Moving to coastal Solomon, South Carolina, brought refreshing change for the family, though at first, Heather insisted upon calling the lovely rural setting Purgatory.

“Poor baby,” I wrapped my arms around her, dodging movers who scuttled past toting boxes stuffed with Crenshaw paraphernalia, sliding them into empty spaces around walls still smelling of fresh lumber and paint. The recently built, pristine manse was a bonus to the sudden offer of conference officials to shift us to a bigger harvest field. An opportunity, they said, heightening my wariness.

Toby and Krissie romped outside – out of the workers’ way – lickety-splitting to examine the ancient cemetery beyond the lovely brick church with its white steeple, investigating with a child’s clarity the mysteries of what lay beneath those flattened, verdant mounds towered over by headstones bearing cryptic inscriptions. Some marble finishes, dulled by mildew, revealed hazy pictures of the departed. What Toby could not decipher, Krissie patiently read and explained.

The parsonage, a gracious sprawling brick ranch, came fully furnished and offered the Crenshaws the distinction of being its very first occupants. Until now, an older town dwelling had housed Solomon Methodist’s clergy. Our old hodge-podge furniture went into storage, but my resilience ran out when I refused to part with the rich cherrywood four-poster upon which two of our children were conceived.

“Okay,” I told the children, “you each get a room of your own. Go pick it out,” and laughed when they scattered like startled flies in three directions. I proceeded to place folded sleepwear in drawers, bracing myself for the usual calamity, but surprisingly, peace prevailed. My instincts – as to which room fit whom – panned out. Heather, of course, got first dibs, but the two younger harbored no opposition. Glory be! Already, I could see the influence of the tranquil environment.

Mid-afternoon, Kirk, in gray coveralls, came up behind me, as I stretched clothes on hangers for our his-and-hers walk-in closets and pressed himself to me. I dropped the garment and turned into the familiarity of his arms, a haven amid disorder. And we embraced for long moments, soaking from one another solace and ongoing oneness, augmented among virtual strangers.

“Honey?” Kirk lifted his face, the sharp planes and angles softened by an atypical vulnerability. “Did I make the right decision – coming here?”

I peered at him, mystified by his sudden qualms. Rarely did my husband look backward. He could have stayed on at Hopewell for another term. This two hundred-plus mile transfer had been his decision – a quick one at that, given the fact that annual Conference sat upon us as he weighed his choices. His. Because, as in most major resolutions, I acquiesced to Kirk. A simple matter of trusting his logic.

“After all,” I’d told him when he asked my opinion and I knew what he wanted – needed – to hear, “you’re the one who stands up there in the pulpit, looks them in the eye, feels their pulse. It has to be your decision when to leave one flock and embrace another.”

The move, so sudden, blurred with a ridiculously haphazard twenty-four hour period of packing and loading moving vans, manned by low-country, new-flock men who snatched boxes literally from beneath my hands and open drawers and slapped them onto the porch where, under my glazed direction, they loaded valuables and tossed away trash.

Tearful farewells abounded on the asphalt parking lot, underscored with Deborah’s bewildered scowl, pacing, and “No way!” while Toby trailed and patted her resisting arm, muttering, “we’ll come and see you, Deb. It’ll be all right”... while Jessica and I fueled her agitation by having one good breakdown, unbridled cry on each other’s shoulders. While Krissie and Sandy vowed solemnly to write each other every single day and Heather, with friends, joined by arms tangled and cleaving, bodies heaving in grief at parting.....

Was it only last night? I gazed into Kirk’s weary face, so dear. So needy. And I smiled, stretched up for a long kiss and said, “Of course, it was the right decision.”

“Git outta my face!” bellowed a distinctly angry male voice from outside. “It’s my furn’ture, I tell ya.”

I thanked the departing church ladies, who’d earlier slipped quietly into the kitchen with steaming bowls and a succulent baked ham garnished with pineapple and cherries and within an hour, fed us and cleaned up.

What was all that racket about coming from the front yard?

I dashed to the front door and peered outside where moving vans hovered on the busy front lawn, gilded golden by nightlights. My gaze combed workers who, for the first time today, appeared frozen and mute, peering at two men who stood, toed-off, glaring at each other.

“I spoke for that bedroom furn’ture nigh on two years back,” the tall, lanky red-haired male named Homer Beauregard bellowed.

