Angels Don't Need Your Address

By Lisa Leshaw

The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us and we see nothing but sand; the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone.
~George Eliot

It was a typical last weekend of summer mania at the beach, and of course I wanted to be part of the madness. My husband thought that a quiet barbeque at home would suffice. But given his gentle and accommodating ways, there we were lying supine on our rainbow-striped towels like sardines in a tin. If we inched forward, backward, left or right, we would be quite intimate with our beach neighbors.

I was thrilled to hear the ocean roar, feel the mist on my face, taste the saltiness in the air. My husband said he could have easily duplicated this experience back home by playing one of those new wave CDs in the background (the ones that sound like a combination of an eerie violin and waterfalls) while he sprayed me with a mister and fed me potato chips.

I put him under the umbrella and headed for one of my famous beach adventures. Seashell collecting followed by a hunt for sea glass, a walk along the jetty and the ultimate reward — wading, dipping, diving and eventually riding back in on my own private wave.

We headed home, sun-drenched and parched and in dire need of showers. And that's when I noticed that my owl necklace, a thirtieth birthday gift given to me by my dad just one week before he passed away, was not where it should have been and always was: hanging right below the I Love You necklace given to me by my husband on our wedding night.

My two most favorite men on the planet and my two most treasured gifts, and now one was missing. I was frantic as I searched every room in the house. I asked my husband if he recalled seeing the necklace on me while we were at the beach. He couldn't be sure and neither could I.

All I could be certain of was that I was heartbroken.

I grabbed the car keys and headed back to the beach. My husband thought I was crazy and rightly so. Nine miles of beach, thirty thousand beachgoers later — did I really think I could locate one teeny necklace?

I knew I had to try. At least there was a Lost and Found. Maybe, just maybe, someone came across my necklace and turned it in. Then cynically I thought, maybe, just maybe with the price of gold someone did not.

What if it came off in the ocean?

I was unwilling to even consider that as a possibility.

I rushed onto the beach and didn't know where to begin. The lifeguards were long gone but a worker sweeping the boardwalk had access to the Lost and Found. One deck of playing cards, three beach chairs, and more than six coolers were stacked along the wall but no necklace anywhere.

I noticed an elderly man slowly walking the sand with a metal detector in his hand. I raced up to him and, nearly breathless, asked if he had come across a necklace.

He opened his yellowed weather-beaten hand and showed me his bounty thus far — nickels and quarters but mostly pennies.

The old man said I could write down my name and address and if he happened to come upon my necklace he would gladly return it to me. I wanted to hug him so I did.

I also wanted him to have sufficient postage to mail it back to me so I gave him a crumpled up $5 bill that he re-crumpled and put in his vest pocket.

I raced back to my car to find something to write with (and on) and found a dull-tipped eyebrow pencil and a napkin.

I scribbled my name and address and ran back as fast as I could.

The old man was gone.

I searched for a while and then went home.

My generous husband offered to replace the little blue owl with a new one.

I turned down his loving gesture, as there could be no replacement. My dad, despite being hospitalized for the better part of seven months, had found a way to buy me that necklace and not miss my thirtieth birthday. I had learned about it at his funeral.

There had been a fundraising event in the lobby of the hospital a few days earlier where merchants were selling their wares. Having gotten wind of this, my dad had asked one of the orderlies if he could wheel him downstairs.

On display in a small white box on a corner table he spotted the owl necklace and knew he had found the very best gift of all. My dad always told me how wise I was, even as a little girl, wise beyond my years he would say. Wise like a wise old owl.

Without money to pay for the owl, my dad had to barter with the vendor. He offered to build something in his occupational therapy class like a magazine rack or a wooden boat in exchange for my birthday gift.

The vendor gave my dad the owl with an IOU and Dad's favorite nurse brought it home to gift-wrap as though it had come from Tiffany.

I would later learn that this kind vendor had just lost his father to cancer and was so moved by my dad's gumption and dignity that he never had any intention of accepting any money.

