Translating a World on the Edge

Two months after my husband and I graduated from Spring Hill College and were married, I began teaching at Fourth Grade at Holy Spirit School in Tuscaloosa and he began Law School at the University of Alabama.

My classroom was a makeshift one. Things were different then, and the Catholic Schools were overflowing, so my classroom had been made from the lunch room. Over the top of a partition, wonderful smells of baking bread flowed into the room, churning the stomachs of teacher and students.

The mother of one of my students was the school baker. Every morning in Holy Spirit’s kitchen, she made fantastic rolls, and sent any that were leftover home with me. She was a tall German woman, a single parent who I never saw without a baker’s cap. She took pride in her job, and in her son.  Read the rest of this entry »

On July 20, from 11am-2pm, I will have my first book-signing at Barnes and Noble, here in my hometown.

Will anyone come? Will I sign any books? As a new author, will I be accepted?

I worry about all that.

Acceptance is what we all want, isn’t it? From the time we are born until the time we die, we strive for the acceptance of those we admire.

There’s a character in one of my novels, “The Distance Between High and Low,” which I hope to have published soon. Hobart McSwain, born in Detroit, is adopted as a child by an Alabama family. Expressing his need for acceptance in the fictional town of Highlow, he says: Read the rest of this entry »

“I decline to accept the end of man… I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among the creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet’s, the writer’s, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet’s voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.” ― William Faulkner

If we believe there is a God who created each of us, then each of us is a child of God. And each human person has the divinity of God within him, or her. We call this divinity within us, the soul. It is the only part of us that doesn’t die. That makes the soul, and what happens within it, essential.  Read the rest of this entry »

You know them. You’ve probably welcomed them into in your home: the painters, floorers, plumbers, electricians—all those who help to keep up the house in which you live.

Some of us try to do these tasks ourselves, and some of us know better than to try.  So, we call in the Restorers. Because we want order. Because we want things to work as they were made to work–and because we know what happens if we let it all go.

When the refrigerator goes out, the food goes bad. When the toilets stop up, the bathroom floods, and maybe even ruins the floors. When sparks come from an electrical socket,  fire is a definite possibility. No one can deny that these  problems need attention. No one can deny that to ignore them is foolhardy, even irresponsible. We must use our heads and solve the problem in our house.

But don’t we have another house for which We The People are responsible? Read the rest of this entry »

Sometimes I wish I could be one of those people who sleep late, one of those who miss early morning rain storms and wake not even knowing they happened. I’m not, though. I’m an early riser, a wonderer, and a ‘thinker.’

This morning I woke thinking about Joan of Arc. A week or so ago, George and I watched a movie about her life. It was incredible, but it’s true. An eighteen year old girl  leads an army and defeats a world.

There have been thousands of books on Joan and many movies. All of them stir questions. Why would God want to save France?  How could an eighteen year old lead an army, defeat a world power and crown a king in a matter of six months?  Read the rest of this entry »

If you ask a child of three or four to draw a picture of himself, what he usually creates is a big circle with suggestions of eyes, nose and mouth–i.e. a Big Head. That’s because at three or four, the child sees himself as the focal point of everything. He’s not mature enough to be interested in others, but only in what they can do for him. Life is all about him, all about having what he or she wants, And what is his response if he doesn’t get what he wants? Whining? Anger? A temper tantrum?

Each of us was once a child with similar antics. Now, we’re adults. We no longer pitch a fit if we don’t get our way.

Or do we?  Read the rest of this entry »

If you’re lost you can look–and you will find me Time after time If you fall I will catch you–I’ll be waiting Time after time

–Cyndi Lauper, “Time after Time”

A few days ago, my son was blowing off pine straw from our roof. His daughter stood on the patio below, watching. “If you fall, I’ll catch you, Daddy.”

She’s three years old and not as tall as the avocado plant she was standing beside. He’s thirty and six feet two. But she’s going to catch him? The truth is she already has. Time after Time.

Of course, I don’t mean a physical catching She has caught him with arms that extend from her heart, with arms of Trust, with arms of Love. Read the rest of this entry »

Once a month, when I was about thirteen years old, I used to accompany a friend to The Cove Hotel in Panama City, Florida, where her father did the books for the elderly lady who owned the hotel. But even then, The Cove was older than she was. Built in 1926, it was two stories of pink stucco, surrounded by huge trees, and set on the shore of St, Andrews Bay off the Gulf of Mexico. I thought it was beautiful.

For my trips to the Cove, my mother made sure I took the proper clothing. That meant a dress for dinner, along with the right shoes. Usually, that was a sun dress and strappy white sandals. Dinner was served at a certain time, on spotless white tablecloths, with starched white napkins and a lot of heavy silverware, properly set. My friend and I felt like princesses. But always, there was something we looked forward to that was even better. The Miracle. And we could make it happen ourselves. Read the rest of this entry »