In God we Trust

I was visiting a lovely church in Manzanita, Oregon for services one Sunday. One of the bible passages appointed for the day was the parable of the hired hands from Matthew 20:1-16 in which a landowner hires workers throughout the day. At the end of the day he settles up with all of the workers, paying them all the same amount, regardless of how long they worked.

This has always been one of the difficult passages of the New Testament for me. Every time I came back to this story I would be on the side of workers who had been hired first thing who were asking why they were only being paid the wages agreed upon at the beginning of the day while all the other latecomers were getting, essentially, a bonus for working a shorter day. Not only that, but the landowner has the latest workers paid first. The early workers see that those workers are getting a full day's pay and think they might get more than originally agreed upon. When they are only give the day's wage they are disappointed.

While I was listening to the sermon, I reread the passage printed in the church bulletin. When the first workers are hired the passage says “After agreeing with the laborers for the usual daily wage, he sent them into his vineyard.” When the later workers are hired the passage reads: “'You also go into the vineyard, and I will pay you whatever is right.' So they went.” What struck me is that the first workers bargain with the landowner and make a contract, which the landowner later fulfills, while the later workers take the landowner's offer that he will pay 'whatever is right' on faith. He could have paid them anything-- prorated the day's wage, paid them piecework, whatever he felt was right-- they were leaving it in his hands.

When the early workers grumble that the later workers have been made equal to them without having put in the same amount of work the land owner makes two replies. First he says: “'Friend I am doing you no wrong; did you not agree with me for the usual daily wage?” The contract is fulfilled. He goes on to ask the early workers, who are feeling wronged: “Am I not allowed to do what I choose with what belongs to me? Or are you envious because I am generous?”

Usually the focus of this passage it on the last line-- the summary of the parable “So the last will be first, and the first will be last.” However, I found that the last question “are you envious because I am generous” is what leapt out at me. The early workers made a contract and were paid accordingly. The later workers, some of whom had been waiting to be chosen for work all day, were grateful for anything they could get. They made no contract. They gave their work and trusted to the promise of the landowner that he would pay what was right at the end of the day. When the end of the day came their trust was rewarded by the generosity of the landlord. All were paid for a day's labor.

Now, with a human landlord, a contract is a very good idea but in the the beginning this parable is introduced in the following way: “For the kingdom of heaven is like a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire laborers for his vineyard.”

The parable is describing heaven. Those who trust in God to do what is right will see that promise fulfilled. Those who make a contract with God will see their contract met. God keeps faith with both.

All are equal through God's grace but some of his workers feel betrayed by his generosity. Even in the kingdom of heaven, it seems, people will still be people and feel envy, greed, despair, and disappointment. The landowner levels the playing field by providing all of his laborers with a day's wage but that does not magically transform people into generous, loving souls.

Those who are confronted with the question: “are you envious because I am generous?” are left to reflect on how it could possibly hurt them for others to be raised up in grace when they have already received full payment for their work. While those who trusted in the promise of 'whatever is right' are left astonished by the generous payment of the landowner.

And so I ask myself, who would I rather be-- the laborer who feels slighted at being paid in full for a day's labor? or the worker who was picked last, who despaired of finding work, and who ends the day showered in the joy of unexpected generosity?

Contracts are fulfilled but faith is rewarded.

Halloween Rising

Halloween has been central to my life since before I can remember. I was born within a few days of October 31^st and have had an affinity for the holiday ever since. It is one of the most creative times of the year for me and it holds a special place in my heart.

In kindergarten I took to wearing my queen cape (a ratty piece of blue fabric) and tinfoil crowns to school every day. I was Queen Kristin and apparently was not going to let anyone forget it. (I apparently skipped over the whole 'princess' stage-- going right for the throne. My mom still has one of my first legible writing samples-- I was Queen Kristin there also.)

I remember several of my Halloween-themed birthday parties when I was a kid. I don't know if they were annual events or if the one or two I can remember just stand out in my mind.

By the time I got to Junior High School I was making my own costumes. My sewing skills were always out stripped by my imagination, but that never stopped me. The one time I branched out and helped a friend make her costume was much more successful-- not only was she recognizable as a nun, she won third place at the costume contest at the school dance. My own costume-- Guinevere from the King Aurthur legends did not fare as well.

