I have become a voyeur, a voyeur of other people’s home interiors. When we are not watching a Hallmark movie (where the interiors are often elegant and over-the-top), we often are watching cable news. Since most of the reporters are in New York City, they are sheltering-in-place and reporting/analyzing/commenting from their homes. The majority of those reporters stand or sit in living rooms and studies, most of those rooms full of bookshelves and photos. I’m so impressed with all those books on those shelves, most of them looking well-worn and, thus, well-read. It’s great to see books—not e-readers.

Tonight I spied two model airplanes on a top shelf of a bookshelf; a medal, which was probably a Pulitzer Prize award; an unusual vase, which seemed to shimmer as it sat on the shelf, and several lovely potted plants. It’s rather fun to spy all these objects, common enough in most homes, in the homes of people who have seemed, in regular times, to be talking heads, permanently in a studio box. Of course, my voyeurism is innocent enough and yields not much new knowledge, but it does confirm my suspicion that all of us are more alike than we sometimes think we are.

Beyond the commonalities I see in these human’s homes are the commonalities I hear in their words, see in their faces, and infer from their questions and comments, all of which reinforce the truth that we are all isolated, all fearful, all waiting to see the future. So more than ever, I am grateful for the people who stay on the air in order to give people as many facts about the COVID-19 crisis as possible. Yes, I am quite aware that some people in our country don’t really think that the crisis is that bad, but when we hear governors and mayors speak about their frustrations of trying to get the medical supplies and the tests and medications, we cannot help but sense that the crisis is large—larger than what any of us can probably comprehend.

So, I watch the reporters and commentators and medical experts and see their tired faces and their worried eyes, and I believe their words, their voices, their urgency. And how I wish some of the federal government officials would be as urgent in their responses to this virus. Our country’s response to the pandemic reveals itself to be nothing but muddled—depending upon whom you listen to, you think that the whole problem is overblown or you think that our country may never recover from this situation.

I cannot just be a voyeur. I must take action, a rather difficult resolve when I am stuck in my home, therefore, as a person of faith, prayer is, once again, the answer. No one in this country—I would dare say, no one in this world—can figure out how best to respond to this global disaster. Perhaps if enough of us pray, we will, indeed, be  able to bring clarity to our leaders, will bring strength to the medical community, bring comfort to all those self-isolated, and bring mercy to all those sick unto death. Amen and amen.

Day 23: Monday, March 23, 2020

Another day at home. It really is an odd feeling to have nothing to do, no where to go, except outside to walk the dog. Oh, I know the time will come when I have to get out to go to the grocery or the pharmacy, but, meanwhile, we are in this same space 24-7. But being in the same space doesn’t mean there isn’t work to do. There are so many more meals to cook and dishes to wash than there were before. And since Kallie is still with us,, there is more entertaining to do.

But today I determined to do something “worthwhile,” something task-oriented that would make ME feel worthwhile. So I created a new lesson for my memoir writing class, even though I have no good way to share it with my students. I’ll work on that tomorrow, probably providing a hybrid class format of asynchronous email lesson and a synchronous essay reading on Zoom. In the “real world” of work, my lesson and my class would seem unimportant. I know some people would just be dismissive of such an effort when the teacher is not a professional in the specific field and most of the students are retired persons who either want to write for their families or want to be in a class that has some social aspects. 

But as long as it is important for my 10-12 writers, I will continue to write lessons and find a way to communicate with this great group of people who have shred so much of themselves by writing little slices of their life stories.  I’m just hoping for the time when we can actually meet face-to-face again. I still have great hopes that at least some of the stories that I have heard will make their way into the public spaces around us, being shared with family, friends, and church members.

Great hopes—that’s the key to keeping positive in this strange stay-at-home time. If we don’t have faith and hope, we will melt into a pool of depression. ‘Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” And what in the world do those words really mean? All that gives “substance” to our hopes is faith and the “evidence” of the unseen is faith. Faith—ephemeral, abstract, amorphous—is all we have to “hang out hats on.” But if I am a person of faith, then my faith has to prop up the hopes, the unseen things. I have to believe that the God of the universe, who is also the God of the particular, who came to earth in human form, cares enough for  creation on this earth that  this God of the universe will intervene in this horrible situation and the pandemic, the old-fashioned worldwide plague, will lessen.

Day 24, Tuesday, March 24, 2020

We had an outing today. All three of us—Jim, Kallie, and me—went out in the car. I was the only one who left the car. I went into the post office to send writings to one of my class members and to my sister who is recovering from surgery and to send checks to church and to send an article on Gen X-ers during this crisis to my Gen X-er son Jonathan. I stood in a line of three people, all of us standing more than six feet apart. After I had paid for my postage, I thanked the postal worker and used their hand sanitizer before I left the building. Then we headed across to the bank, where Jim used the remote drive-up teller window to send his checks for deposit to the building. He and the teller shouted greetings and “stay healthy”s to each other. Jim didn’t use hand sanitizer after handling the vacuum tube container. Not good.

