Carousels

By Jean H. Stewart

After all there is something about a wedding-gown prettier than in any other gown in the world.
~Douglas William Jerrold

She seemed to grow taller and more regal as she stood before the three-way mirror.

"That's the one," her twin sister whispered, barely able to breathe.

I nodded as my daughter turned around and slowly smiled. It definitely was THE dress. We found the perfect veil and shoes and left the bridal shop feeling somewhat giddy.

"Okay, what's next?" I asked.

"A dress for you, Mom," was the reply.

We were in the midst of a whirlwind of activity. The bridesmaids' dresses were chosen, so now came decisions about floral bouquets and arrangements, wedding cake, photographer, and music. I hand-addressed the invitations and the reply cards were flooding in.

Then, since I had put it off as long as I could, I began the search for my dress and managed to find a pale pink one that my daughter approved. Her father purchased a new tuxedo. He joked that he felt like a walking ATM machine, only there to write checks or sign credit slips. It was mayhem, yet we were somehow enjoying that special time.

A few weeks before the May wedding, we rushed in from grocery shopping and the bride's sister greeted us with, "Dad, Mom, can we talk to you?"

I glanced at her holding hands with her boyfriend and suddenly knew what they wanted. A half-gallon of milk slipped from my hand, spilled across the wood floors and spread everywhere, even under the refrigerator.

"Oh, no!" I wailed. "I can't believe this."

"Don't worry, Mom, we'll help you," my daughter said as she rushed to grab the carton to stop the rest of the milk from escaping.

We all grabbed paper towels, crawled on our hands and knees, and spent the next hour together cleaning up the mess. Then we sat, the four of us, staring at one another.

He squirmed and fidgeted and finally sputtered out his love and devotion for our daughter.

"We'd like to get married in December," he said, "with your permission."

"Which December?" I asked in disbelief.

"This one," she finally spoke.

"That's only seven months away," I moaned.

Her father and I stole frantic glances at one another. He then queried and pried as he did a year earlier with her sister and her suitor. Finally he smiled and we gave our blessing. They knew we would.

As I sat there watching them, I felt my life spiraling out of control. Panic spread over me like the milk that had earlier spilled across the kitchen floor. I could do nothing to stop it. Two weddings? The thought of another wedding that year was overwhelming. I felt as if I were on a carousel that would never stop.

"Oh, Mom, this is so exciting!" The girls were thrilled that they would stand together at the altar a second time that year in reverse roles.


I couldn't tell them I was considering a nervous breakdown but didn't have time for one. Meanwhile, their father was wondering about bankruptcy.

Sleep was elusive. My dreams were filled with wedding disasters or mixing up the grooms. I'd wake exhausted only to see a white illusion floating before me. Then I'd realize it was the white satin dress on its padded hanger suspended from a ceiling anchor in the corner of our bedroom. The vision of the long sweep of its pearl-studded, lace-embroidered train evoked all kinds of emotions -- joy, happiness, worry, nostalgia, and, at times, sheer panic. Especially as I contemplated a second wedding to come.

The days and weeks flew by in a blur of activity and a long white limousine was in front of our house to whisk the bride and maid of honor off to the church before I could catch my breath.

The wedding was perfect, beautiful and sweet, and everything she had dreamed it would be. The next morning I woke to the vision of yet another dress hanging from the corner. Smooth, creamy, pearl-trimmed silk reminded me that I was still on the wedding carousel.

As I pondered the beauty of the dress and what it represented, I came to realize that we go along the road of life and then, every once in awhile, stop and whirl around in the busyness of the place until it's time to step off and continue on down the road.

We took a double ride that year and found the experiences there tender and sweet, funny and poignant, times that will stay in our memories forever.

Life is change. And filled with carousels. I always try to enjoy the ride.

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The Song Remembers When

Story by Hugh Prestwood

Song written by Hugh Prestwood
Recorded by Trisha Yearwood

I was an English major in college and a lot of poets influenced my lyric writing. I've loved poets like Frost, and Edwin A. Robinson, and Emily Dickinson. I got the idea for "The Song Remembers When" from a poem by Anne Sexton called "Music Swims Back to Me." There's a line in the poem where the narrator says, "The song remembers more than I."

