New/Old Friend

With a simple click of the mouse, the photo flashed before my eyes. As I took in the sight, a host of memories burst to the surface. Though they had never been forgotten, they had been buried under a 30-year inventory. Suddenly they were back in high definition. Not just the actions and events, but the very feelings of a poignant three-month span of my life. For several minutes I stared and reminisced.

In the pictures I had viewed before this one, I hadn’t quite recognized her. I questioned whether it was her or someone else. They were family pictures. Maybe the person in the pictures was a relative. Of course I knew she didn’t have a sister, but it could have been someone else – maybe a sister-in-law. After all, I had never seen the square glasses and the waist-long hair. Then I clicked on this picture. There was no mistaking. It was her.

How old was the picture? She didn’t look much older than the 19 year old I once knew so well. She wore a long formal evening gown which reached the floor. The warm smile had not changed. There was the trademark twinkle in her eye. Her hair was fixed like I remembered, about the same length and color. Either the picture was many years old, or mother time had been very kind to this woman.

When she graced my life, I was a young 21 year old, fresh off a 2-year mission. She came along at a trying time in my life. A too-close encounter with a guard rail on a motorcycle left me with a broken femur and recovering from surgery. For two months I hobbled around on crutches, unable to work. I was unable to do much of anything. It was under these circumstances that we met. When we got to know each other, she teased that she took pity and befriended me. It may have been true initially, but as our relationship matured, pity was not a factor. We were crazy about each other.

It started with a simple first date. It was followed by another, and another. Just like that, we were seeing each other every day. When I wasn’t with her, I was wishing that I was. When we attended church together, I could feel eyes in the congregation following us. She was an attractive girl, a trophy. I was proud to have her at my side.

On week days she attended cosmetology school. On occasion I met her during her lunch hour. On such occasions we were more likely to have ice cream rather than lunch. I had no job. I was broke. We went on drives in my ‘57 Thunderbird. Riding my motorcycle with her arms wrapped tightly around me from behind was like a dream. We spent evenings together. When evenings grew late and it was time to part, it was all I could do to pull myself away from her.

This was a new experience for me. I had never had a girlfriend. The few kisses I previously shared with other girls were nothing compared to what she offered. Kissing her was like a 4th of July extravaganza, like a trip to Mars and back at the speed of light, like nothing I had ever experienced with my eyes closed.

Mouse in hand, I perused the remainder of her Facebook profile. There were additional pictures. I visually got acquainted with her husband and sons. A smile creased my face. She seemed happy. Her husband was a good man. I was grateful that she was in good hands.

Eleanor

The first time I met Eleanor, my family had recently moved to Keene, New Hampshire. My son Jace and I were making the 6-mile drive from our home to downtown Keene. We were southbound on Route 10 when I saw the hitchhiker at the side of the road. My impulse to help a soul in need quickly shadowed my hesitancy of picking up a stranger with my nine year old son in the car.

Eleanor was just a whisper of a woman with the build of a broomstick. It was hard to gauge her age, but I guessed she was in her sixties. Her attire was old, even shabby. The scarf about her neck and the hat on her head may have been more fitting of a Dr Seuss book than the country side of New Hampshire. Eleanor was very gracious and offered much thanks for the lift. When she spoke, she instinctively and without fail, placed her hand over her mouth. She was self conscious. I guessed she had no teeth. This was the first of many rides my family would give Eleanor over the next three years.

A few weeks later when I gave this same hitchhiker a ride home, I learned what my wife Donna already knew. Eleanor was a neighbor. She lived about a quarter mile down the street from us. I dropped her off at the intersection of Red Oak Dr. and Sullivan Center Road. As always, she thanked me heartily for the ride. I watched as she got out of the car and crossed Sullivan Center road. In a blink she disappeared into the thick foliage. It was the first time I realized there was a house back there, hardly visible from the road. Little detail was evident through the thick trees, but the faint outline was cottage-like, something out of a Hansel and Gretel story book.