Just as strange as it has been to stay home all the time these past few days, getting out and about was just as strange. Obviously, the streets and buildings weren’t totally bare, but I felt almost guilty for being out in public when I’ve been asked to stay home. I surely don’t want to be a person who passes on this horrible infection to someone. What if I touched something that transfers the virus to me and I, in turn, transfer it to someone else without ever knowing it. I’d rather stay in than risk doing that.

In other ways, life goes on. I know of three people who have lost loved ones in the last week. No funerals can be held at this time. The formal closure that comes with the wake, the viewing, the service, the graveside rites will have to be deferred. The grief will have to be handled in a solitary way.  I know of two other people who are fighting the dread disease of cancer, one, who has been battling off and on for years, is in a real struggle to live; the other went in to ER with a small swollen nodule and remains with a diagnosis of lymphoma. In both cases, their battles will be fought without family and friends being there to life their spirits.

Meanwhile, our government officials, most of them acting like politicians rather than officials, are fighting over terms of aid packages for individuals, hospitals, small business, and large corporations. They are also fighting over whether the “economy” can start up again as early as Easter day, April 12.  No one seems to no for sure what will help to curb the crisis, but opening up businesses before the virus is controlled doesn’t seem to be a good way to advance towards health.

 Day 25: Wednesday, March 25, 2020

I’ve hit a wall. I don’t really have anything to write tonight. I think all day I’ve felt a little “funky” because of this sameness of the shelter-in-place command that we are all under. We did go out and collect a sack of used religious books from one household (by picking the sack up from their porch chair) and dropping that same sack off at another porch—all without seeing any people of getting closer than six feet to anyone.

We walked the dog four times, dodging lots of other people and dogs because the weather was nice this afternoon. We fixed and ate meals. We watched a hallmark movie—they are so dog-goned predictable that it is just funny to predict the romantic interests, the ultimate outcome, and even some of the wording in the first five minutes of the show. But they are decent as far as morals, language, characters, etc. Another problem with them is that the company uses the same actors over and over, so that you begin to know the actors’ characteristics, regardless of what part they happen to be playing in a particular plot.

The highlight of the day—and not a fun one—was finding out that no matter what I’ve done, I cannot get the zoom program to send my audio when I’m conferencing with others. Jim and I practiced twice and couldn’t do it. I’ve checked mics and speakers and all is well—till I go to talk in a “meeting” and then no sound appears. Everyone says it’s so easy to use. That’s easy for them to say. I even spent time uninstalling and reinstalling it, hoping that would help. We’ll see when I try it again tomorrow. Meanwhile frustration level is higher than it should be over a piece of technology.

And my thoughts should be on the ongoing crisis in the country with COVID-19 or with the fact that we are two-thirds of the way through the Lenten season. Instead, I’ve wasted lots of time on something called zoom! And I had thought that tonight I wanted to go back to meditating or musing on the Lenten season and what it means in my life. Actually this shelter-in-place command has, in a way, become a fast for us. We are fasting from our regular routines, from our regular activities, from our regular distractions. We have been stripped down to basics—what do we have to do to stay alive—sleep, eat, drink water, exercise—and look out for one another. We don’t have to see one another, even, to do that with all this technology (think zoom, as well as all our texting and calling and emailing).

One thing I didn’t put down in the above “back to basics” list was praying. I don’t know about you, but I have been praying more. Others’ needs seem more urgent—life and death urgent, as with my friend who has cancer and the one who is waiting to find out if she has cancer. And my needs seem urgent, too. I’m worried about my own mortality and about this older body that to some people seems to be expendable in this time where we might have to choose who lives and who dies. I have no desire to die, so I do not want to get sick with a illness that would attack my compromised respiratory system. On the other hand, instead of worrying about all of these things, I can pray and exercise the faith I was musing about last night. And regardless of my faith or lack thereof, God is still in ultimate control—and all will be well—one way or another.

Note: I’ve decided to share my ongoing musings about this trying time that our world is going through. I share because I think many of us our sharing these same kids of thoughts and feelings.

Day 18: Tuesday, March 17, 2020

Reset, take two: I’m still thinking about a national reset being good for our country, good for our citizens, good for each one of us. Today I’ve been thinking—and talking to one or two—about the fact that we Americans may find that we don’t need frenetic activity all the time—we don’t need a cast of thousands around us—we don’t need to tickle our taste buds with new and unusual foods and drinks—we don’t need to shop till we drop—we don’t need to see the newest exhibition, the latest musical group, the latest hot movie.