Three days after combing the beach for the fourth and final time a package appeared inside our screen door.

I don't know who delivered it or who sent it, as there was no return address nor any postage of any kind.

Inside was a crumpled up $5 bill and my owl necklace.

First I cried.

Then I kissed that beautiful owl.

Then I put my necklace back on where it belonged.

And only then did I realize how silly I had been.

I never needed to worry about writing down where I lived. Angels don't need your address.

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Learning to Make a Resolution

By Deborah Batt

We must be willing to get rid of the life we've planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.
~Joseph Campbell

It was December 31st at 11:30 P.M. I had ducked into the washroom to check my make-up and take a breather. Once again, I had been invited to a party of married couples and those soon-to-be married. Friends and family, but nonetheless still the only awkwardly single, well — divorced and single woman in the room. I did look good though in my little black dress and perfect pumps but really, who was here to notice except my best buddies; my sisters. Their compliments were sweet at the beginning of the evening, and appreciated, but now as I was fast approaching the hour of couples kissing in the New Year those compliments were giving me little solace.

I knew that I would have to face bringing in another year by kissing either the dog or, if I were lucky, I could sneak upstairs to my sleeping nephew and peck his cheek while he lay in his crib. The kissing part was uncomfortable, but really not the worst part of it all. Oh no, that would have to be the proverbial decision to come up with some resolution that I would be able to follow through with for once.

I stared in the mirror for a short time and then decided I should rejoin the others or, heaven forbid, miss out on the whole ritualistic display of affection. But the thoughts continued to cross my mind and then, like a light, it hit me.

This was going to be my year. I was going to make everything happen and why shouldn't I? I would lose those pesky fifteen pounds, eat healthful meals, and start working out with a vengeance. I would meet Mr. Right and we would happily fall into blissful and absolute love within moments of seeing each other across a crowded room. Oh, how romantic! I would write my bestselling novel and be swooped into a book tour across Europe and of course, meet Robert De Niro who was set to play the lead in the film version.

My gosh, my world would be terrific. Never mind these practical and predictable married types and their world of responsibilities, potluck dinners, school plays and bickering over where to put the new sofa. I was going to be fabulous and live a fabulous life and that's all there was to it. What a stupendous dream! And that's exactly what it was — a dream.

I guess no one can predict what's going to happen to them in any given year. I could not have predicted that a colleague would have chosen death over life that New Year's Eve. I couldn't have predicted that in February, I would meet a man who would invite me to an impromptu vacation in Las Vegas, only to be involved in a car crash that killed his best friend hours before we were set to leave. I couldn't have predicted that my four-year-old niece would be diagnosed with cancer, along with my father, and that my mother would battle her cancer again for a second time.

I could not have predicted the challenge of my personal relationships and my decision to end some friendships because they were no longer healthy for me. I could not have predicted the loneliness that came at the end of the year. I couldn't have predicted any of it. But then again, I don't think I could have predicted the lessons I learned either.

I learned that each year brings new hope for things to come and problems are never so big that death should ever be the only answer. I learned that plans change and we need to be flexible, and when I can help someone who has experienced a loss, I want to do it because it makes me feel good to help. I learned to rejoice over the little things and indulge in the simple things, such as spending time with family and friends. I learned that a four year old has more strength than most grown-ups and resilience is indeed a gift. I learned that it's okay to let go of those who don't make us feel good about ourselves, and it's okay to feel lonely every now and then; we're human. And I learned that life is not about predicting what will happen next, but about learning from the moments that will make up the next moments.

It's December 31st again, exactly 11:30P.M., and once again I'm going to make a resolution for the New Year to come. Nothing grandiose, just this: this year I will appreciate the experiences that I am given and hope that through the months to come I will learn a little something about myself, my world, and my life that may just make it a little better than it was before.