The other one, Fred Chastain, who seemed older, shook his salt-and-pepper head. “Can’t help dat. Clancy, he be in charge o’parsonage stuff.” His stance was quiet and firm and his dialect thick low-country. “He said it’s mine since I put down da deposit on it ovuh a year ago, case it ever got sold. Since Miz Crenshaw don’t wanna use it, it’s mine.”

In a flash, the carrot-top man advanced with white, clenched fists to within an inch of his opponent’s nose. “A twenty dollar deposit? I don’t think so,” he roared.

“Hey!” Kirk stepped between the two men. “Say fellas, can’t we sit down and discuss this without all the anger?” This in his most engaging, conciliatory manner. “I mean, – ”

“Hey, preachuh,” Fred turned abruptly to Kirk, “You best stay outta family bid’ness ‘round heah.” He lightly cuffed Kirk’s shoulder in good ol’ boy fashion. “Dat’s da best advice ah can give ya. Do dat, you stay outta trouble.”

“Yeah.” Homer Beauregard grunted assent. “He’s not shootin’ you a line. Solomon Methodist’s a tight, family church. You best remember – family? They stick together. Hey?”

“Thanks,” Kirk replied evenly, his expression shuttered. “I’ll remember that.”

Kirk left the men to their dissension, which within moments rose to pitch again.

Disbelieving, I quickly turned away and fled to the clutter of my room, which I attacked with new vigor, closing my ears to the furor beyond the new walls. Where’s Christian charity? Is there no place for pastoral counsel when family gets out of line? What, I asked myself as I savagely stuffed wadded paper into a garbage bag, have we gotten ourselves into?

“Cousins?” I gaped at Kirk across the breakfast table the next morning. “First cousins?”

“Yep,” he replied, crunching into toast. “Seems they’ve been feuding all through the years. Over some land – they’re all big landowners, by the way, as are most of these folk.”

“Did they settle the dispute last night?”

Kirk chuckled, elbows on table, nursing his coffee mug in both big hands. “Nah.” He blew on the steaming brew and his gaze moved past me to the double windows that framed a breathtaking view of the evergreen forest backed up to church property.

And I knew. That smiling half-moon glimmer of green said a part of him enjoyed the near-to-blows adventure.

The next six months will forever stand out in my memory as a time of supreme joy. Loosed from fast-paced inner-city hubbub and exposure, our family rediscovered one another. Granted, the forced seclusion at first did not lay well with the youngsters, but, predictably, without a playmate-smorgasbord, the two youngest siblings established a camaraderie that led to previously unheard-of, creative diversions. Late afternoons found them riding bikes until classroom-accumulated restlessness was spent. Then came quieter pastimes, when Krissie patiently taught Toby games, such as Parcheesi, Password and Old Maid Cards.

Kirk was – well, Kirk was gone most of the time. Pastoring, I knew, so I carried on.

Teenage Heather discovered a new world of peers surprisingly as appealing as her former ones. Added to this was the pleasure of her very own space, luxury for a private girl whose former cramped quarters forced her to share her bed.

“They’re your rooms to decorate as you please,” I said during the first week, “so go to it.”

Krissie’s room was the brightest and perhaps most engaging in the parsonage, a study of pastel yellow and gold accessories that splashed against soft antique white walls and rested on plush pale moss-green carpet that invited toes to dig in. In this near lackadaisical atmosphere, her industriousness leaped to my attention. All day, while I cleaned and organized kitchen and bathrooms, I’d see her zip by, in and out of her quarters with cleaning supplies and vacuum. And pride, warm and sweet, oozed through me. Surreptitious peeks revealed Krissie’s closet, drawers and shelves organized fastidiously enough to pass military inspection

When, I wondered with considerable awe, did this metamorphosis take place? Why she’s as diligent and responsible as an adult. And I decided it was Providential, this oasis in which I found myself, this timeless bubble that halted and allowed me to see, really see, all the good in my life.

At 3:10 a.m. I jerked upright in bed. Toby’s scream hauled me to my unsteady feet and down the hall-length to his pecan-paneled room. His muffled yells augmented into terror. I gazed wild-eyed into the darkness, searching for him. Kirk, on my heels, flipped on the overhead light, exposing the rumpled, empty bed and myriad sports decals attached to his walls with enough Scotch-tape to complete a season’s gift-wrapping.

I pivoted to my right and peered through the closet door, a mere three feet to the left of his bedroom entrance. Huddled there, pale face plastered to the corner, hands splayed over cheeks, Toby sobbed.