I had a couple of major heartbreaks in my life. I think everyone has had those relationships where you hear a song that triggers emotions and memories. The lines that read, "we were rolling through the Rockies, we were up above the clouds" -- that came from a real moment in time. My wife and I were driving through Rocky Mountain National Park. We drove from Estes Park, Colorado, and as we got higher, we were literally driving through the clouds and eventually we were above the clouds.

We were listening to the radio and I actually heard one of my songs, "Hard Rock Bottom of Your Heart," performed by Randy Travis. So this was just an incredible moment, looking out over the mountains and then hearing one of my songs on the radio. The station was actually out of Denver, and I started to use Denver in the song, but we had also been to Jackson Hole, Wyoming on that trip and I decided Jackson sounded better.

The first verse, "I was standing at the counter, I was waiting for the change," was also based on an experience I had when I heard one of my songs for the first time. I was at a Shoney's restaurant and something that I had written came over the speakers. So I remembered that scene and thought, "I'll use that as the first verse." All of those scenes got jumbled around and ended up in this song, which was about a painful break-up.

We had a lot of trouble getting that song recorded. I was writing for BMG then and I went through a little bit of a depression because I thought that was as good a song as I would ever write and we could not get it cut. I actually had a couple of big producers who called me and asked me if I would consider re-writing it to make it more radio-friendly and more chorus-y. It doesn't really even have a chorus. But I just loved it the way it was and I didn't want to change it.


Then Kathy Mattea recorded it and I really very happy about it, until I found out it didn't make it on her record. That really sent me into a nosedive, with a lot of self-doubt. She told me later the label actually liked the song, but it didn't really match the flavor of the album.

We had pitched it to Trisha Yearwood for a previous album and that didn't happen either, but the second time around, she cut it. It later won the Nashville Songwriters Association Song of the Year, and even won an Emmy because Trisha did it in a TV special. Since then, it's almost become her signature song. When an artist gets identified with a song that closely, a lot of other artists don't want to touch it. If I were an artist and I heard Trisha sing it, I wouldn't want to try to cover it either. She really nailed it.

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The Tim Hortons Lady

By Elizabeth Young

Canada is not a country for the cold of heart or the cold of feet.
~Pierre Elliott Trudeau

When I was working, the first stop I made each morning was the same place most Canadians make their first stop each morning -- Tim Hortons for their first cup of coffee. Without Tim Hortons, Canada would grind to a screeching halt, which is why I maintain that their employees are definitely not paid enough. A few years ago, as I went through the drive-through, radio on but only half awake, the lady at the window said to me: "You must like country music also. I love country music!" Delighted to discover another country music fan, our morning conversations, albeit very short, usually revolved around the same theme. "I just love that song!" the server would say. "One of my favourites..." I'd respond.

One day I drove up to the window and told my friend I'd heard on the radio that Randy Travis was coming to Ontario. "Randy Travis!" she exclaimed. "I would absolutely love to go see him!"

"Me too," I responded. "Bet the tickets will be sold out as soon as they're on sale."

"Yeah, you're right," she agreed. "But imagine seeing him live!"

"I sure wish I could," I said, pausing for a second before remembering I was late as usual and needed to get moving.

A few days later a plan began to hatch in my mind. Over the months of going through the drive-through I discovered that my country music friend was a single parent living in a small basement apartment with her young daughter. She had no vehicle and had to use the bus for transportation. Anyone who has taken the bus consistently through a Canadian winter will understand why I am mentioning this. The woman's life was difficult but she worked hard and didn't complain, trying to make the best of things.

My plan was to purchase two tickets to see Randy Travis and then ask her if she would like to attend the concert with me -- that way transportation wouldn't be a problem. She had also mentioned that her ex-husband took their daughter occasionally on the weekend, and fortunately I was able to purchase two tickets for a Saturday evening show.

Driving up to the window the next morning I could barely contain my excitement. "You look happy today," she commented.

"Remember the Randy Travis concert?" I asked. "Well, I have two tickets. So why don't you come with me -- your ticket's already paid for." At that point I had to drive on because the traffic was piling up behind me. "See you tomorrow!" I said, but the look on that young woman's face as I drove away was absolutely priceless.