Wyoming weather offered an additional stumbling block to the would-be costumer. It invariably snowed or dropped to 20 degrees below zero on Halloween. It is very difficult to float about in the diaphanous robes of Aphrodite while wearing snow boots and a heavy coat. I remember leaving my coat with my mom walking up the drive to show off my handiwork to a bewildered neighbor (“Now what are you, dear?”) and scampering back to wrap myself up for the walk to the next house down the block.

During that time in my life, the candy was just a bonus, what I really craved was the connection I felt when someone guessed what my costume was.

When I went off to college I was lucky enough to meet and become fast friends with a fellow costume fiend. While I still favored obscure themes and characters, she helped me learn how to sew (I bought my first and only sewing machine while in college-- it still runs to this day) and more importantly she taught me how to research an idea and refine it-- a skill that can be applied to other creative endeavors.

It was also in college that another Halloween/birthday tradition got started. Another friend, on a whim, made a piñata and brought it to my birthday party. The man who was to become my husband figured out how to rig it between our balcony and a tree so we could take turns swinging at it blindfolded-- eventually cracking it open, without too much damage to the local flora.

Now I have a nearly-10-year-old son who has had a Halloween costume every year (he was a frog when he was 10 months old (a green sweat suit with 'Kermit' style ping-pong eyes sewn to the hood of the sweatshirt). By the time he was going-on-three he was giving “Aunite” (my college-costume-friend and now housemate) detailed instructions on what his costume should look like. Kitties ruled for several years, then dinosaurs, last year he was a preying mantis and this year he will be the Lorax who speaks for the trees.

The penchant for dressing up never left me. For all that I sometimes felt stupid, insecure, or awkward when I would go out Trick or Treating as a child (and particularly as a young woman) the impulse to create always overwhelmed those other, more negative feelings. Each Halloween was a clean slate, a chance to try again and see if I could do better. When I got to college and found like-minded friends I blossomed.

My birthday party has evolved into a Halloween party for family, friends, and neighbors. And while the theme changes every year we always have a piñata. Auntie and I consult on the design, I build the armature and do the mache work. Auntie paints it (frequently with help from my son) using her theater background to bring flour and newsprint to life. My husband rigs the piñata for hanging in our carport and once the party is underway, gives the annual safety lecture before we blindfold our guest and let them swing like mad at our joint creation.

Prudence

I am on the Island of Iona with my mother. We are midway through a trip that started in the south of England in Torquay and will end with our return to London to fly home.

One of the subjects under discussion at we amble about has been stupid things we have done over the years. My most recent memorable stupid moment was about two years ago when I decided that I could manage to roll my mini-van down the driveway in the dark after the battery had died. However, once I put the van in neutral and gave an initial shove it gathered momentum much faster than I expected and rolled into a tree.

Now all along, there had been a little voice in the back of my head saying, in a somewhat sing-song voice "don't do this, it's not safe." I ignored that voice and ended up having to replace parts on the bike rack that was mounted on the back of the van as it had cushioned the van when it backed into the tree.

I did start listening to that voice when the van rolled away and I did not try to leap into the open door and steer.

Today we decided to climb to the highest point on Iona. Yesterday I had nearly had a spill when I tripped on a pothole in Tobermory and my ankle got a bit twisted. Nothing too bad and it didn't hurt at all this morning, but as we climbed-- scrambled really--it started to complain a bit. So when we reached a wide flatish spot not quite at the top of the hill I decided that I had come far enough.

Mom decided to climb a bit higher but stayed where I could see her-- so she didn't get to go all the way to the cairn at the top either. As she climbed, I felt bad about coming all this way and not reaching the summit (such as it is), but I had a clear vision of other times I had not listened to the prudent voice in my head and suffered near-disaster as a result. I thought about risk and pushing one's limits-- was I being overly cautious? How would I find out unless I pushed on? What if I pushed on and then found out I had over done it? In short, I began to doubt my decision. Still, I stuck to it.

Mom climbed back down to where I waited and we descended together. I voiced my concern that I had held her up and she reassured me that each person on a hike has to be aware of their own limitations and not overdo it so that everyone travels safely.

I found that comforting.

In this case, while I did not make it to the summit of the hill, I did make it safely back down again and me and my ankle are free to continue having further adventures, thanks to the still small voice of prudence.

A Far Foreign Land

My most recent solo travel experience was to Norway in 2005. I had made a concerted effort for three years beforehand to learn Norwegian after having a wonderful time on my first trip there in 2000. While I was in Norway I made a concerted effort to speak only Norwegian. Luckily I had supportive cousins to practice on for the first week I was there. They were all very patient with me and even tried to explain Norwegian jokes to me. I remember following the explanation (just barely) but now all I can remember is the feeling of almost getting it.