I peeled him loose and wrapped my arms around him.

“What happened, Toby?” Kirk asked gently.

“I – I couldn’t find the bathro-o-om.”

Disoriented, he’d taken the wrong door and couldn’t find his way out.

Heather met us in the hall as I guided him to the bathroom, looking surprisingly sympathetic and I thought again how our cohesion, our dependence on one another was blossoming into something rare and precious.

Newton-John’s Let Me Be There blared from the portable record player.

“Well – what do you think?” Krissie stood back to display her room in its final splendor.

“Very nice.” My gaze roamed appreciatively over her neatly arranged dresser, fragrant with talc and cologne – to the highly polished furniture, immaculate closet and shelves. A gigantic new poster sang to me from one spacious wall.

“How do you like it, Mom?”

She noticed my attention riveted to the huge freckledfaced, splitting grin of Pipi Longstocking, carrot-red pigtails “startled” straight out over each ear – as a tiny brown shrieking monkey, long tail draped around one pigtail, perched on the heroine’s shoulder.

“Do you think it’s cute?” The vulnerability behind that query ambushed me. Right then, at that precise moment, my opinion stood between her and desolation.

“I think it’s darling.” The truth. “Where did you get it?”

Her instant smile revealed perfect teeth and restored confidence. “Ordered it at school.”

Something burgeoned inside me, a warm thing strung with silk and velvet and sweet-smelling orchids. It had to do with the fact that she’d bypassed lesser wholesome choices for this. A small thing, yet I’d never felt more proud of my daughter than in that moment.

In the following days, I desperately sought to de-clutter my quarters. Clutter, to me, connotes chaos and my mind spontaneously lines up with it. One day, as I tried to make sense of the jumble, I paused at Heather’s door to gaze longingly, admiring her organizational skill and wondered how on earth she arranged neatly and attractively on her dresser the following: a wooden treasure chest jewelry box, three photos, a large decorative green bottle, owl salt-pepper shakers, hair spray, Kleenex tissues, two stuffed animals, three bottles of cologne, an assortment of nail polish (eight to be exact), ranging from colorless to primrose, and a beautiful daisy petal bordered cosmetic mirror, a Christmas gift from Krissie.

Her bedside radio, on duty most off-school, awake hours, played The Most Beautiful Girl In the World.

Curiously, I entered the sophisticated pewter gray-paneled room accented with greens and melon. In true peer-style, she’d added, literally, wall-to-wall posters featuring “First Love,” Snoopy and “Love Story.” Her door sported first-place ribbons from small talent contests, an Indianapolis 500 pennant (Kirk’s gift after a ministerial convention in the city), a gigantic greeting card that read “Jesus Loves You!” from a friend. Last – most definitely not least – screamed a door-sized poster of Mick Jagger.

Through the years, I’ve tried but never accomplished with paraphernalia what my daughter did so effortlessly. But, at least in those days and in that particular arena, Toby became my soulmate, for no matter how often we neatly arranged his toy box, which fit comfortably into his spacious closet, within weeks the contents would mysteriously evolve into a jumbled disaster area.

Days later, I found myself recruited into the Church’s War Department, a thing I’d vowed would not happen. As soon as Kirk proudly divulged my musical training, the small choir waylaid me, pleading with me to take them on. The current director, Donna, merely stood facing them, hymnal in hand, and got them going on key. She, too, quite fervently wanted change. And despite my wish to remain low profile, my heart responded to their longing to rise above mediocre.

The first rehearsal convinced me that Heather must, absolutely must, be my accompanist. Betsy, the sixtyish, spinster pianist, read music, but somehow, no matter how vigorously I launched the choir, we all ended up marching to Betsy’s lethargic cadence. I kept reminding myself this arrangement was Ted Smith, not Sousa, and the distinction simply had to be made. The perfectionist me caved in after two attempts at “Wonderful Grace of Jesus” drooped and dragged worse than Grandpa’s old plough through rocky terrain.

“I have a suggestion,” I said in my most pleasant “let’s get our heads together” voice. “If you would agree to Heather’s being my accompanist, I’ll accept the position. I’m going to be doing some quite difficult special arrangements and Heather and I can work at home on these, saving much time – ”

“B-but,” Betsy sputtered indignantly from her piano bench, “I can play those arrangements.”

“Oh my, Betsy,” I turned to her, all sympathy, “these are quite advanced and I don’t feel right about heaping this sort of thing on you.”