There was no driveway to this house in the woods. It was months later that I realized the onetime driveway had in fact been reclaimed by the forest. The give away was a 1950’s vintage Rambler sedan. It sat imprisoned in the forest by mature trees which had sprouted decades earlier. The car apparently belonged to her deceased mother, for Eleanor did not drive. She often hitchhiked from her home into town and back. On the return trips her arms were full with shopping bags. Over the years, my wife and I gave Eleanor numerous rides to and from town. We got acquainted. Our kids got to know her. We had her in our home. My boys and I sometimes helped her stack firewood. Our family befriended this eccentric old lady.

Contrary to her bag-lady homeless appearance, Eleanor was well spoken, seemingly well educated, and well versed in current affairs. She had never married. She had no children. She had two brothers who lived out of state. She didn’t seem close to either. Her life seemed a very lonely one, though it seemed it was by choice. She was a bit of a recluse and seemed to venture out only when necessary. To my knowledge, she never had visitors.

Her appearance and comments indicated that Eleanor had very few funds. Perhaps her only income was a meager Social Security check. We helped her as much as she would allow, but she was fiercely independent. When dropping her off, any offers to help carry bags to her door was resolutely declined. She was not comfortable with anyone seeing her home. Any offers of food were declined. Her diet, presumably driven by health consciousness, was very different than most.

One of Eleanor’s eccentricities became evident on a Saturday afternoon as we helped her stack firewood. She didn’t want Jace and his friends in her yard. She was afraid that they might break branches. The thick trees in her yard were sacred to her. They were a barrier between her and the outside world. They deadened the sound of traffic and kept “fumes” out.

Eleanor was familiar with our faith. In earlier years she had talked with Mormon missionaries. She had once been acquainted with Wes Clark’s family. She had a Book of Mormon which she had read some.
After three years in Keene, we moved across the country. When we left, we wondered what would become of Eleanor. She was an old woman with needs, eeking out a meager existence. We were concerned for her well being. Along with our other dear friends and neighbors, we bid Eleanor adieu as we left for a new life in Oregon. We gave her name to the full time missionaries. They subsequently visited her and rendered service.

It was the better part of two years later that Donna and I had opportunity to return to Keene. During that visit, on March 15th, 2009, we took the opportunity to visit several old neighbors. Our last stop was one we did not plan but felt impressed by the Spirit to make. We parked across the road from Eleanor’s and walked into the woods, through packed snow, and past the old Rambler. As we approached her house, the clutter on the front steps made it clear that that entrance had not been used in years. The entrance on the left side of the house was similar. “Eleanor,” I called, hoping she could hear my voice. “Eleanor.”

The home was in disrepair. The dust on the first story windows was almost thick enough to hide the clutter piled high inside. We followed the trodden path through the snow to a back basement door. I knocked. There was no response. The air was cold. Our feet were frigid in the snow. We were about to leave when we heard a rustle inside. A moment later, Eleanor poked her head out. Her look was one of suspicion.

“Eleanor, it’s the Fullers. Remember us?”

Her bewilderment changed to wonderment and joy. For the next hour we stood in the winter air outside her home, shuffled our feet to stay warm, and mostly listened to Eleanor. If ever her loneliness had whispered on previous occasions, it spoke loud and clear this day. She was an old woman in need who had not friends or family to turn to.

Donna and I were saddened to find her remarks bordering on paranoia. She suspected a neighbor of having designs on her property. She suspected intruders to have been in her yard snooping. Though one account was hard to follow, she told of an unpleasant exchange with Department of Transportation crews when they trimmed trees on the frontage of her property. Keene police had been called. A day in court followed. She did not have the means for legal representation. The whole episode sounded a bit bizarre but obviously had basis in truth. As she spoke, she apologized several times for “dumping on us”. We didn’t mind. Unloading her pent up frustrations, loneliness, and fears seemed to be soothing balm to her troubled soul.