After the first week in Oslo, I traveled to Bergen on my own and spent a week wandering around on my own. It was strange and wonderful. I entertained not a few shopkeepers with my basic language skills. One of the most comment comments I got from them was that it was nice to take a break from speaking English all day. I can't say how wonderful it was to have so many strangers be willing to play along with my somewhat odd attempts to communicate. I know I sounded funny (I still mix up the words for 'it' and 'they' when speaking) but no one gave up on me.

Upon returning to Oslo, I had even more time to myself and I went into downtown nearly every day. I think I went to church more times while in Norway than the entire year beforehand. There was something about experiencing the Eucharistic service in a foreign language that made the Mysterious feel very near indeed. For while I had a basic grasp of the language, my skills were nowhere near keeping up with liturgical-poetical language.

I thought a lot while I was on my trip. I had never traveled alone to such an extent and so had plenty of time for my thoughts to wander as my feet did. During one of my ramblings around the city I thought about death, and how it is sometimes compared to sleep or a long journey. I don't now remember the complete chain of thought that got me there, but one of the things that struck me was how much work goes into getting ready for a long trip or vacation.

Before I left the United States, I had get get my work to a place where my absence wouldn't cause a major problem, book tickets, pack, weigh suitcases, repack, shop for essentials, pack more, pay bills, get finances to a place where someone else could pay the bills while I was gone, etc... The list of chores just kept growing as the date kept getting closer, and then suddenly, like magic the day came. Whatever I had packed was what I was taking with me. The time for repacking and regrets was past.

I don't have a lot of experience with death, but for what little I do have, this image resonates for me. In particular I think of my maternal grandmother. She took a turn for the worse and the whole family came to see her off. It turned out she wasn't quite ready to go. She got better for a time and was very busy 'settling' things for a time. She had a long awaited visit from friends, dealt with her finances, kept an eye on the brother she felt responsible for and generally kept people busy around her-- and then, one day, she died. Just like that.

She had everything arranged and suddenly it was time to go. No regrets, no excuses, with whatever she had with her at the time.

We come to our end sooner than we would hope and all we can do is have our suitcase ready.

Faith formation through fiction

Rev Gal Blog Pals had a question come into their "Ask the Matriarch" column asking what children's books would be good for a pastor's bookshelf.  

In thinking about the books that most strongly made me think about my concept of god and my relationship to faith, I realized that most of them are Science Fiction or Fantasy.  Not only that, but they are books that made me think.  I don't know that a priest would want to have these books on their bookshelf (I suspect they might offend some sensibilities) but they were instrumental in my faith journey.

The following are books that spoke to me when I was a kid-to-teen reader and newer books that I wish I had had back then.

Madeline L'Engle's "Wrinkle in Time" trilogy (Wrinkle in Time, A Wind in the Door, and A Swiftly Tilting Planet).

C.S. Lewis's  Narnia series (read in publication order, please!) :).

His  Perlanda series is also good, but a little weird, and I found the last book too scary to read initially (the cover scared me). I remember reading several of his other works (The Screwtape Letters is the only specific title I can remember) and finding them interesting as a teen.

Anything by Ursula Le Guin-- though her "Earthsea Cycle" (now up to about 5 books) is probably the most accessible for younger readers. She is someone who is fun to read because I 'got' more and more of the layers of her writing the older I became.  My favorite book of hers is "The Dispossessed."  Every time I read it, it changes the way I think about the world.

Frank Herbert and poet Bill Ransom had a series of science fiction books that I liked as a teenager-- not sure how they hold up now: "Destination: Void," "The Jesus Incident," "The Lazarus Effect," and "The Ascension Factor." (I have not read the fourth book-- I just found out about while looking up the titles of the first three).

As an adult I discovered the Terry Prachett Discworld series-- those are excellent for thinking about human relationships, and relationships to the divine while being entertained. "Feet of Clay" and "Small Gods" are particularly interesting from a religious standpoint. (Though "Small Gods" might be too grim for younger readers). The thing about Terry Prachett's work is that if you were one of the characters experiencing the events it wouldn't be the least bit funny, but the way he frames the setting his word choice makes his books easy to read, fun, and yet a bit spiky. He has a series that is more specifically aimed at younger readers (starting with "Wee Free Men") that features a young girl as the protagonist. I don't know that they have particularly religious themes in them, but really any fiction contains the seeds of theological reflection.