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Beginning at the End

By Joe Rector

This weary ol' workhorse is a unicorn, my friend.
~Jareb Teague

My writing career had been going well. No, I hadn't landed that elusive publishing deal, and literary agents weren't knocking down the door. Instead, I was writing a weekly personal column for a small community paper and another column about several local communities for the major paper in the city. A couple of magazines had used some pieces I'd submitted as well. Sometimes I even had the chance to write a feature. The small amount of income that I received helped pay a bill or two.

Most important were the contacts I made. Both columns had developed a healthy readership. I met wonderful people who indicated that they looked forward to my columns each week, and I learned many new things about the area where I'd lived for all my life except for a four-year hiatus away at college.

For more than three years, I was blessed with those opportunities. However, a new editor with the large newspaper cut my column for what she claimed were budgetary concerns. I protested that folks in my area would no longer have coverage of their events, but the editor assured me that one of the other freelance columnists would take up the slack. She also offered me another position covering new businesses in the area. I agreed even though the loss of my original column smarted.

For the next few months, I sought out business to highlight each week. Finding them became increasingly tougher as the economy slipped further in the tank. Added to that was my inability to please this editor with my writing. From the outset, she picked my work apart and asked endless questions, many that were answered in the piece I'd written.

Writing had become a chore. I submitted stories and waited for the snide comments, questions, and chastising to begin. No lead or angle for a story ever met her approval. The new assignment began in January, and in March, the editor killed the column. She ended my column and affiliation with her small kingdom in a curt e-mail that told me I could submit pieces to other sections of the paper.

Bam! Suddenly something that I'd enjoyed so was taken from me. I was cast aside and my work replaced with question and answer pieces about pets. Self-doubt set in as I wondered if my gift for writing had disappeared. The question popped into my head as to whether I'd taken writing for granted. The support and encouragement of my wife Amy sustained me, and she prodded me to continue to write. She ended by saying, "Don't look at this as a loss. God has given you a talent, and this is the end of one road that will lead to another."

I kept that in mind and spent much of my time in front of the computer. A collection of personal columns came to life, and a new book was begun. I'd recently retired from a thirty-year career as a high school English teacher, and any extra time was devoted to playing golf and completing a "honey-do list." In no time the sting of being let go by the editor and the ensuing bitterness over it disappeared.

In June Amy met with her two cousins for lunch. Both were working for another small paper in the area. Carol asked what I was doing since leaving the other paper, and when Amy told her nothing, she asked if I'd be interested in working with her employer. I agreed to meet with the publisher of the paper, and Sandra hired me. My job was to cover the same areas about which I'd written for the last three years. In addition, I would be named the community editor. Ironically, this small paper was distributed as an insert in the very publication for which I'd previously worked.

I was ecstatic with the opportunity. Not only could old relationships with the communities and the people who lived in them be renewed but the prospect of producing a section that would outshine the one of my old boss was also possible.

Some might call it karma, that idea that what goes around comes around. I prefer to believe that Amy was right. The good Lord had decided to use me in a new way. I was blessed again.

The work hours are longer now, but I don't mind. Sure, I lost a job, one that I enjoyed tremendously. What I gained was a new and broader chance to write. Most of all, I awakened to the fact that endings always lead to beginnings. That fact means that a loss is never more than a change in direction. Faith and patience help make that clear.

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A Fine Case of Baconitis

By Cindy Beck

"Lisa honey, are you saying you're never going to eat any animal again? What about bacon?"
~Dan Castellaneta, The Simpsons

Pregnant with my first and only child, I did the typical things — threw up as soon as I got out of bed in the morning, threw up at lunch, and threw up when anything smelled stronger than a saltine cracker. One sunny Sunday morning before I knew I was expecting, I decided to cook bacon. Bad, bad move. By the time the bacon had crisped in the frying pan, I'd raced to the bathroom more than once.

Please understand that I'm a bacon lover. My heart sings at the sound of bacon crackling in the hot grease of a frying pan and at the smell of the meat's smoky scent wafting through the house. It takes me back to Saturday morning breakfasts long ago, when life seemed to be a ribbon-bedecked gift, waiting to be opened.

