The room was small, but three clocks dutifully marked each passing minute, minutes that didn't matter anymore, minutes that came too quickly, too slowly, too soon, too late. Every moment ought to hold promise. A moment is time enough for an apology, a hug, a goodbye, an I love you. As long as we have time, we have hope.

But sometimes time is extraneous, every second superfluous. For the woman whose hand I held, every tick was out of place, irrelevant, even. The timepieces--time itself--nothing now but an ambivalent anchor. And yet the clocks kept ticking, muted by the constant recycling cascade and intermittent p-fffft of the respirator.

When someone is near death, they breathe differently. The sound is like a rattling snore, but comes from the voice box, air passing back and forth as though the patient were breathing through a dissonant harmonica. The noise always unnerves the family. Is she in pain? Is she trying to talk? Is she aware?

I don't know. Maybe. Probably not.

What is she holding on for? We've all been in to see her. She needs to let go. What is she waiting for?

And this is the impossible question. What makes a person hold on to another minute when there is no hope? What might make me hold on? And do the minutes I have hold only empty promise? Do I cash in on the hope inherent in the time I have? What am I doing with the moments I've got?

this closet's been too cramped...

...I'm coming out.

I don't like reading the Bible. Can't recall the last time I voluntarily read it. I think it was August. This isn't an at-the-end-of-too-many-years-of-Bible-college-it-just-feels-like-a-textbook malaise...this is a chronic disorder I've given in to for as long as I can recall. At different points, I've begged for an interest in God's Word. I've promised to read some everyday, no excuses, if only he'd give me a hunger for it so that I would truly love it. Hasn't happened.

It's not that I don't like the Bible itself, though. I do. I've got chunks of it memorized (thank you 12+ years of Christian education) and I like those chunks. And it's not that I don't like studying it. I do. I'm hard-pressed to think of something I enjoy more than talking with friends about God, scripture, and ideas about both. As ridiculous as it sounds for a non-Bible lover to come to Bible college, this is the very reason I came: I love God, I truly want to learn more about him, and somehow, on some level, I think I hoped it would all come together for me and I'd learn to love just reading the Bible, too.

Hasn't happened. Then, the time's not up yet, either. Eight more weeks. I'll keep reading. Maybe I'll surprise myself. Maybe he'll surprise me.

While I don't usually bother to write them, I often tell stories with no point. Here is one.

My birthday rolled around again last weekend. (That sort of makes it sound like it comes around frequently. It doesn't.) Few people on this planet know of the near tragedy surrounding my original birthday. I almost didn't arrive. I mean, I arrived, but *I* in the sense you know me, nearly didn't.

My mom wanted to name me Judith.

I am not a Judith. Or a Judy. Maybe, maybe, I could be a Judie, but that's still a stretch. Seriously now, Judy Hurdle? It's horrible. I'm certain I would never have considered a career in radio for surely I would have hated saying my name aloud. Too, a career as a writer would have been out because readers would have assumed I was old. And nerdy.

What might my life look like, supposing a different moniker? A name wouldn't change much, I suppose. Regardless, after all, I'm still old and nerdy. But Judith means "praised" or "admired," and it's ancient Hebrew. That'd be just great--pride and legalism are two of my bigger spiritual struggles as is without being admired by others or thinking I'm one of God's chosen people. And would the other kids have made fun of me even more? Maybe instead of "Terri Turtle," I would have been "Moody Girdle."

I'm glad I was graced with Ceridwen instead. Although, I grew up under false pretenses with that name.

First, we don't pronounce it correctly. Once a man from London, seated next to me on a plane, said my full name and I think I was speechless for a full moment. Kerridwyn. The English pronounce it beautifully.

Second, and perhaps the more humorous (or humourous, if you will) of the pretenses is the meaning. Through a bizarre misunderstanding with a woman who is long since dead, precluding any possibility of ever straightening the story, my mother came to believe Ceridwen is the Welsh version of Catherine.

Welsh it is. Catherine it is not.

It means "goddess of poetry." Furthermore, the name is sometimes associated with neo-pagans today. Now, if there is anything on par with the evility of Ouija boards and seances in my mother's mind, it would be paganism.

Had she known, I'm pretty sure I'd be Judith.

Too much cake. Too much ice cream. Too many wrappers. Too many bows.

Like a little kid after a birthday party, I'm tired of watching others open gifts when I had none, and I'm tired of eating sweets when I didn't get to blow out the candles.

Like a little kid, I seem unable to reason. It's not that I have no gifts--just not these gifts. It's not that I don't like sweets, it's just that I feel full of them to the exclusion of the more substantial.

Like a little kid, I'm uncertain how to manage my confusion, my uncertainty, my desires. So I sulk. I stomp. I insult. I ignore. I demand. I cry.

Being selfish is agonizing, but then, so is surrendering.

I pick surrender.

tides

Pensive emotions and wistful memories seem to rise and fall like the sea. Most days I find the tide out, but occasionally the water level rises, and in those moments a few waves may crash in stormily, overlapping each other, gulping up the beach, coming closer and closer, lapping at my heart.

I'm with my sister, Jennifer, at Cost Plus World Market, an overpriced Pier One meets international 7-eleven, a store which conjures up in me a deep craving for beautiful material goods that would impede my faith and pocketbook.

I wander off by myself and out of the corner of my eye spot a very Chinese thermos. I become a bit wistful as I lift the lightweight bottle that is surely two feet high and as big around as a gallon of Edy's Grand. Before I even realize my memory is rolling shots of Changzhou, China like a home video, I hear the opening lines of my all-time favorite Beatles' song, a song so beloved I've always said I'll have it in my wedding.

There are places I'll remember, all my life...

The thermos conjures images of weather worn, world weary elders in shops, outside shops, hanging clothes, bicycling to and fro, selling wares--always, it seemed, with a big thermos not far away.

I turn, thinking the wave has subsided, only to look up and discover I've landed squarely in the Chinese dish aisle.

All these places have their moments, with lovers and friends I still can recall...

Chopsticks. Lots of chopsticks at this World Market. But not as many as at Hy-Mall. Suddenly I'm there, at Hy-Mall, around the corner from the bedding, across from the woks and the unexplainable, infinitesimal plastic bowls, in the chopstick section. Darlene is picking out souvenirs, packages of the decorated sticks spilling over her arms. Anna rolls her eyes at Benny's silly puns and sarcastic remarks as she shoots some back. Ellen is trying to catch up, but an older couple is inadvertantly blocking the aisle, distracted and enamored by her big blue eyes. They nudge each other and nod in our direction as they chatter on in tones and syllables that now sound familiarly unfamiliar to me.

Though I know I'll never lose affection for people and things that went before...

The World Market shelves are stacked with saucers and rice bowls. The shallow, square dipping dishes and the oddly shaped, awkward soup spoons remind me of elaborate dinners with people I can't forget. Hannah and Henry. Land and Yvonne. Neil and his mother. I think of Ellen, eating from my bowls, rescuing me from foods that tasted so different to me. I recall toasting, and future cola, and compromised omelets, and giant lazy susans.

In my life, I've loved you more.

At the other end of the aisle, I turn again, and am now surrounded by wine glasses and ice buckets. The song is over, and something in Spanish with a mariachi sound brings me back to the moment. And the tide is out once more.

I'm realizing these days that loneliness sometimes reflects not a deep emptiness longing for another to fill it, but rather a rich fulfillment and deep contentment longing to spill over in communion with another.

Even though it hurts, it feels alive to grieve something so beautiful as a good-bye.

~Jennifer, one of my lovely sisters