Every morning afterwards we spoke about the concert with great excitement. The details were worked out one by one, coffee by coffee. Like most things, waiting to see Randy Travis was almost as enjoyable as seeing him. We had so much fun anticipating the songs he'd sing, the things he'd say (he's quite the comedian) and how long he'd sing. Our friends and the people we worked with must have been tired of hearing us rant about our concert.

The night of the concert I arranged to pick up my friend. I hardly recognised her out of her Tim Hortons uniform, with hairnet off and make-up on. Because we arrived before the "appointed time" I had the opportunity to take her out to eat. It was nice to sit and relax, as opposed to our one-minute drive-by conversations. When the great moment came and it was time to find our seats, we were thrilled they turned out to be excellent, not far from the stage. In addition to this there were giant screens on either side of the stage for people to see Randy perform up close.


It seemed like a long time until the curtains drew back, and a few moments later, there he was, black cowboy hat and all. As he sang his first number we were absolutely mesmerized. This voice that we had listened to so often was singing to us live from the stage. What a difference! I don't believe our eyes left that stage for the next two hours as we listened to song after song from that deep, melodious, unforgettable voice. There was much laughter also as Randy told stories of some of his "kinfolk." One cousin was so ugly that people used to make fun of him all the time. "My cousin can't help that he was born ugly," he said one time to his grandmother. "No he can't," she said. "But that doesn't mean he has to go out in public so much!"

We laughed, we cried, we heard songs that had lightened our days and been with us through the darkest of nights. All too soon it seemed, the concert was over. He wasn't going to get away without an encore of course, but this was quickly over also. With glorious memories we left the theatre and found our way back to the car, reliving all the moments of the concert.

The Bible says that if you give something to someone who can repay you, it doesn't mean anything, but if you give to someone who cannot repay you, you will be blessed. I was blessed beyond measure to give to someone who could not repay me. I later found out that the apartment my friend and her daughter lived in had serious mould issues, forcing them to move. I sometimes wonder what became of them and am thankful our paths were destined to intersect -- albeit at a Tim Hortons drive-through.

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Selfless Love

By Reneé Wall Rongen

We will give ourselves continuously to prayer and to the ministry of the word.
~Acts 6:4

I watched our son envelop her in his arms as she sobbed. "It's okay, it's okay," he soothed.

She stepped back, looked up at him and, half laughing and crying, whispered, "These are tears of joy and answered prayers."

They both chuckled, lightening the moment. The ten of us surrounding the two of them mopped our tears too.

Drying her eyes, the woman held my son's hands and gave him a head to toe once over, as she had done eighteen years earlier, when she gave birth to him. This time he looked back at her with the heart of a wise, mature young man. As if the two were alone in the room, he said tenderly, "I hope you have no regrets, I have not a one. I am proud of you for choosing life for me."

Eighteen years earlier, my husband Tom and I were in the process of adopting overseas when a local adoption agency called. We anxiously submitted our profile to the seventeen-year-old mother. After combing through numerous prospective parent profiles, she wanted to meet us right away.

We walked into the agency, shook hands with our adoption counselor, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw her sitting in a chair swinging her legs nervously. Her hands folded over her five-month pregnant tummy, protruding from her petite frame. Before our counselor could introduce us, I moved toward her. As if we had known each other a lifetime, I put my arms around her. We pulled away and her deep brown eyes met mine and we embraced again. Then she hugged Tom. The moment I feared would be awkward was comforting. There was an instant bond. We would be her son's parents.

A few months later I woke to the sound of the phone ringing at 12:42 a.m. Groggily, I mustered, "Hello?" Within three seconds and hearing the words, "She's in labor," I scrambled into my clothes, grabbed the two bags by the door that had been packed for three weeks, and quickly jumped into my car to drive the 100 miles. Luckily, Tom was working in the same city where I was heading. I ran back into the house and called him. Awakened from his sound sleep, he exclaimed, "I'll meet you there... Mom."

That word sounded foreign, yet right. The day we'd prayed for had arrived. Smiling, I hung up the phone, ran outside and began my travels into motherhood.