So, it's understandable that in my state of prenatal ignorance, I decided only one thing could cause me to feel that sick at the smell of bacon: an advanced disease. Something with a weird medical title, such as Second Stage Pork-inoma or Third Degree Baconitis.

The morning following the bacon fiasco, I felt fine. Odd disease, that Third Degree Baconitis — one minute my stomach felt great, the next I was driving the porcelain bus. Being late for work, I didn't have time to ponder the oddity of the symptoms. However, I'd learned my lesson, and there would be no leftover bacon for me that morning. Instead, I grabbed a handful of grapes and an opened, now fizzless root beer. When I got to the workplace, where I developed film for a cancer research company, I topped off my breakfast with a custard doughnut that sat on a plate on the receptionist's desk — last week's leftover doughnut.

It didn't take long before I lay curled up on the cold, linoleum floor in the darkroom, holding my nose with one hand to block the acrid scent of photo chemicals — a smell that only made the nausea worse — and rubbing my stomach with the other.

"This Third Stage Baconitis is advancing rapidly," I muttered to myself through gritted teeth. "I have to make an appointment immediately to see a doctor." Then I jumped up and dashed to the bathroom.

Several weeks later, the doctor confirmed it. No, not Third Stage Baconitis, but a three-month pregnancy. I walked out of her office elated. Now it all made sense. No disease, no treatments involving chemo or radiation, just six more months of waiting for a baby — a cute, sweet baby to fill our lives with joy.

I was so happy I didn't even wait until we arrived back at our little nest to tell my husband. I told him in the car… and then we drove home faster than the wind so I could go throw up again.

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Warming Up to Hockey

By Jill Pertler

God could not be everywhere and therefore He made mothers.
~Jewish Proverb

I've never been much of a hockey fan. For someone living in northern Minnesota, this is a bold confession — not usually shouted from rooftops, but whispered discreetly on dark street corners.

I'm not a winter person. The cold month of January is enough to get my long underwear in a bunch. The one thing worse than January is realizing I've still got February to endure — and everyone knows February is the longest month.

It's only logical — sitting in a cold, ice-filled arena didn't make my bucket list.

Life has a way of throwing us a flying puck every so often. I'm a mother to four kids. Two already play hockey and a third is on the horizon. Can you say icing?

Any parent will attest, once you have children, your life is no longer your own. You share it with your kids. This is why you became a parent. If your kids want to explore a certain hobby or sport, and it is in your means and interest to help them, you do so. Mine wanted to play hockey. Ambivalent or not, I was along for the ride.

During my son's first year of play, I had to help him suit up a couple of times. I couldn't believe the complexity of the garb. There were pads and socks and protectors all held together with white tape. There were funny looking pants called breezers. The helmet, in and of itself, was a sight to behold. I believe there were three or four snaps, a chin guard and a mouth guard attached with plastic.

It still astounds me: we suit our little ones up like this, put sharp steel blades on their feet, give them a long stick and say, "Go for it!" And they do. That's the amazing part. They do.

These little people, who can hardly stand up on skates at the beginning of the season, are able to skate fluidly a few months later. They learn the coordination of handling the stick and puck at the same time. They learn to skate as fast backward as they can forward. They learn to pass and dig and stay onside. They learn to rely not only on themselves, but their teammates and coach as well.

As important as anything else, they learn to enjoy our long, cold winter. And they help their moms do the same.

A few years ago, I entered the world of hockey as a novice. I've learned a lot since then, and am proud to say I no longer consider myself a total rookie. I understand my fair share about a world where Zamboni is king. I've learned to appreciate a perfect pass and a well-executed play. I've learned about breakaways, blue lines, high sticking, the five hole, icing, hat tricks, going top shelf and weekend jamborees.

I've learned the importance of thick socks and good boots. I've learned those hand warmer things really do work. I've learned hot cocoa tastes better when you're cold.