Yes, we just may that out.

I think we may find out something else, too. We may find out that we can use all of our electronic devices and our social medial accounts to reach out for other’s good. Today, I had an unexpected, but delightful twenty-minute phone call from a former student of mine. He was just reaching out to chat about our mutual interests. Later, a friend used instant messenger to tell me that she wanted to set up a phone call time. My niece, through text message, kept me up on the progress of my sister’s cancer surgery and sent me a “all’s well” photo of her afterwards. My son texted to find out if I was okay—because he didn’t think I sounded up to par the last time we spoke by phone. My husband texted to find out about my sister. Another friend called later for information about my sister. Granted, with my sister’s surgery, there was more reason for people to contact me than usual, but, still, hardly any of my communications were superficial. Instead, all were filled with care and concern.

When I looked at facebook today, my very informal survey of posts found more of the same—care and concern for others. Teachers offered to help parents with learning materials for their children. Pastors and people of faith were posting encouraging scriptures and prayers. Parents were posting ideas for what to do with children who have to remain at home all day long. My great-niece’s husband posted a lovely musical rendition on the small pipes to celebrate St Patrick’s Day, even though they couldn’t leave home.

My sense is that the reset has already begun. As this crisis becomes the everyday norm in this country, it may be that the reset will become a permanent part of our lives. Oh, I don’t doubt that we will all rush out to do as many activities as possible when we are first freed from the restrictions of this virus, but we may remember the comfort of those times at home when we connected with others in good kinds of ways—and we may offer that care and concern even when we are all well again.

Day 19: Wednesday, March 18, 2020

What an odd day. Yet each day is beginning to be odd because of COVID-19. Today is my son Geoffrey’s birthday. But it was a busy day for me, filled with odd things—a chat with a financial advisor from my retirement fund, a trip to the doctor’s office for an echo cardiogram, a baking project thrown together in about ten minutes so that I could have some breakfast goodies for Kallie, our granddaughter who was coming home with Jim today, a second baking project to provide a birthday cake for Geoffrey without having to go to the store to get one. We really are trying to practice social distancing, at least to some extent. To top it all off, I was on the computer on the zoom conferencing app in order to participate in our church board meeting for almost 2 ½ hours.

Of all the odd arrangements of my day, that was the oddest: to sit in front of the computer and be one of 16 talking heads. Even though we were having a serious discussion, at one point I looked at all the “heads” moving in various ways and thought we must look like a scene from a Harry Potter book where all of the picture frames contain images that move—even leaving their frames at some points.

But beyond the oddity of the meeting was the utter sadness of it. We spent the time discussing how the church can continue to be the church in a time when we cannot be in each other’s physical presence. How can we minister to each other, nurture each other, care for each other if we cannot be part of the fellowship of the faithful, if we cannot be “in community” as we are used to doing. The very fact that we cannot be in each other’s physical space just reinforces how much human beings need human touch, human facial expressions, human voices to bring us together. But as someone said to me today, “God is trying to get our attention.” Not a bad sentiment. This world pays little attention to the creator of the universe. Even our optimism about getting through the crisis is based on our human abilities to fight this dreaded disease, not on trusting God to help us fight it off.

Using our God-given talents, intelligence, reason, and wisdom, we can get through this—and we can remember that we are the hands and feet—and more—the whole body of Christ in this world. We need to show the compassion of Christ to everyone in this time.

A third in a series of musings during this trying time

Day 20: Thursday, March 19, 2020

Halfway through Lent, but only a short way through the COVID-19 outbreak. Things seem to be such a mess. When we listen to the news, we hear of all kinds of shortages for protective personal gear for healthcare workers. We hear of tests that are not available for people who are symptomatic but who don’t match the strict guidelines that must be met in order to get the tests. The number of infected people doubled in New York from yesterday to today. The governor of the state of California is ordering the whole population to shelter-in-place. Normal life has stopped dead in its tracks. Here in our county, we have had our first case reported—very few details. We can only hope that most of us haven’t had any interaction with the person.

I wonder what the last few days of Jesus’s life were like. They might have seemed as chaotic as the days we are living through. The disciples were not sure who they could trust. There was intrigue. There were parties for Jesus’s work and parties against it. Whispers of rumors abounded. The events began tumbling like a snowball on a downhill trajectory. They could not be stopped; instead they grew and picked up speed. At some point the outcome became inevitable—Jesus would not live through the negative press.

Recounting the last days of Jesus’s life reminds us that he is one who understands our lives. He was wounded for our transgressions; he was scorned for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon him, and with His stripes we are healed.