Eleanor was not eager for us to leave. She asked us to remember her in our prayers. We said we would. “Can we pray before we leave?” I asked. The three of us huddled with arms around each other and bowed our heads. I pleaded with heaven that our dear friend’s needs would be met.

Donna and I left for Oregon the next day. We were most grateful for the Lord’s tender mercies, that he had granted Donna and I the chance to see old friends. As we traveled, we thought of Eleanor, and prayed that the Lord would send someone to help with her needs.

The Last Exit

In the previous three years, I had walked out that front door a thousand times. Never before had I done it with such a lump in my throat. The coolness of the morning air played on my arms and cheeks as I walked down the granite steps. I paused on the sidewalk and gazed at the empty structure that had been such a good home.

Almost three years earlier to the day, we bought the place. Back then, it was a brand new house. It had never been lived in. I signed the documents grudgingly. We considered many houses. The truth was, we couldn’t find the house that we wanted. We chose this one by default. There were things not to like about the place. It didn’t have the three car garage I wanted. The interior layout was poor for entertaining guests. With my poor attitude, who would have thought I would fall in love with the place.

As I stepped back from the house for a better perspective, the dampness of the morning dew clung to the grass and soaked into my sneakers. The lump in my throat grew harder.

I had mowed this lawn on countless occasions. It was therapeutic to come home from work on a summer afternoon and climb on the lawn tractor. Even with a riding mower it took the better part of an hour to mow the expanse. While making pass after pass, the throaty song of the tractor engine mixed with the song of the birds in the thick forest of trees that hugged the yard.

The backyard in particular had been a piece of paradise on earth. In Summer months, as I lay on the hammock with a good book in my hand - there was a sense of solitude. It was just me and mother nature. With five heavily-wooded acres, there were no neighbors to see or intrude. In winter months, it turned into a wonderland of white with the surrounding trees drooping after a winter storm. On crisp winter evenings, the steep slope of the snow-covered lawn played host to many family home evenings of sledding fun. All laughed in unison as they picked themselves out of the snow after a “chain” run down the hill, while Yodi bounced about the yard with a happy tail and an occasional bark . Sledding was enjoyed not only by family, but by every neighborhood kid. They spent many after-school hours sledding at the Fuller’s.

The voice of our real estate agent momentarily brought me out of my thoughts. The lump in my throat prevented me from replying. Tears threatened to roll down my cheeks. My duaghter Mandy stood a few paces away. Her tears were already flowing. We hugged each other, both sad to leave our home. Donna's heart was full as well.

From the front, the house appeared to be a regular two story structure. From the rear, with the walk-out basement, the structure raised a full three stories from ground level. Unlike when we moved in, the basement was now fully finished, a project I had been proud to show to an occasional visitor – the game rooms, the extra bedroom and bath. This was in marked contrast to the open expanse of studs and insulation it had once been. My memories of the project included countless hours, not to mention sweat and blood - literally. A hungry power saw had chewed up my hand, resulting in a trip to the emergency room, follow up surgery and months of rehab.

On the left side of the house stood two cherry trees. They really weren’t much more than saplings, but one of them was already bearing fruit after only two years in the ground. They stood as a memorial to my late father-in-law, Al Gustainis. But they also stood as reminders of our many wonderful neighbors in this quiet secluded neighborhood….., neighbors who cared enough to give us a gift certificate to a local nursery so we could plant a tree in Al’s memory. Those were the kind of people this neighborhood offered – good caring individuals.

Our agent stood in the driveway, content to leave us in our thoughts. This was the same driveway that we watched a large bear lumber down on an October morning the previous year, the same driveway that a 30-head flock of wild turkeys wandered across as they made their way through our yard, the same driveway that was such a winter’s challenge. Sliding down the icy driveway with all four wheels locked up was a bit harrowing, but the flat near the house always provided room to stop before slamming into the house.