I've also learned that when my kids enjoy something thoroughly and entirely, it's hard for me not to feel the same way. I started out as an ambivalent parent, but that's changed. I have become a fan. I may not shout my sentiments from the rooftop, but I have been known to join the hockey moms in a team cheer. It's fun. And besides, the clapping and yelling helps keep the blood circulating to my extremities.

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The Right Track

By Debra Ayers Brown

When my spirit was overwhelmed within me, then You knew my path.
~Psalm 142:3

As the sun rose on another hot summer day, I crawled out of bed after a fitful sleep in hopes of pounding the pavement and relieving some stress. I couldn't decide what to do after the closing of the company where I'd handled the marketing for eight years. I'd loved every minute of it and had given it my all. Now, I felt lost.

There was no question about whether I had to work, just how to proceed. Should I work for someone else with 24/7 dedication like I'd done in previous positions? Should I start my own company instead? Would my creative abilities and writing skills set me apart from the competition as they had in the past? Would clients put their faith in me? Could I make it financially?

Doubts plagued me.

I hurried across the parking lot in the south Georgia humidity to the tree-canopied portion of the walking trail in the county park. Buzzing cicadas, rustling leaves, and the scent of damp earth bombarded my senses.

The majesty of the sounds, textures, smells, and beauty of nature usually soothed my soul, but not today.

I rushed past spiky palmettos, delicate ferns, and wild grapevines on the sun-dappled path. Magnolia leaves shimmered in the sunlight. A bird squawked and flitted from the ground to a branch in the trees, barely heard over the persistent croaking of tree frogs.

The moss-draped live oaks closed in on me. The cacophony of sounds jangled my nerves.

"Stop," I cried. "Just stop."

I wiped sweat from my brow with the back of my hand.

"What's the use?"

I turned around, backtracking toward my car. Footsteps from behind startled me.

A stranger's voice asked, "Are you familiar with 1 Peter 5:7?"

"I'm not sure," I answered, looking back over my shoulder at a tall, slender man.

He smiled at me.

"Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares about you," he said.

I returned his smile, but chills ran up my spine. Where had he come from?

As we continued to walk, he spoke of God's love.

"God has a plan for us," he said, "but sometimes we're scared and don't listen to him."

I thought of how my instincts had been pushing me toward starting my own company, and how I'd hesitated because of fear.

"He's with you every step of the way," he assured me. "Keep moving, and he'll guide you in the right direction. He hears you when you ask for help."

I had prayed for help before I got out of bed. Was this guy my sign God had heard my plea?

During our walk, he quoted scripture and talked of the importance of using our talents for God's purpose.

"We're all given talents," he reminded me. "Some great, some small. No matter what, we glorify God when we use them to further his kingdom."

We moved to the right to allow room for oncoming runners.

"God is interested in the passion we have for whatever gifts he has given us," he said with sincerity.

"Are you a preacher?" I asked.

"No, I just go where God leads me."

He prayed for me, and then he disappeared through an opening in the trees.

For the first time in a long while, I felt a bounce in my step. Starting my own company would allow me to use my talents and to follow God's lead. Excitement rushed through me. I put one foot in front of the other and breathed a great sigh of relief, confident I was on the right track.

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Growing Up with a Canadian Obsession

By Rebekah Wilkinson

Ice hockey players can walk on water.
~Author Unknown

Hockey in Canada is more than a favourite pastime. It is an obsession. There is something stemming from the genes that pulls parents out of bed at 4:30 on dark weekday mornings to go sit in a cold arena, hunkering around travel mugs of coffee, to watch their children pass puck after puck around the slippery surface. Even the Canadian five-dollar bill pays tribute to the game with pictures of pond hockey and a quote from Roch Carrier's short story "The Hockey Sweater": "The winters of my childhood were long, long seasons. We lived in three places — the school, the church and the skating rink — but our real life was on the skating rink."