Not a bad thing for us to remove him. The quote is in old style English, but the sentiment makes sense to us. He bore everything for us—and because he did, we are healed. The healing may not be what we expect. Some will not receive physical healing; instead, they will receive the ultimate healing of death. It will be the end of their suffering, but it will also be the end of their lives here on earth. It will be the end of their relationships with their families, friends, and colleagues. I doubt it helps the gravely ill to hear that they may receive the ultimate healing. We love the lives that God has given us. We don’t give them up easily. We fight to keep them at whatever cost—even when treatments seem to only move us nearer to death.

What will all of us be called to do during this crisis? Will we be called to give up our lives? Some will. But fewer will have to give up their lives if all of us heed the experts and do what we should—practice social distancing, shelter-in-place, make all of our interactions virtual. And while we are being prudent, we can practice the disciplines of Lent—fasting, repentance, and charity. Lord, help us.

Day 21: Friday, March 20, 2020

Day 2 or 2 ½ with mostly staying in the house except for walking the dog. Kallie came home from Jill’s with Jim Wednesday evening, so this is the second full day with a routine that is different from the norm for me. Doing this writing and getting in my exercises is a little more difficult, and I’m finding less time to read a book. Kallie needs more entertaining—playing games and watching TV things that please her. But that’s okay; it’s rather fun to have her here.

I’m afraid as the days count up, though, all of us will get bored or depressed or both. We may get irritable. We will have to deal with a lot of sameness unless we really get creative. So far, I’m not doing a good job of following up on other people. I must begin to do better. I’m glad for those who are checking up on us through phone and text.

To tell the truth, I’m a little scared. I’m afraid that someone in our family will get it and we won’t be able to do anything to help. I’m supposed to go to Ramona’s tomorrow. I’m both afraid that somehow I’ll carry the virus to her (although I don’t think I could have the virus) or that by traveling I will contract the virus myself. Although I feel fairly healthy, having just been diagnosed with COPD, I don’t know that I want to get the virus; I might not be able to fight it off.

I’ve never been through anything that is so ubiquitous in the news. Even when 9/11 occurred, the news went from crisis to grief to memorials in just a few days. Life did change, forever, with different safety precautions that were put into place, but this feels different. Instead of just safety precautions, we are in a world of ubiquitous triage—and I think that is going to get worse by the day.

The plague—I think we all thought that we were too far advanced for a plague to happen world-wide. Yet, here it is, in the form of COVID-19, wreaking havoc on our world. There are great efforts being made by government officials and by all of our healthcare workers, but they cannot figure out a way to meet the coming needs—the virus is moving too fast.

At this point, I don’t know of anything we can do but pray for mercy. “Lord, have mercy on us.” And then we have to care for each other by protecting those around us and ourselves. All of us have to be wise, prudent, and cautious.

Day 22: Saturday, March 21, 2020

Day 3 of our new normal. I spend a lot more time in the kitchen. Today it was Chex Mix, Brownies, scalloped potatoes. We do more dishes in the dishwasher. We walk the dog more often. We played dominoes for a long time. We watched some shorts on tv and then watched another Hallmark movie. And we set about five more to record. I imagine we will be watching at least one a day for the next few days/weeks/hopefully NOT months. I say it’s a new normal, but really it just seems like it should end momentarily instead of stretching on for who knows how long.

I talked to my sister whom I was supposed to help after her surgery. Instead, she will be home alone with relatives checking up on her more than once a day. I felt bad about backing out, but didn’t really want to risk hers or my health. None of us know if we have been exposed since it takes so long for someone to show symptoms. And then when a person does show symptoms, that person is really, really ill.

We heard today that Brady Wisehart, who is only in his 40s, is dangerously ill at home, and now Carrie is showing symptoms, too. And all we can do is pray. Yes, all we can do is pray. And that will be enough—we couldn’t do anything more and dare do nothing less.  All the people who have this horrible virus need prayer because the healthcare workers cannot keep in front of the growing tide of the gravely ill.

Tomorrow is Sunday. I look forward to this resurrection day every week, and tomorrow will be no different. Our pastors have done a great job of planning a service for us that we can watch on facebook at our regular church hour, following along with the scriptures and the music and listening to a sermon that, no doubt, will be “spot on” for our situation. Even though we will all be separated, our faith will bring us together. And it will get us started on a new week with renewed hope for the future of our planet, well beyond this horrible pandemic.

And so life continues—but not for all of us. I don’t think I have ever been so aware of serious illness and death all around me. The awareness creates a heavy sadness that is always just below the surface. That, too, is a new normal, and not one that I would wish to have on an ongoing basis. Yet, perhaps such an awareness can add to my true humanity and to my true Christianity. I should care about any and all who suffer, who are desperately ill, who are so ill that they cannot help themselves.