One book I was giving away to everyone I knew for a while was "Beauty" by Sherri Tepper. It is also better suited for older readers (includes scenes of violence and rape) but explores the human need for beauty and mystery and what might happen to us if we lose both our real and mythological 'wild' places.

I include the "Thomas Covenant" books in the interest in completeness.  It was the first book I read with a (vile) anti-hero as the protagonist and several things about it creeped me out, however it did have an interesting concept of god and free will-- something I reflected on often while in my teens.

Another series that came out when I was an adult is Lois McMaster Bujold's fantasy series that begins with "The Curse of Chailon." My favorite in the series is second book: "The Paladin of Souls." In this universe, gods clearly exist, but can only move in the world if a person opens their soul to the divine. A lovely, gritty, exploration of what it means to ask for a miracle.

I'm sure there are more-- but these are the ones I could clearly remember having an impact on how I viewed the world.  Looking back over this list, one of the things it brings to mind is the fact that my parents, while very happy to censor my TV and film viewing, never put any limits on which books I read.  That freedom to choose was a wonderful gift and led me to discover many wild imaginary lands.

Building Together

13 January 2008

Every January, I spend some time reviewing the family finances.  My husband is better with numbers than I am but he is also the main breadwinner in the family, so when I left my previous job in 2002 I took over the day-to-day books.  Every month I pay the bills and balance the checkbooks.  We have multiple accounts (mostly to keep us from accidentally spending money we are saving for another purpose) so it’s a bit of a chore to get through everything.

At the end of the year, as I begin doing the prep work for the taxes, I see how much we spent on various fixed expenses and how much we saved during the year.  This year was not a saving year.  We determined at the beginning of 2007 to take out a loan to pay for two major purchases, as well as some smaller projects around the house.  It was very satisfying to get the work done but also a bit worrying to take on more debt.  We try to live as debt-free as possible– avoiding carrying balances on credit cards and trying to save up in advance for large purchases, so, other than our house, we don’t usually have a lot of outstanding debt.

When we were first married, over 15 years ago, we had very little debt thanks to our parents.  We had both been fortunate enough to have parents who were able to save up and pay for our college educations.  We both worked, as well, but the money we made mostly went to help defray basic living expenses.  My husband got a job right of college.  I did not.  We moved to Texas where his job was and started learning how to live on what we earned.  David made enough to make ends meet and I eventually got a part-time job.  We had one car and were living in a small town with no public transportation.  We saved a little money.

Then David needed a root canal.  That took most of our small savings.  We started saving again.  The car needed work and we were back to square one.  The bank account built up once more.  I had to go to the emergency room.  We had insurance through David’s work, but the ambulance ride wasn’t covered.  Back to square one.

Throughout all of this, David and I had been talking about buying a new, to us, car.  The 1972 Dodge Dart that we had was starting to cost a lot to maintain.  We saved up a few hundred bucks and went looking for a car, but everything we found that we could afford was a death-trap.  I still  clearly remember one car we went to look at that had a gas pedal that stuck at random times.  Even with this experience, I was resistant to taking out a loan.  Our daily financial life seemed so precarious to me that I couldn’t imagine a bank lending us money.

Two things occurred that changed my mind.  The first was on the drive to the airport that Christmas when the windshield wipers on the Dart failed and I had to reach in through the glove box and operate them manually (it was, of course, pouring down rain).  My knuckles were pretty beat up by the time we dropped our pet rats off with the people who had agreed to watch them and our friends gave us a ride to the airport from their house.  The second was when my in-laws offered to loan us the money and give us a longer term to pay it back than banks were at that time.  Normally I wouldn’t borrow money from a friend or relative, but David’s folks have always been very clear about what is business and what is personal.  We signed a contract with them, got the money we needed, went to the used car dealer, bought a car we liked, and wrote the largest check either of us had ever written to that point.

The business we were working for ended up being sold off to another company in another state.  David and I took the opportunity to move back to Seattle.  We moved in with his parents until we could save up for a place of our own, and even with all that upheaval, managed to never miss a payment on the car loan.

We’ve come a long way since then.  We’ve purchased and refinanced our house and seen even larger checks go out the door as various home repair and remodel projects have been completed.  The confidence to handle our finances was built in those first few years when we had very little to manage– when we were living paycheck-to-paycheck and anything unexpected could devour what little we had managed to save.  No matter how little we had, we made the decision together on how to spend or save it.  David was willing to try to get a car loan months before I was, but he held off, waiting for me to adjust to the idea and for us to find a way that would work for both of us.  I, in turn, learned to push myself to take more risks when David was ready to take action.