It wasn’t just the house and yard that was hard to say goodbye to, but the whole surrounding area. The New England countryside boasted clear flowing water in every creek and river bed, and of course many swimming holes. There was one in particular that we visited frequently, only five minutes from the house near the stone-arch bridge. The cool water and the mammoth boulder which provided a swell jumping platform offered refreshing respite from hot summer days.

Yes, we were saying goodbye to much more than a house.  We were saying goodbye to a community, a way of life, to many church friends and others.  It was time to leave. We dried our tears and got in our car. We were leaving a home and a neighborhood that we loved.  But, we were taking some wonderful memories with us.

Nate and Darrel’s Excellent Adventure (August 12, 2006)

On Nate’s things-to-do-while-in-the-East list, is a trip to New York City. It’s on my list too, buried under twenty other things, but still on my list. So I join in this excursion, which turns out to be every bit the adventure, but much different than past father & son trips into the backcountry of the Grand Canyon or deep in the sierra Nevada Mountains.

After a four hour drive down the interstate, we roll into New York about noon. We get a taste of things to come when an erroneous turn costs us a hefty toll for the Triboro Bridge and an hour of our time as we wander Queens, learning the hard way that our motel street does not cross the East River.

We finally reach Manhattan in early-afternoon and get a seat-of-the-pants introduction to New York driving, with unwritten rules of 1) never hesitate, 2) always put your car where it doesn’t look like it will fit, and 3) if you honk your horn, keep it pushed down until your hand tires from the effort.

From Manhattan, we span 119 years of history crossing the Brookylyn bridge to eat at Gerno’s Pizza, which is nestled almost under the bridge. The display of award-winning plaques in the window proclaim it to be the “best damned Pizza in New York”. The half-hour long line of people stretching out the door and down the sidewalk support the claim. Inside the restaurant, the scene is reminiscent of a previous generation with hand-tossed pizza dough, a large wood-fired oven, and large steaming hot pizzas being expertly slung about with a six-foot wooden spatula. The pizza is unique and tasty. When we leave the restaurant, from a nearby pier, the unobstructed view of the Manhattan skyline across the river is framed by the Brooklyn bridge.

After a harrowing drive back to Manhattan through rush-hour traffic, we check into our motel in the late afternoon, then hit the streets on foot. We decide our trip won’t be complete without a trip to the top of the Empire State building. After a long wait in Disneyland-like lines and an ear-popping elevator ride to the 80th floor, we buy tickets. We opt not to pay the extra six dollars for a recorded narrative by “Tony the Cabbie”, which according to brochures is the best deal in the entire city. Finally we exit onto the observation deck and elbow our way through the throng for a view. Wow – the city of New York from high above, from the East River to the Hudson, from north to South. We’re not disappointed.

Back at ground level, we wait patiently on a busy street for our own personal tour guide who arrives minutes later in a silver Acura. Robbie Stillerman, whom I met several years previous skiing Stratton Mountain, is an ever smiling, non-stop talking, short and petite, 60-ish lady, a New York native who’s small frame is dwarfed by the very skyline that she knows so well. For the next two hours we are treated to Robbie’s non-stop narrative and architectural lectures. While Robbie skillfully maneuvers through a maze of horn-honking New York traffic, we are treated to the sounds, smells, and fabulous sun roof views of the city we came to see - Time Square, The United Nations, The Chrysler building, Central Park and so much more.

With night having fallen, we patiently search street after street for a parking spot. Finally we find one but the vehicle in front of us has first dibs. We watch in amazement while a pickup truck is shoe-horned into a space that appears 6-inches shorter than the vehicle itself. The driver uses a very entertaining bump and grind technique with the parked car to his rear. We move on. At long last we find an empty space, park the car, and venture out on foot. In Washington Square we pause on the sidewalk to enjoy two talented musicians cranking out some serious rock and roll with only a piano, percussion, and raspy vocals. Outside the square in a residential area, we marvel at an official New York City rat sighting. The critter scurries down the sidewalk to our left. Snaking our way down a side street in Greenwich Village, through a sea of people, we pass restaurant after restaurant brimming with energetic customers. This is a “happening place”. It’s after 10p.m. but the evening is young in this city that never sleeps.