Note: This is one of my Lenten reflections that I’ve been writing during this season when we wait for resurrection. In light of the changes in our lives because of this global pandemic, I’ve begun to reflect on our current status. The following is yesterday’s reflection.

Reset. That’s the word I thought of yesterday when considering this new world we are living in. Things are changing at least day by day, but today the changes seemed almost hour to hour. We have gone from cancellation of large gatherings, such as tournaments, conferences, and casinos, to semi-large gatherings like schools and churches, to small group gatherings—like families and friends—no more than ten people. Some cities are telling people that they must “shelter in place.” More than likely, we will all be told that by late tomorrow. That is how quickly the situation is changing. People have been panicking about toilet paper and hand sanitizer, but finally the government seems to be panicking about their inability to stop this virus. The only ameliorating fix they can suggest is social distancing.

So back to the word “reset.” Almost everything about our daily lives is going to be changed for the (un)foreseeable future. Children won’t be going to school; many parents won’t be going to work, either trying to work at home or just trying to keep life together as they have lost their  livelihoods; the faithful won’t be going to churches and will lose their sense of community; friends won’t be going to restaurants and bars to interact with each other because all of those places are closed. We will have no choice but to hit the “reset” button on our lives, trying to figure out a new start to our daily routines.

I can imagine that many who self-medicate by being extremely busy, either through workaholism or through social gluttony will plummet into a deep depression. Those who rely on daily routines and schedules to keep them from thinking about the mess of their inner lives will find out that they have nothing to keep that mess from hitting them in the face. Those who are already in depression and denial may just retreat from the reality of total isolation—no safety nets of social agencies.

So what kind of reset do we all need? Being a person of faith, I would be tempted to say that we need to pray for the grace of God to cover all of us—and I do pray for that. But we can’t just depend on the people of faith to do the heavy lifting.  Since this pandemic is likely to affect all of us in some way—even if we don’t get it or don’t know someone who does, we all will be affected in our daily lives by the restrictions of the necessary social distancing.

This is the time when all of us need to think of how we can take care of each other. And it won’t be easy for some of us, who are older and likely to run over to someone’s house to help them. We will have to begin to use all of our virtual means of communication to take care of each other. An email, a text message, a phone call, or an old-fashioned card of encouragement will be the way we show we care. Each of us may need to make a list of those we know who may be at risk for being depressed or anxious in this time of isolation. Actually, our list may include just about everyone we know. In this new, uncharted territory, we may all need that email, text message, phone call, or card of encouragement. We who are in communities of faith may have to formally create programs for including all of our weak, needy, vulnerable friends who are outside of our local community of faith—friends of our friends, family members of our members, those who have no one at all in their lives.

I don’t think I can do this myself unless I become intentional about it. It’s too easy to “hunker down” in my home and keep myself occupied with books, t.v. programs, games, cooking, and cleaning. I need to remember that some people may not have the strength to fight off depression and to distract themselves with busy-ness. I’m challenging myself to reach out—well out beyond my comfort zone, which basically includes just myself in a time like this—and to touch someone virtually who needs that touch. The reset might just be good for all of us.

Yes, it’s a strange title. No, my granddaughter, aged three, has not yet gotten her ears pierced. For that matter, neither has my five-year-old granddaughter. Only the eleven-year-old and ten-year-old have pierced ears, and, of course, they are both going on eighteen!

But the earrings I am remembering are ones that I purchased when I went on a shopping trip with new granddaughter, aged four and a half months at the time, and her parents. It had been a hard few months for them: they had hoped to have their old “new” home rehabbed and ready to move into before she was born. I’m sure Grandma Lori wished it, too, for they had been with her in her small home since the beginning of the pregnancy. But, now, at Thanksgiving, they were beginning to hope for a Christmas move-in date.

Since it was the first time for them to live in the same space together, they needed some new items, one of them being a sofa—or is it “couch” or “davenport”? I think my mother had a davenport; we have two couches; I think that they were looking for a sofa—all four being totally interchangeable as pertains to use, location in house, and relative comfort. Since they had come to visit me for Thanksgiving, and they wanted to shop, the only reasonable thing for me to do was to go along—not to give opinions on a possible sofa, but to be another body to help keep baby happy.

Up we went to Chicago, to one of the oldest, largest outside malls in the country. It was a blustery day—of course, that goes without saying, since it’s almost always a blustery day in the Chicago area. They found the store they were looking for—one of those posh home furnishing stores frequented by young adults and totally off the map for someone my age. We all began together, browsing the store generally before zeroing in on the furniture section. At some point, I wandered away on my own. I found a great section of chairs—rockers, gliders with ottomans, other accent chairs. When a person has enough time, you can try out a lot of chairs.