Fog hung low as I drove too fast that early March morning. "God, you have walked our journey and know what we have been through trying to start a family. Please get me there safely to witness the birth of my son." Then I prayed for the young girl in labor. "Please make this delivery as painless as possible for our young Tawnya. May she come to know our appreciation of her selfless love, letting us raise her son to be our own."

Driving along I was thankful for North Dakota's flat and straight roads. My head spun with excitement and fear. My pounding heart propelled me to the parking ramp of the hospital. I nearly leapt out of the vehicle and ran to the maternity floor. I found Tom sitting next to Tawnya as they talked and smiled. I gave our dear girl a squeeze and she returned the heartfelt hug.

The nurse came in, checked Tawnya, and told us she had a way to go. Tom left to get coffee and roam the halls and perhaps wrap his head around what was soon to come. I took his chair next to the bed, held Tawnya's hand and stroked it as she fell asleep. I felt concern, sadness and joy all at the same time.


I dozed off and woke to the nurse drawing the curtain around the bed. Soon she said, "It's time to push!"

The doctor swept in with a smile, took Tawnya's hand and spoke softly to her, then turned to us and declared, "Let's have a baby!"

Two hours later, a red, curly-haired, big baby boy was born and placed on Tawnya's chest. Tom cut the cord, then we stood back and watched as Tawnya stroked the baby and talked to him. Tom and I and the nurses all cried.

Then Tawnya placed our son into my arms.

Now I watched him, a strapping eighteen-year-old man, hug her again and say, "You gave me life and chose two incredible people to be my parents."

He stepped to Tom and me. The more he talked, the tighter we held him and each other. He continued, "I've had a life rooted in faith, family, and many friends. I have been blessed a hundred times over. My life has been an answer to all of our prayers."

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Dancing in the Kitchen

By Ferida Wolff

To watch us dance is to hear our hearts speak.
~Hopi Indian Saying

I love my husband. I also love dancing. Over the years we learned from experience, however, beginning with our wedding more than forty years ago, that the two were not compatible. We just didn't dance well together. We seemed to have an abundance of left feet.

So when our son announced that he was getting married, I knew something had to be done. I was not about to let us stumble our way through the official parents' dance. I did what I thought was the easiest and fastest way to come up to dancing speed -- I signed us up for dancing classes.

My husband grumbled. He complained that it is impossible to count the beats, do the variations, and feel the music at the same time.

"That's multitasking," I told him.

Women are used to it. Folding the laundry and helping with homework. Cooking dinner and talking on the phone. It comes naturally.

"I'm a focused kind of guy," he said. "I do one thing at a time."

"Good," I said. "Do one thing. Dance."

He was reluctant but, with the wedding approaching in a matter of months, he agreed to go.

Our instructor taught us the basic steps but warned that if we didn't practice, we would forget them by the next class. We knew she was right because by the time we got home that first night we were already struggling to remember everything she showed us.

But where to practice? Our house didn't have an appropriate dance floor. The den was too small, the living room too crowded. We decided to practice in the kitchen. We moved the table and chairs to one side. The room really wasn't big enough for an elegant foxtrot, and it would put a crimp in an enthusiastic swing, but it would do.

It was difficult at first. Our instructor told us that the male and female each have specific parts: he leads, she does the flourishes. Yet between my jittery energy and his resistance, our individual styles, limited as they were, frequently clashed. I would resort to leading when I thought my husband wasn't assertive enough, which irritated us both. With practice, though, we began to sense each other's strengths and respond to each other's timing. Our posture became more confident. We stopped staring at our feet, willing them to go where they were supposed to instead of being surprised by where they ended up.


We noticed that our dancing improved the more we practiced, so we practiced more. We noticed something else, as well. Things seemed to be changing between us -- in a good way. We were rediscovering each other. As we accepted our differing approaches to dance, we began to be less critical in other areas. If dinner was a little late, Benny Goodman helped us while away the time. When we held hands as we got ready to dance, the anticipation of our dating days returned. We laughed a lot more when we danced, no longer upset by our mistakes. We started with our instructor's steps and then began making up our own. We were having fun!