Learning that neither Nate nor I have ever eaten Sushi, Robbie escorts us into a Japanese restaurant. Inside and seated, Robbie orders samplers for us all. Nate and I are good sports. The Miso soup is good. The well-seasoned sea weed has the consistency of polyurethane rubber. The sushi tastes exactly like the raw fish that it is - cold, slimy, and tasteless. And the item which makes me the proudest that I’ve ever been in suppressing a gag reflex, “rolls”, which are eel rolled in avocado. After these scrumptious appetizers, I might be content to give my stomach the rest of the night off. Instead we are off to another restaurant for dinner’s main course. After eating, Robbie is game for yet another restaurant for desert, but it is late and we are full.

When we arrived back at the car, we are greeted with an unfriendly parking ticket, placed there only minutes before we arrived. A $115 FINE? (CHOKE!) That alone may keep me away from the city the rest of my life.

On the way home we detour through China town and Little Italy for yet a few more sights. At his hour many of the sidewalks take on the appearance of an alleyway as garbage sacks stacked waste-high await collection. It is about midnight when Robbie drops us off. We say a warm, heart-felt goodbye to our friend who has been so kind to spend her evening sharing with us the sights, sounds and cuisine of her beloved New York City. We trudge our tired bodies to our motel room and fall into bed.

Saturday morning we conclude our visit with a subway trip downtown. As the subway rolls, our car is filled with the perfect harmony of four black men singing a cappella. While their deep rich voices serenade, they unabashedly solicit tips before passing into the next car. On the south side of Manhattan we enjoy views of the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island where Nate’s Lithuanian and Italian ancestors entered the country many years previous. In a walking tour we see Wall Street and the ornate exterior of the New York Stock Exchange. Farther north, we stand in the midst of a crowd, many of whom are moved to tears by the memorial at the World Trade Center.

It’s mid afternoon when we finally retrieve our vehicle and leave the city. It is only fitting that we leave the way we arrived – by making a wrong turn and getting sucked once again into paying a hefty toll to cross the Triboro bridge. This time we reverse direction quickly and head north. We arrive home in the early evening, glad for our experience, and glad to be home.

Mount Manadnock

Up early at 5:30 am. Into the bathroom to perform the three S’s (shave, shower, and shampoo). It’s after 6am when I roust Jace and Nate from their beds. We pack provisions for our three-man expedition to the summit of Mount Monadnock. We finally leave the house sometime after 6:30.

Off of Route 124, we turn east onto Old Shaker Farm Road and proceed down the rutted and narrow dirt lane which cuts through heavy woods before finally emerging into a small dirt parking lot. Off to our right are rock foundations, remnants of the Shaker farm which graced the land some 200 years before our Toyota rolled to a stop and spit out three anxious males. In honor of the Shakers, who carved a living from this land so many years ago, we do a little shaking ourselves as we leave the parking lot and attack the trail.

Mount Monadnock is known as the second most hiked mountain in the world. On this morning there is little indication of the mountain’s popularity. We have the trail entirely to ourselves. No other souls. It helps that we’re on the most obscure and least traveled of all the trails that snake their way to the summit.

The trail meanders through thick woods, which filter the morning sun as effectively as an Amazon jungle. The few sunbeams which make their way to the forest floor are further softened by wispy strands of morning fog which slither eerily through the trees.