Then I heard Clara getting rather loud. She had been fussy, but this was beyond fussy. She was probably as bored with sofa selection as I had become. I hurried over to the sofa section and took her right hack with me to the glider plus ottoman that I had found. It was a perfect fit for the two of us. She calmed down; I relaxed. At some point I started dreaming about what that chair would look like in my own home.  I had never had a rocker or glider for any of the other eight grandchildren; perhaps it was now time to get one. Somehow, the price tag deterred me from making that purchase.

When Clara got fussy again, we walked through several other sections of the store—lighting, bath towels, dishes, decorative rubber plants. The longer we walked and the more I showed her the items, the more irate she became. It was time to deliver her back to Mom. The two-hour marathon in one store was going to have to be over soon or we would have a miserable trip back to our house with an inconsolable child.

Not being a grandmother who thinks she can solve all the problems of parenthood, I once again wandered away. That’s when I found the earrings. While I was wandering in order not to interfere with sofa decision making or child rearing. Because it was Thanksgiving, a young woman had gained permission to set up a table boutique within the confines of the store. All her own creations, the earrings were lovely as well as unique. I chatted with her about her art, her materials, her methods. How could I not purchase a pair of earrings after engaging her in such a conversation? Gray porous stone wrapped in copper wire. Unique oval drops, heavier than I usually wear, but well worth any pain to have such a distinct one-of-a-kind design. And they were much cheaper than the glider!

Actually, I have several pairs of cruise earrings—and not because I’ve been on lots of cruises. Two or three pairs came as gifts from Jim before we married. After his wife had died, he had wanted to continue to do the annual time-share vacations that were such a part of their family tradition. By this time, time-share had evolved to points rather than properties, so he and his daughters used a good number of points to go on a Caribbean cruise or two.  Since I wasn’t there, I have no recollection of the trips, even though I’ve heard some stories and seen some pictures of the girls all dressed up in fancy evening clothes to meet the captain.

What I received were boxed earrings from the ship’s store—that means pricey and good quality. I was looking at the box of one of the pairs the other day and the price astonished me. After all these years, I have not worn them enough times to make their value per wearing a reasonable amount. I always assumed that the green stones were just that—stones, along with some glittery fake rhinestones. Having looked at the price, I’m assuming jade or emerald and diamonds. If you know me, you might know that I will wear them more often—I’ve got to get the good out of the price!

But the cruise earrings that I remember are some that I purchased on the island of Roatan, off the coast of Honduras. As with any port-of-call on a standard cruise, passengers are off-loaded right at the duty-free shops and are cautioned to stay within the confines of those shops for safety’s sake. After all, the “natives” might be dangerous.

Jim and I didn’t take any ridiculous risks, but we walked behind the shops, through the open security gate, and down a long curving tree=lined street that looked well-traveled and well-peopled. It was broad daylight—nobody was going to mug us or kidnap us. The street was peppered with small shops; obviously other tourists have often walked the street in defiance of cruise ship suggestions. We popped into several shops with open doors and windows, the buildings providing shade and cool air in contrast to the afternoon sun and heat of the street.

The storeowners were not out to make a “hard sell”: they seemed to enjoy showing their wares and chatting as much as we wanted to chat, but no more. As we looked around one of the little shops, we realized that there were quite a few indications that the place was run by Christians. Scripture verses, inspirational books, and religious pictures abounded. When we asked the woman at the counter, who was definitely not a native of Roatan—her American accent gave her away—she told us that she and her husband were missionaries who had been working with the people on the island for some time. The shop was full of items from these people, items that were sold to give them a living wage.

As I perused more, of course I found earrings that I could buy, as I almost always do. Three pairs, one with orange and white beads, one of pink polished shell, and one of silver with a small turquoise-colored bead in the middle. All were inexpensive baubles, no need for me to choose one pair over another. Afterwards I was so glad that I chose all three, because the missionary pointed out that, in addition to the price on the little piece of cardboard that accompanied the earrings, the name of the woman-artist was there as well—a reminder for the buyer that these women wanted and needed to make a livin and would appreciate the prayers of the buyer.

I still have all three pairs of earrings, and still have two of the little cardboard labels that identify two of the artists as Christena and Esther. I do hope and pray that Christena and Esther and their friend whose name I no longer know continue to be blessed in their country that has so many political and economic troubles. I pray for their safety, for their continued faith in God, and for their ability to make a living wage.

One trip, so many memories. It was 2009 and I was traveling with my good friend Ruth. If I remember correctly, five days in Dublin, five days in Great Britain, another three days in Ireland—traveling to the western side to see Galway and Yeats’ house museum.