“But – ” she blinked several times behind thick lens as magenta splotched her plump cheeks, her back turning ramrod stiff, “I can learn them. I don’t mind.”

“That wouldn’t be fair,” I insisted. “Heather is accustomed to playing these arrangements and – this would only be for the choir specials, mind you. Betsy, you would still play for all other congregational singing. That won’t change.”

She stared at me, only mildly mollified. Everyone else ignored her pouting to fling arms wide to welcome the Crenshaw duo aboard.

I had a moment’s consternation about her family ties in the church. The choir was but a small fraction of the Solomon Methodist’s membership, but were they Bessie’s kin?

Family sticks together, echoed Homer’s admonition.

Only I heard the distant blast of cannons and recognized the battlefield.

Solomon’s Charlestonian setting beguiled the dreamer-me. Everything within the tropical framework sparked my imagination and aesthetic leanings and I found myself doing things for the sheer sake of doing. One free afternoon, Kirk and I impulsively drove the kids to Kiawah Beach. He swam with them as I settled onto a folding lounge chair with an unopened Pat Conroy novel while listening to Heather’s little portable radio blast Bennie and the Jets.

“Like fish,” Kirk said proudly, drying off, watching Toby and Krissie splash as he settled beside me in his lounge chair. We recalled Toby’s terror in YMCA swim-survival classes during the sixties and how, distanced by a ceiling-high glass window, I’d near panicked when my son teetered on the edge of a twelve-foot high diving board and his instructor pushed him off. Krissie had quickly resumed the role of mentor and protector, swallowing her fears to pioneer the way, while Toby toddled along, shadowing her every move.

Today at Kiawah Beach, I watched with pride as they fearlessly tackled surf and sand. Krissie, my tan, platinum-haired mermaid…Toby, a bristle-topped otter gliding effortlessly through the water. My gaze drifted to Heather, lying on a blanket, lifeless as a seashell, toasting to nutty bronze beside Dixie, her friend from the church clan.

Kirk clasped my hand in his.

That golden summer epitomized the old proverb, “time flies when you’re having fun.” Kirk and I were a team. Solomon Methodist Church flourished. Kirk was proud that my choir grew until the loft bulged and began plans to expand the sanctuary. The choir members rhapsodized over hearing themselves sing four-part harmony. Heather graced the accompaniments with mind-staggering mastery. Soon, invitations poured in for the Solomon Choir to appear at religious and civic functions. In the process, I sought out solo voices for specials.

One day, my phone rang and it was Donna Huntly, the former choir-leader who now sang first soprano. “Ms. Crenshaw,” she said in her abrupt, succinct way, “I feel a need to tell you how I feel about the way you’re handling things.”

Dread pitched my pulse into syncopation, but I managed a cautious, “Yes?”

“My brother Charlie and I have been coming to this church all our lives. Now, you’re giving solos to newcomers – overlooking me and Charlie. Charlie loves to sing and he’s hurt that you haven’t picked him to do specials.” She stopped as abruptly as she’d begun and just as strongly. “I just wanted you to know how we feel,” she tacked on, as in “t-t-that’s all folks.”

Disbelief washed over me – me, the soft-peddler, challenged by double-barreled blatant boorishness. Crude razor-y edges and all. As Kirk would say, welcome to the real world….

“Donna – ” I took courage from my calm voice, “I really don’t know what to say.”

“Well,” she staccatoed, “I just wanted you to know.”

“I’m sorry you’ve been hurt. I truly am. And I assure you that I’ll give the matter much thought and prayer.”

“Thank you.” Click.

I stood for long moments staring unseeing at the receiver. I immediately dialed Kaye, Charlie’s wife and Donna’s sisterin-law. Kaye, too, sang alto in my choir and we’d established a warm camaraderie. I needed an objective playback so I relayed the phone conversation to her.

And besides, Kaye wasn’t blood kin to the family clan. In-laws didn’t always count.

Kaye snorted. “Neecy, that’s pure Donna. She’s outspoken and makes me mad as blazes at times. You can’t let her get to you. Charlie hasn’t said a thing. This is all her doing.”

I hung up, feeling only mildly reassured. I recalled other hurts I’d glossed over, in particular those of Betsy, the church pianist. I encouraged myself that that particular crisis had eased.

Betsy actually was the last surviving member of her particular family clan at Solomon, leaving her with no one to dissent with her. Learning that had a peculiar effect on me: it made my heart more tender toward her.