Being in this together gives me confidence.  So, when I review last year’s finances I see not just a record of money coming in and going out, but also a record of discussions, debates, and decisions that stretches back to before we were married.  We haven’t always been right, but we’ve always known that, not only were we in the same boat, we built it together.

A not-so-merry Christmas

by Ann Fontaine, 2007

The constant barrage of Merry Christmas! and non-stop carols of happiness contrast with the feelings of many people at this time of year. For those suffering from the recent or impending death of loved ones and for those whose families are in crisis it can be a very isolated and dreary time. Every greeting and every song reminds the grief-stricken of how unhappy life is at this moment.

Many churches have begun to recognize that Festivals of Lessons and Carols, celebrations of Christmas, and children’s pageants do not meet everyone’s needs. To fill this gap churches offer a Blue Christmas service, a Service of Solace or Longest Night. People who are not having a very merry Christmas and friends who support them are invited to come and sit with one another in a liturgy that speaks of the love of God for the grieving.

Many of the worshipers who gathered for our Service of Solace at St. John’s in Jackson Hole, Wyoming during the week before Christmas did not have a church home. Christmas vacationers who came to ski or snowmobile were attracted to the silence and space apart from their days on the mountain. We offered a variety of music and silence interspersed with readings from Scripture and prayers of solace and hope. Each person was encouraged to bring readings to share, photos or objects of remembrance 

Sitting together in the warm log church in the midst of the deep star spangled dark of the Rocky Mountains we gained a greater knowledge of the One who loves us in sorrow and joy. We learned that even strangers can share life and love. We discovered we are not alone.

A closing prayer from Ted Loder, Guerillas of Grace:


O God of all seasons and senses,

grant us the sense of your timing

to submit gracefully and rejoice quietly in the turn of the seasons.

In this season of short days and long nights,

of grey and white and cold,

teach us the lessons of endings;

children growing, friends leaving, loved ones dying,

grieving over,

grudges over,

blaming over,

excuses over.

O God, grant us a sense of your timing.

In this season of short days and long nights,

of grey and white and cold,

teach us the lessons of beginnings;

that such waitings and endings may be the starting place,

a planting of seeds which bring to birth what is ready to be born—

something right and just and different,

a new song, a deeper relationship, a fuller love—

in the fullness of your time.

O God, grant us the sense of your timing.

Liturgies for a Service of Solace, Longest Night or Blue Christmas can be found at The Text this Week Online: Resources for the Season of Advent.

Compassionate Friends is a resource for those whose children (of any age) have died.

Many hospice organizations offer bereavement groups at all times of the year.

A for Effort

3 July 2007

When I was a youngster I had very little tolerance for criticism of other’s endeavors.  Whether it was a school play, a book, or a Hollywood movie, if I heard any critical comments of a work I felt required to defend it– regardless of whether I liked it, simply because someone had made the effort to bring it forth.

I don’t have a good memory for specifics and cannot recall a particular piece that I defended on principle rather than merit, but I do have a very strong sense of what I felt like when hearing criticism of someone else’s work.  The odd thing is, I have no memory at all, specific or otherwise, of how I responded to critiques of my own work. I know I received such critiques– I still have the paper that I wrote for a high school composition class where I received an 'A' for content and an 'F' for spelling and grammar.*

However, I now see a clear connection between my need to defend the works of others and my own struggles to be creative.  I over-empathized with strangers because, while I wanted my work to be the best, I knew that I had a tendency to put assignments off and crank them out at the last minute (as many teenagers are prone to do).   By doing it at the last minute, I virtually assured that it would not be as good as it could be regardless of how much heart and soul I into it.

Over the years I have worked on my writing and on learning to critique the writings of others (with the particular goal of giving constructive feedback).  As my ability to spot plot holes and inconsistencies in a text grew, my willingness to excuse shoddy or inconsistent work shrank.  

This intolerance on my part also stems from twenty additional years of experience with various storytelling media.  In addition to developing my own specific preferences, I learned that my time is a limited resource, and that just because someone made it, doesn’t mean it is either well-executed or worthy of my time.  I can now discern, within the first chapter of a novel, whether it is well written enough to be worth the effort of reading it.  