In Dublin we experienced our smallest hotel elevator ever. It barely fit our large bags and us. But the hotel became our homebase for excursions to every conceivable James Joyce memorial, from the Martello Tower to the iconic statue to the front door of one of the houses in which he had lived.  Joyce wasn’t Ruth’s favorite author (she preferred 19^th century to 20^th century figures), but I more than made up in enthusiasm any lack that she might have had when we explored the tower that figures in both The Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man and Ulysses.

What was ubiquitous about all of those excursions was the rain—sheets of it that the wind blew sideways towards us. The two of us went through five umbrellas! The five days in Dublin were just simply rain filled. Everything we did, we did either during a rain or under the threat of rain.

The National Library was having a great exhibit on W. B. Yeats’ life—something both Ruth and I were interested in. They had also recently opened an interactive genealogical archive. It was there I found out that just about everyone had had the O’ in front of the surname, so that my grandparents shouldn’t have been Kelley, but O’Kelley. I also found out that my Belcher sons’ Murphy connection, through their fiery evangelist grandfather, was more than likely Catholic O’Murphys who had fled during one of the religious cleansings, escaping to Spain. Ironies abound when we explore our roots.

Although I am not a great fan of Skyping, Jim, my husband, is, and he had convinced me to carry along my small computer so that I could keep in touch through skyping. Believe it or not, in 2009, wifi was not universal as it is now. Our hotel did not have wifi; many businesses did not have wifi. The nearest connection—and a very poor one at that—was at the local McDonald’s, so I would find myself going in to buy some item of food I did not even want in order to try to skype with Jim. Needless to say, the enterprise was not very successful and I was not very happy about having to lug along a six-pound computer every time I left the hotel on the off-chance I might find a good wifi connection.

One particular day, Ruth and I had found a teashop that advertised wifi. In we went to have our tea and to try their wifi. We had taken seats in what would be a “-1” floor for them, below the main shop. It was not crowded, being mid-afternoon, when hot tea is not quite as popular as during the morning hours But the time difference meant that in Illinois, Jim would be up and able to receive a Skype call.

That became the most memorable moment in the trip: he told me that Molly, our cat (the Belcher cat that we had had for 18 years), had died and that he and Geoffrey had buried her in our pond area. I started crying and Ruth, who does not even like cats, started crying, too. I was so sad, but angry, too. I’m not sure what Jim could have done otherwise, but I knew that whatever it was, it would have been better than finding out by Skype that my favorite cat had died.

That was the end of skyping for me. I stopped carrying around that computer wherever I went, which was, in itself, a blessing, since I didn’t have the extra six pounds, and I didn’t have to find out any information from home—except when I wanted to, which was not that often and which was only by email.

Oh, the earrings—no special story. I guess I hadn’t found any that I really liked anywhere, and I had spent a significant amount on a cross of Connemara marble in Galway—a remembrance that I treasure for many reasons, not least of which was the beautiful, sunny weather we experienced on the west coast of Ireland. So, for one other time in my life, besides the very first purchase of collectible earrings at an airport, I purchased earrings at an airport. Lovely Celtic knot earrings, sterling silver—I wear them every time I wear my Celtic cross necklace. Often, I think of Molly, the cat.

What a lark! Our church’s very first work and witness team to Budapest had so far exceeded the host church’s expectations that we had not only completed the demolition of the three rooms into one worship space, but we had also completely landscaped their front garden area and created a patio in the back yard area. The neighbors couldn’t believe the transformation, and we couldn’t have been happier. And, because we had done so much with our limited time, we had a whole day to do extra sightseeing. Pastor Mark, traveler par excellence, realized we were only a two-hour train ride away from Vienna, a great opportunity for a day trip.

Early on the morning of our free day, we headed across the street from our hotel to the main train station where we purchased twenty-dollar tickets to visit Vienna, a whole country away. Our day started in the old part of the city, visiting the church where generations of Habsburgs were buried, popping in and out of other famous sites, once more being confronted with the horrors of World War II and the  overture to it when Hitler took over Austria, marching into Vienna and rounding  up all the Jews who had lived in the city for centuries.

Then we visited the Habsburg Palace square, where both Habsburg royalty and Hitler and his minions had spoken to huge crowds, winning their fearful loyalty. The gravity of the history of the place was rather overwhelming, leaving all of us, I believe, with a desire for a bit of levity. For some of us that took the form of shopping in some little boutiques that lined the interior corridors of the palace square area. One that caught the eye of all of us was called “Petit Point”; its window was filled with all sorts of decorative items, all done in fine petit point embroidery.