The spinster had, over time, warmed toward me. And I knew compromise had been the catalyst that gave me Heather, yet allowed Betsy to keep her church-pianist position. This, I ventured, is no different. I bowed my head and prayed over the new clash. Part of me felt shredded. Yet – I was suddenly able to see Donna, the little girl, crying out for validation. It changed my feelings.

Another revelation stunned me: perfection is good but not more important than people.

In that moment, the resolution came to me.

“Donna,” I said off-handedly at the next choir rehearsal, “I’d like you and Charlie to do this duet special for the Homecoming Service. We’ll work out the harmony during rehearsals. Think you can handle it?”

A five-hundred watt smile broke over her face. “Yes Ma’am.”

“With this setup, you can’t afford not to go to Coastal Carolina College,” Kirk jokingly remarked. I’d just won a musical scholarship and would be singing with the college choral group. I decided to enroll full-time since the school was only a twenty-minute drive away.

Kirk came up to me at the sink where I washed dishes and slid his arms around me, turning me, dripping hands and all, into his embrace. We kissed, slowly and deeply, knowing the kids romped outside while Heather hibernated in her room, phone to ear. Hand in hand, we went into our bedroom, closed the door and quietly locked it.

Our lovemaking was, as always, passionate and unhurried. Our incredible chemistry was the ‘glue,’ to quote Kirk, that made all the hardships of matrimony fade. Afterward, Kirk showered, dressed and departed to do visitation.

I decided to take a walk down the white sandy lane that wound through the cemetery near the church. From a distance, my gaze captured a beautiful scene framed by a frothy bluewhite sky and washed with golden sunshine: Krissie and Toby biked over flat verdant lawn, at peace with life and one another. Heather, I knew, was enjoying her privacy. Kirk was out about his Father’s business.

I passed the church, my sneakered feet mincing pearly sand, my heart keening toward our dwelling. “Home.” My lips formed the word and I smiled, remembering how I’d dreaded leaving Chapowee. Now, I knew – home is anywhere God puts us.

Tall pines aglow with tropical sunlight drew my gaze upward. The November climate was pleasantly warm and the air smelled of spring. My heart swelled with gratitude.

This is fulfillment. “Thank you, Lord,” I cried aloud. “How can one heart contain so much happiness?”

Oh, had I only known what lay ahead, I’d have gloried even more in those moments.

Toby waxed well at Solomon Elementary while Krissie remained mum on her school activities. Heather breezed through middle school. My first semester at Coastal whizzed by, transporting me to senior status and the Dean’s list.

My phone rang one afternoon. “Mrs. Crenshaw?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Mrs. Carter, Krissie’s teacher. Are you free to talk right now?”

She went on to say that Krissie remained shy and reluctant to join in classroom discussions. I explained to her what had happened the past year and how my daughter’s little spirit had been beaten down.

“Oh-h. That explains it all. Thank you, Mrs. Crenshaw. This helps me more than you can know.” I liked Mrs. Carter instantly. Something in me relaxed about Krissie. She was now in good hands.

The heavy stage curtain opened to reveal Coastal Carolina College’s Chorale in long red skirts, white ruffled blouses, and guys in black tux. First faces I spotted in the school’s auditorium belonged to Krissie, Heather and Toby, who sat with their dad. During my Winter Wonderland solo, my children’s awed gazes reached out and touched me. Afterward, they all rushed backstage to throw their arms around me. Kirk kissed me soundly before the whole world and I felt Heaven descend for those short moments.

The holidays passed in a flurry. Christmas Eve began at five a.m. when Krissie and Toby dashed to the den to find their presents beneath the seven-foot live fir decorated with ornaments collected through the years, each bearing sentimental significance. Heather trailed them, and soon, unable to sleep because of the joyful ruckus, Kirk and I slid from bed to join them. We celebrated with a huge brunch then loaded our car for the four-hour upstate trip.

We sang Christmas songs on the long drive to Daddy and Anne’s, harmonizing and improvising special arrangements with even Toby participating. Once at our destination, Krissie and Dale immediately paired off to wrap gifts, then distribute them around the mill village to my brother’s friends. Only months apart in age, they enjoyed the same music, movies, foods, and shared dreams, aspirations and secrets. Heather rode with Cole to see his current girlfriend while Dad and Kirk lounged about watching ballgames or going for their male bonding drives. Toby played outside with neighbor kids, leaving Anne and me in peace and quiet to sort out festive meal menus.