Being a creative, artistic sort, I had never understood the fixation on this game — it moves too fast and has an undercurrent of violence with all that body checking and clashing of sticks. Then, one cold January day, I gave birth to a baby boy. Maybe it was being born into the cold of winter that gave rise to his obsession with hockey. But I should have recognized something was up, when at one year of age, he turned a long shoehorn into a hockey stick to bat a small ball around the floor. I have the picture to prove it. Twelve years later, the hockey stick of choice costs over $200 and is made of lightweight composite wood with a flex 100 Sakic curve.

I chuckle at the memory of my five-year-old hockey player being forced to sit through a demonstration of his younger sister's dance class. "I don't like ballet," he said to me, with all seriousness, in the car on the way home. "There's no action."

As the years go by, the hockey skates get bigger and the hockey schedule gets fuller, with more trips to the arenas in surrounding towns. Hockey has given us reason to see more of our province than would have been our natural inclination. I may not have shopped the main streets in all the downtown cores but I have been to all of the hockey arenas.

I have finally figured out what "offside" means. And even though I don't always catch the penalty calls, I understand a bit of the strategy that goes into putting the puck into the net.

Every year, the play goes a little faster as the kids' skill increases. The shots get harder as do the body checks. I no longer wince when my son gets checked into the corner but we all still hold our breath and mentally will a downed player to get back up because we know that the next big hit could be against our own child.

I can finally hold my own in a hockey discussion with the other parents and understand why everyone gets so upset at a bad call. I roll my eyes and throw my hands in the air over missed scoring opportunities. The bird's-eye view from the stands get us every time, as the spectators criticize the plays not so obviously visible from the level of the ice. "Yes, I see the sign that reminds us that every referee is someone's child... but, come on, he should have called that."

With every passing year that my son gets older, it is like I am growing up with hockey just like the rest of Canada.

In our area, there is a small window of opportunity that is anticipated as soon as the last leaf falls from the trees. It is the moment when the little lake near our home freezes solid enough to hold the weight of a person. This window only lasts a few short weeks before the water moves again. But as soon as the ice starts to creep towards the lake centre, the kids daily ask, "Is it time yet?"

Last year, we watched as our small lake began to freeze. The kids enjoyed throwing stones onto the thin sheet of ice to hear the wobbling sound it made as the rocks skidded across the surface. Every day we checked the thickness of the ice on the way to school. Then, ice fishermen started to appear, dotted here and there across the white expanse. And sure enough, the shovels came out and small clearings for rinks appeared in the snow on the ice.

One sunny day after school, I brought the kids' skates so they could spend an hour on the small frozen inlet. Before we had arrived, another boy whom we had never met had spent some time clearing the snow off a small area of ice.

Once he saw that we had come to join him, his face glowed with excitement. He was proud of the small rink he had worked so hard to create and couldn't wait to try out his hockey skills. He had brought some extra pucks and animatedly talked about putting up boards around the edges so that the puck wouldn't escape.

The kids placed backpacks on either side of the rink to stand in as goal posts and started to play. I realized the cleared space wasn't quite large enough and decided to do some more shovelling for them.

I stepped onto the lake and looked through the clear ice at the fish swimming below. Surrounded by snow-covered mountains, the air was crisp and fresh. It was neat to see the world from this perspective, not available to us most months of the year, as we don't own a boat. Standing on the middle of the frozen water in my boots, I actually cursed myself for not bringing my skates even though they pinched my feet.

Other kids appeared out of the woodwork with skates and hockey sticks in hand. Previous players, where another impromptu game had broken out, had left a hockey net on another cleared rink across the lake. Our little lake was soon bustling with action.

But all too soon it was time for us to leave. The kids made plans with strangers to continue the game the following day.

I wouldn't say that I have caught the full all-consuming passion of hockey yet. But I do appreciate the appeal of the suspenseful adrenaline rush and camaraderie that bind Canadians to this game. I am not at a place yet where I will sit glassy-eyed and glued to the television to watch Hockey Night in Canada. We'll see when my son makes the NHL. But I will say this, "I get it." Shh... don't tell my husband.

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