut cream bite for free!”

What?

This. Must. Be. My. Lucky. Day!

I walked in, knowing exactly what I’d sing, a decision inspired by my son, Ryan.  In an uncharacteristic, musical mood, he recently allowed his wife to record him singing the chorus of “O, Holy Night.”  And, not only that, he consented to her posting it on Facebook.  Not a big deal for a singing extrovert like myself, but for one who is mostly known for cursing, shaking, and slapping defensive backs around on a sideline, his singing moment of candor was exceptional.  With Ryan on my mind, I cleared my throat and prepared to sing for my bite o’ pie.

“Hi!  What can I get you?” asked the cute girl at the cash register.

“I’ll take a bowl of the lentil soup, please.” I answered with a smirk on my face.

She grabbed the bowl to fill the soup.  I waited.  Then she grabbed the huge piece of rustic bread that comes with it . . .

“Oh, no.  No bread, please.  Going to Mexico soon and trying to shrink my butt a bit.”  I laugh.

“Oh, okay.”  She continued, “Then do you want to olive oil drizzled over the soup?”

“Um, no . . . “

“What about the cheese?”

Crap.  ”No thanks,” I said with my shoulders now drooping.

I guess that’s a no on the friggin’ pie too, Nicole.  But still . . . I opened my mouth . . . and

“O, holy night.  The stars are brightly shining.  It is the night of our dear Savior’s birth . . . “

The staff from the back came to the front.  Well, okay .  . .

“Long lay the world in sin and error pining ’til he appeared and the soul felt its worth.”

More.  To the front.

“The thrill of hope.  A weary world rejoices.  For yonder breaks, a new and cloudless morn . . . “

I stop.  Applause.  Calls for more.  I decline.

“Oh, man.  Let me get you your pie!”

“No.  No, thanks.”  I smile.   “Actually, yes . . . to the ‘thanks’ I mean.  Thanks for giving me an excuse to sing for you.”

“You?  You can come in here and sing any time you want! And, how about we discount your soup?  Cool?!”

“Cool.”

Well, I didn’t get the pie.  Mexico’s beaches loom ahead.  But I did get to add some sweetness to my day.

Peace and Blessings,

Nicole Walters

I had an MRI today.  My neck has departed its small protest of aches and pains and has recently opted for more an “uprising” or “movement” in the discomfort it unleashes on me during the day and, sadly, most especially at night.  The result of an auto accident years ago, the spasms and headaches I occasionally endure are a reminder, I guess, of how lucky I am to still be here to experience them.  My car, it was totaled.  I, grabbing my neck with one hand and consoling the new, teenaged driver who rammed into the back of me with the other, was lucky to walk away from the smash up.

There have been whole seasons with my neck’s complaining rendered largely ignorable.  There have been others, like now, that have me prostrate on a chiropractor’s table to be pulled and cracked in every direction, laying on my stomach with acupuncture pins poking up and out daring me to sneeze or move, or, like today, entombed in a noisy, aggressive and menacingly restraining MRI machine tempting me to just the edge of insanity.

I laid, face up, with a friendly face looking down at me.  ”Don’t move, okay?” she encouraged.  ”If you move, we’ll have to start over . . . and you don’t want that.”  She instructed me about what to expect.  Loud noise, blah, blah, blah.  Enclosed space, blah, blah, blah.  Restricting helmet, blah, blah, blah.  Around 30 minutes, blah, blah, blah.  ”And,” she said, placing a small ball in my hand, “here’s a panic button if you need it.”

Panic button? I wondered to myself as I was being pulled into the machine that waited to swallow me.

As I retreated into the belly of the beast, I realized that closing my eyes was the best possible thing to do.  Maybe I was claustrophobic after all.  Nothing like staring up at the dull medical plastic five inches from my face to remove any doubt.  So, I closed my eyes, but my voluntary blindness did nothing for the voluntary deafness I longed for.  There were short and long blasts of reverberating noises.  There were mechanical rumbles and grunts laboring to capture my inmost images.  Nicole, you’ve got to find your peace.

I began to count the alarms; 1, 2, 3, 27, 28, 42.  When a more rhythmic sound emerged, I started composing a melody or imagining it a house beat with me at a club dancing, lights pulsating in time.

“Nine more minutes, Nicole,” a voice said from somewhere away.

Shit!

I thought about the ball of panic in my hand and resisted the urge to squeeze it and decided, instead, to go to a happy place.  I started praying.

Beneath the obnoxious blaring of a sustained hooooooooooooonking, I thought about my sons and brought them before God, holding my hands, as I imagined nothing but joy and goodness covering them head to toe.  I thought about my husband, and embraced him in the light of God’s love, and asked a blessing over his day.  I remembered my parents and danced with them in my mind, their bodies strong and whole.  I hugged That Girl, and found my imaginary hand stroking her hair and rubbing on her belly . . . waiting.  I recalled my mom-in-love, smiling because I get to see her soon.  I grabbed my brother and sister and, by extension their families, and went round and round in a circle, laughing.  I cast a wide prayer net over my many, many friends and their families, blanketing them with good intentions and abundant provision.  Just then, an interruption.  A final hooooooooooooonk, and then the voice, “you’re all done.  We’re coming to get you.”

The two seconds that followed felt longer than the 30 minutes that preceded them.  I emerged from the machine glad it was over, certain that there MUST be a better way to do MRIs, and convinced that I was, in fact, claustrophobic.  I also emerged just a bit more peaceful than when I went in, having found a happy place in the middle of all the noise and confinement, the discomfort and blindness.  That’s something that, as I walk freely in and through my life, I hope to remember.  Prayer can carry me through . . . times when life presses in, my hands are tied, I can’t hear the sound of my own voice through the noise of doubt or fear, and I just can’t see my way.

Peace and Blessings,

Nicole Walters