We danced at our son's wedding and to our mutual surprise we keep on dancing. Sometimes it is at a party, often just in our kitchen. I can tell when my husband wants to take a swing around the kitchen floor. His eyes light up. I love the grin on his face when we finish a pattern and come out on the right step. I am even more delighted at our laughter when we don't.

Dancing has drawn us closer, renewed our intimacy. There is a lot more hugging, more innuendo, more delight. Maybe it's just our endorphins running wild. Dancing is, after all, an aerobic exercise that releases those wonderful chemicals of euphoria.

The wedding was the excuse to dance but the result was more than a physical exercise. It helped us remember the excitement of who we are together. And as we continue dancing in the kitchen, wrapped in each other's arms and looking into our happy faces, we rekindle our love.

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Stretching from Within

By Deborah Shouse

I tried yoga once but took off for the mall halfway through class, as I had a sudden craving for a soft pretzel and world peace.
~Terri Guillemets

I walked in and unfolded my yoga mat like a matador unfurling her cape. I looked in the mirror and dared myself to stay in this room for the whole ninety minutes. Already, the heat coaxed out sweat on my arms and behind my knees. I was thirsty and I was wondering why I had thought I was capable of doing Bikram (or "hot") yoga.

Every year, I like to try a different physical activity, something I'm not good at. When I first heard about "hot yoga," I couldn't imagine why anyone would want to spend ninety minutes in a room heated to 108 degrees, rapidly going through a routine of yoga poses. The yoga classes I had taken long ago were slow and contemplative; the teachers were intuitive and experimental in choosing the next poses. There was a gentle flow, punctuated by breaks and conversation.

The Bikram method featured the same twenty-six poses every session with no time for anything but focus and concentration.

"You'll love it," my friend Liza had promised me. I loved the introductory price -- $10 for as many classes as I wanted to take in ten days.

The teacher entered the room and everyone rose. Feet together, arms by our sides, we stood like well-behaved schoolchildren ready to walk to lunch. Listening to her instructions, we interlaced our fingers, folded our hands under our chins, pressed our arms together, and began with breathing. Then we moved into stretching, knee bending, and balancing postures. I wobbled; I shook; I fumbled. The heat, which was supposed to help deepen stretching as well as cleanse organs, was wiping me out. I felt woozy, dizzy and dumb. Halfway through the class, I fled the room.

"How did you like it?" Liza called to ask later that evening.

"It was terrible. I was terrible," I told her.

"You're just not used to it. You need the point system. You get fifty points just for showing up. You get another forty points if you stay in the room for the whole session. Even if you're lying down half the time, you still get those forty points. Then you get another ten points for trying the poses."

She knew me too well. I liked the idea of amassing points. I liked the idea of measuring myself. I wanted to achieve at least ninety points before I quit.

I went a second time, determined to stay in the room. Only two poses in, I already felt dizzy. I lay on my mat, embarrassed by my weakness.

"Look in the mirror. Keep focused on yourself," the teacher advised. "Breathe. Breathing is the most important component of this practice."

I stood up to rejoin the group. I looked at myself and sent an affirmation: "You are very brave." I realized just how brave I was when my attention wandered and I saw I was the least supple person in the class.

To touch the floor, I had to bend my knees. My backward bend was a slight lean. When everyone else was gracefully curling her spine upward from the floor, I was barely raising my head. I had never been so inept in such plain view of so many people. "Don't judge yourself," the teacher said. "Just try your best."

My best at that point was sitting down again while the class went into another stretching pose. I dabbed at the sweat, then stood up to do the Tree, a balancing posture I'd done at home, a posture I was usually good at. But instead of posing as a graceful willow, I stumbled across my mat like a piece of tumbleweed.

Each pose seemed harder than the next. I felt like an awkward crow among lovely, lithe finches.

Then I reminded myself that this was a spiritual practice as well as a physical workout. I was an acolyte seeking knowledge.

Somehow I stayed in the room the whole ninety minutes, although I was flat on the mat during a third of the poses. Still, at the end, when we all lay on our backs, relaxing and letting the benefits of the exercise come deeper into our bodies, I felt a small sense of calm and accomplishment.