For the first half mile, the trail is relatively level. It then turns vertical up the mountain. As the grade grows steep our pace slows. Jace’s 11-year old legs have a hard time keeping pace with the 24-year-old and 50-year-old legs of his brother and father. Nate and I offer encouragement and prod him on. We stop for an occasional rest. After our second break, as if on queue, there is a reversal of rolls. For the remainder of the ascent Jace forges ahead. His father assumes the roll of laggard.

Progressing up the mountain, my legs begin murmuring, quietly at first, then louder with each step. A mile into the hike I begin to deeply regret every fat-filled doughnut I’ve eaten in the past year. A quarter mile later, my regret includes every bowl of ice cream and each serving of cholesterol-laden French fries.

Half way up the mountain, the trees grow thinner. Historians claim two hundred years ago the mountain was heavily wooded to the very top, before being intentionally burned by farmers. A mile and a half into the hike we’re greeted by today’s Mount Monadnock. A few hardy shrubs fight for life on nearly bare rock. Fifteen minutes more of hiking, the shrubs give way to barren rock.

With the drama of Sir Edmund Hillary cresting Everest, we take the last grueling steps to the wind-swept summit of Mount Monadnock. The solid rock under our feet is completely void of soil or vegetation. In distant years someone has skillfully carved into the bedrock, “ELEVATION 3166 ft”. Seventy five miles to the east is the Boston skyline, which is visible on a clear day, but today is hidden in distant haze. Ninety miles to the west sits Albany, New York, also lost in the haze. The city of Keene is visible to the north.

Bathed in sunshine, we lounge on the rocks and chug Poland Spring bottled water while eating granola bars and trail mix. The wind blows briskly from the north west, drying our sweat-stained shirts. The temperature is perfect for our tired bodies. Nate and I chat idly while trying to ignore the background noise of Jace complaining over and over, “I’m bored. I’m bored.” When we’ve all had our fill of the mountain vista, we retreat down the mountain.

As we hike Nate declares that the rocks are safe haven, while the spots of soil and grass are molten lava. As we descend, outcropping bedrock becomes scarce. I am the first to step foot into lava and be instantly consumed. Nate and Jace bounce from rock to rock with great skill, determined to stay alive, but eventually succumb to the same fate as their aging father.

Half way down the mountain we come upon wild blueberry bushes. We can’t resist stopping for nature’s treat. The berries aren’t terribly plentiful on these bushes. Initially we pick and eat the perfectly ripe berries one by one. Then to enhance the experience, we wait until we have a handful before throwing them into our mouth. The result on our taste buds is an exhilarating explosion of flavor.

Intermixed among the blueberries are some unknown berries, small, dark in color. Are they poisonous? We all eat one, figuring that if we die we’ll die happy, and the resulting three-in-one funeral will save our loved ones travel expense. As it turns out they are rather tasteless and hardly worth the risk.

Jace shouts, “mother lode” when we spy more blueberry bushes in which the berries are so abundant they hang in clumps. We eat blue berries by the handful. When we have had our fill, the activity degenerates to a massive blue berry fight. Blue berry bullets fly through the air with great speed but mostly errant trajectories.

As we leave blueberry heaven and continue down the trail, Jace and Nate engage in a burping contest. Jace let’s loose with several massive belches which would make any eleven year old proud. The tone and volume are likely sufficient to de-throne Nick as the recognized family champion. But since Nick is not present, the anticipated change in the crown must wait for future head-to-head competition.

We arrive back at the van at11:20a.m., having made the round trip in about four hours. We’re all tired and thirsty. Back in town we reward our efforts with a stop at Pizza Pi. While we wait for our pizza, we quench the fire in our lactic acid-filled leg muscles by consuming generous amounts of ice cold soda. Finally our pizza arrives. As I hungrily consume three pieces, savoring the dripping-hot cholesterol-laden mozzarella cheese and grease-dripping pepperoni, my earlier misgivings of diet and health recede to the distant shadows of consciousness.

It has been a good morning. We made pleasant memories. All in all, a very good outing.

