Night Vision

I have awful night vision.

And with the end of Daylight Savings Time, the darkness feels really dark, and it always arrives before I'm ready for it.

But, my elderly Jack Russell, Mr. Pip,

HAS TO HAVE a late-night constitutional if I want an accident-free dawn. So, every night I bundle up against the cold and try to figure out which way he's headed. It's like snipe hunting at summer camp.

Fortunately, I have a fancy flashlight.

Last night when we were out, I heard a cat crying.

and immediately, my mind built a story about a tiny calico cat, stuck way up in a tree, scared to death in the pitch-black night.

I opened the back gate and wobbled partway down the river bank,

balanced myself on a granite outcropping, shone my light this way and that and called, "Here kitty, kitty, kitty!" My calls were met with silence.

But the movement disoriented me.

The riverbank no longer felt like my domain. I struggled to make sense of trees and granite outcroppings, while grapevines as thick as my wrist swayed in the wind like rainforest anacondas looking for a snack.

My heart was pounding, I began to sweat.

Footsteps crunched in the leaves behind me!

What was that?

I focused my light on the ground behind me, only to see Mr. Pip carefully tiptoeing toward me.

My flashlight hit a poplar tree, and two enormous eyes blinked at me.

Aha! There was the cat!

Only the eyes didn't belong to a cat.

I was staring into the face of a juvenile screech owl. His grey ear tufts blended perfectly with the grey of the tree bark.

We blinked at each other,

and he flew on silent wings in a huff.

I slowly climbed back up the bank,

through the English ivy and wild rose briars that clung to my pants. I made it into the yard, and closed the gate.

There's a lot of winter left.

The nights are dark and sometimes the days feel even darker so I'm grateful for my flashlight.

It's always a good thing to have some night vision.

I was a preacher's child, so I grew up in churches.

I spent a lot of time looking at stained glass windows on Sunday mornings and Wednesday evenings.

Not because my Daddy's sermons were boring. But because preachers practice their sermons like singers working on a song, and when you've heard the same one several times, your mind tends to wander when you hear it again.

Some of the stained-glass windows were inspiring, some were bland, and still others were works of art.

Take the glorious Tiffany windows I starred at for hours as a senior in high school for instance. They radiated religion out into the world with their intricate patterns and rich, jewel-tone colors. I remember wanting to wear Mary's blue velvet dress to the prom.

During middle school, I starred at geometric squares of harvest gold and avocado green in the sanctuary of a coal-country church. They matched the appliances in our kitchen.

When I was in first grade, the church had windows that were tinted a pale white.

They were just like the windows in the bathroom at school: frosted to keep peeping Toms from watching little girls pull up their skirts.

My son grew up in churches, too. He's 30 now and he was telling a friend of mine that he knew she was important to him because her color was in his soul.

Intrigued, she said, "What do you mean by that?" He answered, "Well, when we take out first breath, our souls are crystal clear.

Then life happens to us. Each person we meet adds their color to our soul. Some people touch us with love and soft colors, others touch our minds or imagination and splatter us with vibrant colors. And, of course, meanness and sorrow add the dark colors that make the shadows in our soul."

Love and beauty, sorrow and pain.

These are the things that change our crystal-clear souls into colorful stained-glass.

My son is in internal medicine practice now. He's financially secure. His fiance is also well-employed in engineering. They'll be married soon. But when I brought up those grandchildren I would love to have, he almost snapped my head off.

Why? Why would my loving son respond that way? Because the idea of bringing a child into "this ugly, burning world" terrifies him.

His Dad and I never thought about that when we were practicing procreation as a form of youthful recreation. (We were care-free about it! I wasn't supposed to be able to have a child, but that's another story, one I like to tell at women's retreats.)

We were able to afford a little house, the price of food was reasonable. Sure there was crime, but only in certain neighborhoods. School shootings hadn't started, no dark web internet was providing the motivation or instructions for that yet.

Once my sweet, caring son explained his fears about fatherhood, I couldn't forget it.

Every time I see a baby now the conversation flies back in my face. I can't help but wonder if the parents are "together" or if they can afford their child's future. I can't help but fear for the day that child starts kindergarten with a live shooter drill. I know two teenagers who peed their pants during their first one.

Sure, there have always been problems in our world. Yes, there was always a dark side. When Jesus was a baby, things were really bad, too. A king put a bounty on his head and killed all the boys even close to his age. That was obviously not a good future either.

I guess each generation faces their own challenges but the challenges of this time seem terminal. If we can't do something about climate catastrophe, we'll all burn up. If truces can't be signed in the wars raging around us, nuclear war is upon us. My son is right. What kind of future is that for a child?

But as a person of faith, I refuse to give up hope and my hope is that those of us who care about the future of children (and life itself!) will begin to claim our power. I am convinced each one of us is much more powerful than we think we are or are told we are.

If we can overcome our fear and our inertia, and bring pressure to bear on the places we can create change as we apply that pressure, I think people like us can make big things happen.

I'm the Christian who holds these words of Jesus tightly in my heart:

"Truly I say to you: if you have faith like a grain of mustard seed,

you will say to this mountain,

'Move from here to there,' and it will move,

and nothing will be impossible for you."

(Matthew 17:20-21)

Yes, I think we can move the mountains of climate change, divisive politics, and greedy oligarchs! But we better hurry, because the next generation is coming, and it needs us to talk truth to power, push where we can push, and make the world a little safer for each new baby that's coming soon to a backpack near you.

I was searching for quiet amidst all the noise: Yet another tariff, more school violence, inflation, wars.

The scorching heat of our record-breaking summer had broken. A shy coolness was in the air.

I'd washed the sheets, and since I love the smell of sunshine, I took them outside to dry on the line.

And that's when I saw her. A butterfly as big as a bird.

Each time she floated into view, I began savoring my own precious time.

Hanging up the sheets, I smiled at the thought of lying down that night and smelling the sunshine again.

In the whisper of butterfly wings, I found quiet amidst all the noise

I was in the beautiful land of Canada this past week where I learned the power of friendship, and the price we pay for broken relationships.

It's hot. Oh, and it's humid, too! That must mean the dog-days of summer are here.

I volunteer at the animal shelter and the dogs there are all wanting the same thing we are: to belong.

We all want to belong to a pack, it's instinctual and necessary. And we all want a leader who makes wise decisions and takes everyone into consideration. Because, if the unthinkable should actually happen, we want to know our pack has our back.

I was so depressed one day I couldn't even make a decision about whether or not to eat an egg. Then a shot rang out and I thought I was in a true crime drama. But what happened next reminded me that the world is still filled with magic.

Racism is ugly stuff. I thought we'd left it behind but I guess it was just hiding. I didn't know what racism was until I met it in the kitchen one day after a party my parents gave. The person targeted was someone I loved dearly. Remembering the story, even now, makes my face grow hot with anger and shame.

Back in the 1960's our country was divided over racism. We'd long ago fought to end slavery but civil rights were still a dream away. This was especially true in the heart of coal country, up in the hills of West Virginia. This is a story about the time my Dad stood up to The Three Kings: who ruled the town, the mines, and the church. Since what's old is unfortunately new again, with all the executive orders dismantling DEI and wiping black contributions off government websites, it's a timely story for today.

I wish my Dad was still here so I could celebrate Father's Day with him just one more time! But this little story will have to suffice! When I was a kid, we didn't play organized sports. We roamed the neighborhood like feral cats. But we mostly behaved because, back then, any parent that caught you doing something wrong had permission to punish you any way they saw fit, whether they were your parents or not, so like I said, we mostly behaved. But there was this one time when things went very wrong. Thank goodness my Daddy figured it out!