How could I have guessed that this shop, in business since 1932, created not only the regular petit point items such as pillow slips and formal occasion purses, but also earrings. Of course, I found a pair to my liking—small ovals of gold to which were attached the petit point in extremely fine needlework in cream and gold swirls with a bouquet of rose-colored flowers—with tiny leaves, no less—in the corner of the design. They came with a small card that explained the inspiration for the shop: Empress Maria Theresa, who was the only woman ruler among the Habsburgs and the last to rule—in the 1700s. Apparently she enjoyed the fancy needlework and other kinds of decorative items in the rococo style of the day.

Oh, there was much more to the day after our little shopping excursion. We all went trooping out to the Schönbrunn Palace to be totally overwhelmed by the highly decorated 1,000 plus rooms (thank goodness, we did not see them all) and by the heat of the gardens, wondering how in the world the Habsburgs had thought the location was a great one for a summer palace. The day we were there, no breeze was flowing to cool the air, no trees were close enough to provide shade, and no water was readily available for quenching thirst. Poor Maria Theresa and others who had to inhabit such a place—even if it was full of servants to help.

But what was there not to like about the day? I learned more history, not only of World War II, but of World War I (the Archduke whose death began the war was Austrian), saw more elegance than I wished to, and found a pair of earrings to remind me of everything attached to that day.

Diamond-cut, tear-dropped shaped silver—these are pretty earrings. Purchased on a Sunday afternoon in one of the boutique shops in an arcade on Champs Elysees, these are earrings to wear and remember, not just the day, but the whole trip. This, my eighth trip to Paris, was the third in which my husband was present, although the first one we shared was the one in which we got engaged. Another story with other earrings. The second one we shared was one with students on our way to Burkina Faso to do volunteer service. But this one, the third one, was sheer joy.

It was my retirement trip—retirement was not a matter of joy to me, but putting together a two-week trip to England and France had tested my mettle in a joyful way. I had proved myself up to the challenge of arranging, with Jim’s help, flights, hotels, tours, transportation. And that Sunday, three days into our Paris excursion, was a day of relaxation. We had attended the American Cathedral where we could enjoy a service spoken mostly in English—the priest even had a normal American accent. Then we walked, first up to the Arc de Triomphe and then down the Champs Elysees.

Bright blue skies and fluffy white clouds ranged above us and the sun was mildly warm. A perfect day for a stroll to people watch, especially since the authorities had cordoned off the main shopping blocks so that no traffic could enter the avenue. Street musicians had set up shop, all the sidewalk cafes were offering their best brunch menus, and the lure of shopping on the most famous shopping avenue in the city had snared us. Actually, it had only snared my friend Gwen and me; our husbands could have cared less about shopping, but even they were, perhaps, a little awed by the magic of a perfect afternoon on a perfect street in a perfect city (all the perfects are my interpretation, of course).

The fashion shops seemed a bit “stand-off-ish” with their haute couture and their appeal to the young and wealthy. But in our second venture into one of the shadowy arcades that allow a shopper to discover a dozen shops opening from one arched entrance, we found this tiny jewelry shop full of rings, necklaces, bracelets, and earrings of all kinds and prices. The silver was real, but not too expensive; the stones were gemstones of the ordinary sort. The shopkeeper, originally from Hong Kong, spoke lovely English—so nice for us Americans who are so inept in languages other than our own. He could probably have talked anyone into anything with his charming speeches about what would look good on us and what would be the best value. I hadn’t intended to buy anything, but, of course, everyone who knows me knows that I love to buy earrings wherever I am, so I now have this lovely pair of earrings, purchased by Jim for me in Paris on a great day.

But my fondest memory of the day won’t be the weather, the street musicians, the great crepe I had at a café, or even the earrings. The most unique experience of the day occurred when we were leaving the cordoned-off area to search for the nearest Metro station. Suddenly we heard an American voice emanating from a man about our age, who said, “I will walk with you to show you the way to the Metro. I’m headed that way.”

 There’s always something serendipitous about meeting a fellow citizen in a foreign country. Camaraderie is instant. He hadn’t been in the States for several years and wanted to know our impressions on the state of our country. As we strolled along, we hit a range of topics, including wars, past (Vietnam) and present (Iraq, Afghanistan, Yemen—you name it), occupations, families, and hometowns. This tall, lanky, white-haired man, in trim trousers and dress shirt, had been born in Dayton, Ohio, where I had begun my teaching career. He was a retired professor of physics, just as I am a retired professor of English. But the most remarkable revelation was that he said he had never felt truly at home till he had found Paris.

I have a habit of calling “home” the various places where I have lived. So, at any given time, I might be talking about Kankakee, IL, or Union City, IN, or Nashville, TN. At one point home was Ouagadougou. I guess I can be “at home” in more than one place, but I can understand this gentleman’s conviction. Paris, a city of many neighborhoods, is a “home-y” place. It’s one of those places I always want to return to. But for now, back in Illinois, I have my earrings and a fond memory of a perfect day in Paris.