I sat quietly in the well-worn wooden pew of the sanctuary at St. Paul's, desperately seeking solace for the soul. The past week had been stressful and overwhelming. Too many house projects and not enough progress. Too much work and not enough play. Too much to do and too little time. Too much worry and not enough peace. You know, just too much ... stuff.

From my perch on the pew, I saw a mother approach with two children, a son and a daughter. I smiled as I looked up and then slid to the center of the pew to allow them entry. The mother sat down beside me and introduced herself. Almost immediately, though, she thought better of this seating arrangement and opted to sit between the children to separate them. A fortuitous choice, it turns out, as it placed her lovely daughter right beside me.

The service had not started yet. The little girl, who looked to be about age 10, smiled at me. I smiled back. "You look beautiful today," she said. "Why, thank you. So do you," I told her. "My name's Mackenzie," she announced. "My name is Diane," I told her. "It's very nice to meet you, Mackenzie."

Before the service began, Mackenzie politely peppered me with questions. "Are you married?" she asked. Do you have children? Do you work? I answered them all, happy to satisfy her childish curiosity. During the service, Mackenzie offered money for me to put in the collection plate. "That's ok," I whispered to her and winked. "I have my own." At one point, Mackenzie lightly leaned her head on my shoulder and smiled. "You have a pretty smile," she whispered.

Before the final prayer and dismissal, Mackenzie, her mom and brother exited the pew and were gone. Gone before I could say it was a pleasure to meet her and that I hoped to see her again.

The innocent smile and kind words of a child had melted my troubled heart. I was smiling broadly as I joined my fellow parishioners in a stream from the sanctuary and into the bright sunlight. The priest's message for the day was still echoing in my ears: Peace, be still.

And so I was. And so I am as I write this. And so I will be ... until the next storm comes along to toss me about. And then I will look for another lifeboat. Another small miracle. Another random act of kindness. Another Mackenzie. 

Just as Mackenzie passed the peace to me last Sunday, I now pass it to you: Peace be with you.

Do you let the small storms of life get you down? Where do you find peace? Please share your thoughts in the Comments.

_Rain was gently falling as I parked the car in front of my childhood home. It was the day before Mother's Day and just a few days until the 9th anniversary of my mother's death. Stopping to survey the old homestead was tugging at my heartstrings, and the gloomy weather seemed an appropriate backdrop to my melancholy mood.

I looked around, noting the familiar and seeing how the hands of time and other people had changed the only home I knew until the day I got married. The house was sold a few years after my mother's death; it had fallen into the hands of interlopers, intruders. A catering business had invaded the space where my mother once baked cornbread and cooked Thanksgiving dinners.

I noted the "For Sale" near the mailbox, an indication the catering business had gone bust or moved on. Since the property is now commercial, much of the front yard is covered with asphalt. (Paved paradise, put up a parking lot.) The backyard is bereft of the trees I once climbed in. But some landmarks of my youth remain. The big tree in the front yard still stands tall, no longer flocked by the irises my mother planted there but still shading the house where no one lives.  

I grabbed my umbrella and stepped from the car to look around. I walked to the side of the house and looked up at my old bedroom window. That window was my view to the world as I listened to American Top 40 countdowns. That room was my refuge as I scribed in my diary and cried crocodile tears over a long list of boys. It all looked the same ... but somehow different.

As I edged the car from the parking lot and back onto the two-lane road, I took a last glance in the rearview mirror. I could feel the weight of my all childhood hopes and dreams, but they weren't pulling me back — they were urging me forward ... back to the present. So I pointed my car toward home and headed back to Nashville ... to make new memories and dream new dreams. 

Do you have strong ties to your childhood home? How does visiting that place make you feel? Please share your thoughts in the Comments below.

_This week I'm guest blogging over on Tess Hardwick's little corner of cyberspace (Inspiration For Ordinary Life). For several weeks, Tess has invited writers to answer this question: What would you say to your 20-year-old self? The series, called 20 Thursday, has included some touching and insightful posts. I hope mine lives up to that reputation. Here's the opening and a link to the rest on Tess' site. Feel free to comment here, on Tess' site or both. And thanks for reading...

_*  *  *  *  *

_Dear Diane at 20,

As I look at your face in a faded photograph, I can see past your pretty smile for the camera and into the thoughts that fill your young and troubled mind. I’m not good enough. I’m not pretty enough. I’m not smart enough.

But you are. All of those things and more. 

Read more...

     

Excitement filled the air in the third-grade classroom as students anxiously awaited the exchange of gifts on the last day of school before Christmas break.

One by one the teacher called each name and presented students with their gifts. There were exclamations of joy as each child tore away the wrappings to reveal their treasure inside.

When the last name had been called and the final gift passed from the teacher to the waiting hands of its recipient, the teacher stood smiling as she surveyed the jubilant scene in her classroom. Then she noticed the brown-haired girl with blue eyes sitting quietly at her desk with an awkward smile. The little girl was empty-handed; she had no gift.

Deftly the teacher declared that she had forgotten something and disappeared briefly into her supply closet. She emerged with a gift-wrapped package and called the brown-haired girl's name. "This is for you," the teacher announced as she smiled and proffered the package.

As the little girl accepted the gift, she wondered why her present was kept away from the others. But in that moment, it didn't matter. The box she held returned her to the fold of acceptance, her brief stint as an outcast having perhaps gone unnoticed, saving her the painful embarrassment of grade-school taunts.

The little girl began at first tentatively, then excitedly, to tear away the paper and ribbons. The wrappings fell away to reveal the smiling face of a doll inside the box. The little girl grasped the doll and began to arrange its hair and straighten its clothes. She looked around the room at her classmates and proudly showed off the doll while examining and commenting on the gifts of her peers.

I'm not sure when I fully came to realize what happened that day. And I will never know whether the child who drew my name forgot my gift, could not afford one or simply didn't like me. What I do know is that sometimes the true gift is not what's in the package. All these years later, I still remember what that gift meant to me — not the doll itself but how receiving it gave me a sense of belonging. To an embarrassed little girl, that's the best gift ever.

To Mrs. Baird, wherever you are — be it on this mortal coil or enjoying your just reward in the hereafter — I wish you a heartfelt Merry Christmas. You will forever be a doll to me.

Do you have a memory of a special Christmas gift? Whether you gave the gift or received it, I hope you'll share your thoughts and memories in the Comments below.