When I was younger, I would read anything that came into my hands. I wasted a lot of time defending works that probably weren’t that good, on behalf of people I had never met, and who may not have put much effort into their work.  It took time to learn what was creative and what was derivative.  I also did not fully grasp that a work should be able to stand on its own once created.  In my hypersensitive-teenaged-state, I perceived an attack on the work to be an attack on the creator.

Now that I am older and more experienced, I am more picky.  I have certain standards that I use to judge what I am willing to read and what goes into the recycle bin.  However, I do miss the exciting sense of novelty and freshness that I enjoyed as a younger reader.  Then, there were no tropes or cliches because I hadn’t encountered as many variations on the same themes as I have now. 

Seeing writers riff off each other over time is exciting and reminds me that one of the benefits of experience– I get more of the jokes.  I exchange novelty for understanding– which is no bad thing.  I don’t award “A’s” for effort any longer.  I award good and interesting work with my time and attention– two things that are in limited supply and worth more than any letter grade.
______________

* I wrote it long hand the night before, I was pretty pleased with the “A” and not terribly surprised by the “F”– this was before spell checkers.  Also, I still firmly believed that good grammar and spelling were unnecessary– people should ‘just understand’ what I wrote.  While I still make errors in both spelling and grammar, it is not because I do not try to correct them.

Open Hands

27 April 2007

I’ve been taken by street con men twice, to my knowledge.  There may have been other times when I just didn’t realize what was going on but two times now I have given money to strangers in trouble and then found incontrovertible evidence that they had lied to me about their needs.  That hasn’t stopped me from responding to people in need, but it had made me think about the nature of generosity and being open handed with what I have.

I had though of writing on this topic a while back, not long after giving money to someone and then not really being sure that they needed the money.  I thought all the way home about what I had done and what I would do if I ever found out that the person had duped me.

Then, just a few days ago, I ran into the same person, with the exact same story– only this time he approached my husband.  I recognized him and gave my husband a heads up and then sat back and listened as the man made his pitch.  It was word-for-word the same story he had given me many months ago, on the same street.  It was interesting to be ‘along for the ride’ as it were.  My husband, normally a generous man himself, gently deflected the man requesting funds and we were on our way.

Do I feel bad about having been taken in the first time?  Yes, a little.  No one likes to be made a fool of or outwitted.  In my conversations with my husband and in my own meditations on the subject I have decided that I would rather err on the side of generosity.  I would rather be a fool than lose an opportunity to help someone in need.  If this means that the occasional con-man get to feel smug, so be it.

For all my conflicted feelings about religion, one of the cores of my faith is that those with enough should share with those who are lacking.  The rich are rich and the poor are poor not because some god has decided to reward one group and punish another but because luck and chance and free will are active in our lives.  Opportunity comes to some, disaster to others and no one gets to choose when or where the wheel will turn.  Currently, I am one of the fortunate ones but I take to heart the idea that, even though God won’t turn on me, fate might, and one day I might be the one with the open hand asking for help. 

I don’t expect the world to keep a total of my good deeds and have them count on my behalf should the worst happen.  The world doesn’t work like that.  I just believe that what we have should be shared as best as we can manage.   It is imperfect, but it is the best that I can do..

Sunset

6 October 2006

Once, many years ago, I sat on a beach on the Oregon coast taking pictures with the camera my father had given me.  I was photographing the sunset. 

I have always loved the beach at sunset. The rest of the visitors are all packing it in for the day– trying to get home before full dark.  The beach empties out and a sense of isolation and peace descends.  The ocean and the sky lie unbounded in front while the dunes protect my back.

In the time I can breathe in and out once, the sun has dipped a little lower, so bright that even its reflection in the waves is too bright too bear.

That sunset, twenty years past, a man walked up to me and inquired about my camera.  I didn’t know him and wouldn’t recognize him now, but we chatted, sharing the same beach-stranded log for a short time.  Eventually the sun set.  The sand chilled my feet.  I packed up and went home.  He strolled away down the beach.

Why do I remember that day?  I certainly don’t remember what we talked about, other than a shared interested in photography. 

I remember that day because I was a shy teenager who was feeling alone and isolated, who had books for company rather than peers (and, quite frankly preferred the books– they were easier to understand).  On that day, that sunset conversation was window into an adult world, where life happens causally and with a minimum of fuss and drama.

It was a realization that a conversation might be the beginning of a relationship or it might be the entire relationship.

Over time, that conversation has become my reminder that you don’t plan to meet the person who will become a lifelong friend.  Instead you have conversations– some of which end at sunset and some of which last a lifetime.