A Prayer and a Stone

The Challenge

A friend had issued it- a challenge, one I really didn’t like. “Go into the mountains,” she said. “Find a secluded spot. Kneel down and pray for fifteen minutes. Keep your eyes closed- except you can peek at your watch. You’ll come back a changed man, I promise you.”

Her challenge didn’t settle well. After all, does the length of a prayer determine if God hears it? Besides, I felt a little resentful at having been issued the challenge in the first place. Who was she to imply that I needed this change. And yet here I stood in a good spot to take the challenge- not on a mountaintop, but on a secluded portion of beautiful San Onofre Beach.

I contemplated kneeling right there on the beach, just a few yards from the surf. It was early morning. The only people visible were a few hundred yards south. But in a fifteen minute span someone might walk by. The prospect would be distracting.

Perhaps I should just wait- maybe do this fifteen minute prayer thing some other time. My heart wasn’t in it anyway. And yet, the challenge kept rolling around in my mind. If I was going to do it, this was the time. I eyed the vertical bluffs that rose high above the beach. If I could get up there, it would be perfect. There would be no distractions. And then I spotted a hint of a path, very faint, which might lead to the top.

The climb was difficult and caused me to suck deep breaths of air. When I finally reached the top I stood there in my running shoes and shorts for a moment and looked down on the sea. Even from here I could hear the steady rolling of the surf far below. I had long since removed my shirt during a five-mile run which I had completed just minutes before. Now I used it to wipe my brow.

As I thought again about praying like this, I felt just a little foolish. What was so magical about fifteen minutes? My heart still wasn’t into this. But then I spread my shirt on the ground and kneeled down. I bowed before my maker, paused to look at my watch, and then began to pray.

I began by apologizing to the Lord, for He knew all too well of my skepticism in this exercise. And then I continued praying. I prayed about life’s challenges and the stumbling blocks in my path. I prayed for those that I loved- my family and friends. And of course I gave thanks. As I poured out my heart to Heavenly Father, the more focused I became. Only twice did I even think to peek at my watch. And when I finally said amen, I had long surpassed the fifteen minute mark.

I was so engrossed in the prayer that it wasn’t until I opened my eyes that I realized that a swarm of bugs were now crawling on my bare skin. I stood and gently brushed them off. While taking in the beauty of the ocean and the surf below, I contemplated my prayer and how I felt inside. Finally, as I turned and made my way back down the steep slope to the sandy beach below, I had to admit that my friend was right. The Spirit had warmed me- and was warming me. I was much closer to the Lord than I was fifteen minutes earlier. The peaceful glow of the Spirit went with me down the steep slope to the beach. It continued with me as I headed south toward my motorcycle, which was more than three miles away.

My shoes sunk into the soft sand as I walked. It was then that I noticed the rocks in the surf. There were thousands of them, mingled with the sand in large piles. Many were baseball size, though some were larger and some smaller. They were dark in color, gray perhaps, until the waters of the surf crashed against them and they changed to pure black. And then a single stone caught my eye. It was small, only marble-size, but it stood out in stark contrast against the others. It was pure white- almost translucent. And when the surf wetted its surface it did not grow darker. It glistened even brighter.

I picked it up and marveled at its surface. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t polished. It was warn smooth. It had no rough edges. And though it was nearly pure white, there was just a bit of discoloration on one side. The imperfections didn’t distract from the appearance, but gave the stone character.

I longed to be like the stone- a bright spot against a background of darkness. I wished that I too would glisten brighter, rather than be darkened when doused by life’s frothy waves. As a reminder of the day, of my experience on the bluff, of the peace I now felt, I slipped the rock into the pocket of my shorts.

Continuing on my way, I spotted another stone similar to the first, and a little further on, yet another. And so I knelt and picked up one stone, and then another, until I had sufficient to share with those I loved. And of course, included was the friend that issued the challenge of the fifteen-minute prayer.