The next class, I managed to try every exercise.

I called Liza to report my progress.

"You have 100 points," she said. "You should be so proud."

I was. Too proud, perhaps. Three classes later, during the one-legged tree pose, I peeked over at the strapping strong man next to me and noticed I was better at balancing then he was. I smiled inwardly and instantly fell out of the posture. My friend hadn't mentioned deducting points for competitiveness and comparisons: the yoga practice took care of that.


"What's the rest of the point system?" I asked Liza, two months into my practice. "Do I get points when I learn to do the Camel? What about the Crow? That arm balance looks really difficult."

Liza smiled at me and shook her head.

"What's really difficult is now to let go of achievement and just enjoy where you are in the practice."

I stared at her. "I'm terrible. I still can't touch my toes. My chair posture looks like a bar stool."

"Are you showing up? Are you breathing?" she asked.
I nodded.

"Then enjoy the process."

That Saturday, walking into the warm studio, I felt a sense of humility, joy and ease. Though my body was slow to show improvement, something inside me was blossoming. I liked being in a roomful of people of all ages and all different types of bodies and abilities, each of us pursuing the same spiritual and physical practice. I liked leaving more emotionally flexible and more relaxed, knowing that no matter how deeply I stretched or how aptly I balanced, I still had so far to go and so much to learn.

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Wheel of Choices

By Jean Bobb

Speak when you are angry and you will make the best speech you will ever regret.
~Ambrose Bierce

It had been five years since the younger of our two daughters left home. Both moved to southern California, while we lived in Phoenix a good five-hour drive away.

Doug and I were actually enjoying an empty nest. The house stayed clean longer, we ate out more often, and we didn't have that constant sense of worrying that comes with parenting.

When Chris called to say she was coming to Phoenix on Friday for a business meeting, I was thrilled.

"I'll be there Labor Day weekend, Mom."

In a nanosecond, I had the entire weekend planned out. I'll take her to that cute Italian restaurant, I thought. And she's never seen the new mall. Oh, and she'll love just being home and relaxing on the couch. We'll make memories.

Chris's business meeting was over early on Friday, and the three of us hung out at the house having a great time. At dinner, she shared stories about her job and we laughed about silly, goofy things only families with wonderful memories understand.

And then she said it. Casually. Without any hesitation. As though words couldn't possibly sting.

"Some of my church friends are having a holiday get-together," she mentioned. "If it's okay with you guys, I think I'd like to go home tomorrow."

Home? Tomorrow?

The room sank into grayness, and my thoughts spun like the giant wheel on a TV game show. The kind where the contestant either wins an exciting prize or lands on the wrong slot -- and goes bankrupt.

She wants to go home tomorrow. Isn't this home?

My feeling-wheel kept spinning in a rush of unexpected emotions. I had no idea where it was going to land.
My first instinct was to stop at the slot marked "Angry: How could you grow up and leave me?" I could halt the spinning right there and be content in my anger.

Chris stared at me. Could she see the spinning wheel, too?

It kept turning, to pause on "Hurt: I've worked hard to make this your home."

Keep going, keep going, my inner audience urged. "Attitude: I'm gonna clam up and punish you for ruining the wonderful, weekend plans I had for us."

The wheel kept going. I didn't feel in control of it and feared this wonderful evening could dissolve into a bad memory, if it landed in the wrong spot.

"Pity: I've gotten old and there is no more purpose for my life."

"Detach: Act like you don't care."

"Guilt: No explanation needed here...."

Chris waited for a response.

And as I gazed at her through a maze of confusion, I saw this beautiful young woman. A person of faith, value, and integrity. Hard-working, funny, and likable. I was privileged to be her mom.

And her life was in southern California.

I felt the wheel slow down. I had control of it, after all, and searched for the one slot that had been blurred by the others. The one marked "Acceptance: It will be okay, let her go, she still loves you."

Easy? No.Worth it? Absolutely.

Chris and I spent the rest of Friday evening eating too much ice cream and sharing too much gossip. Me and my beautiful daughter, my friend, creating a new memory. In fact, Chris had so much fun -- she stayed until Sunday.

I had won the prize, after all.

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