I yearned briefly for wonderful shared Yule celebrations at MawMaw and Papa’s before Mama died. I rarely saw them anymore. That grief had diminished with time spoke harshly to me. Therein lay the thorn: intimacy a casualty. A spasm of loss seized me and I fought resentment that my loved ones had sacrificed our bond in their quest for an elusive dignity. I hope it was worth it, I mulled, then let go, refusing to let it spoil my holiday.

The day after Christmas, Trish took the kids to see The Sound Of Music at a local movie theater. Krissie and Dale came home singing “Doe, a deer...” and other selections from the film. All too quickly, leave-taking arrived. I missed my folks, but home was now Solomon and I keened to be there. We arrived home near nightfall and the kids rushed to their Christmas loot.

Krissie and Toby sprawled on the den floor, listening to Krissie’s new Harvest King record Dancing in the Moonlight, creating dialogue and drama with Krissie’s Barbie doll, who entertained Toby’s GI Joe in her Country Home. I’d been careful to buy wardrobe for both dolls so Toby could join her in the dressing game without getting teased. A new Parcheesi game replaced their old one. Dixie, Heather’s pal, dropped by to munch goodies and retreat to Heather’s bedroom to exchange gifts, then rhapsodize over what, I was never certain.

Heather’s wardrobe of seventies’ wisp and billow burgeoned from her holiday stash, as did Krissie’s, whose flaredjeans and clog-shoes accented her thinness.

“Look, Mama,” Krissie said that night as I stood at my dresser brushing my hair, “I’m nearly as tall as you.” She stepped before me, backing against me until her head just barely reached the underside of my chin. We gazed in the mirror and in her delicate features I glimpsed a younger me. “Think Daddy would cut my hair?” she asked.

I ran my fingers through her long, thick blond thatch. “Do you really want to?” I asked, surprised. “It’s so pretty like this....”

“I want a shag cut,” she said decisively.

The next day, Kirk whipped out his barber shears and snipped away. When he finished, I nearly wept. She was so cute – a teeny bopper whose chin length hair lay softly in waves that hugged her small oval face and framed enormous blue eyes. She’ll be a real beauty soon, I decided.

“Say,” Heather circled her. “I like that. I want one, too.”

We all laughed and Heather’s long locks fell next to Krissie’s on the earthtone carpet. “Wait!” Krissie dashed to get a plastic bag. “Don’t throw the hair away. I’m gonna save mine.”

“Not me,” Heather declared as her sister scooped up blonde tendrils and stuffed them in the plastic zip-lock bag. “I’m glad to get rid of mine.”

Both girls insisted I get mine ‘shagged,’ too. I complied, happy for a carefree ‘do.’

“Now, we’re triplets,” Krissie giggled and the three of us preened before my dresser mirror, admiring our matching haircuts. I hugged them close, astonished that though my two girls did not strongly resemble each other, both bore a striking likeness to me.

“I’m jealous,” Heather pouted good-naturedly, pulled her new sweater tight across her chest and scowled, “Krissie’s got boobs already and I don’t.” A half-truth since the younger sister was beginning to bud.

“Least you don’t look like a toothpick,” Krissie generously offered.

“You keep eating those deviled-egg sandwiches every day after school and you won’t brag about being skinny long,” Heather shot back, fluffing her chestnut hair for the mirror.

“Krissie’s not skinny,” Toby piped from the den.

“Who asked you, Tubby?” Heather shot back, striking a model’s pose.

“Kids,” Kirk warned on the way out the door, shoving arms into his suit coat.

“He’s not Tubby,” Krissie’s back stiffened and her hands rolled into tight little fists.

“Hey,” Heather grinned at her sister’s ire, “can’t blame ‘im if Aunt Josie insists on feeding him half the food in the school lunchroom.”

It was true. Toby had fluffed up in recent months because our church secretary Josephine Beauregard served as his school’s dietician. I knew I should say something to the loveable grandmother about instructing all the servers to overload Toby’s plate, but I simply couldn’t face another confrontation at that precise moment.

Fact was, no time seemed appropriate to start another war.

Working with the college choral group stretched me to new musical expanse. My sight-reading took an overhaul when I became first-soprano section leader. Everyone depended on me to shuttle them into each new melody and cadence so I pushed myself to be ever ready. Our upcoming spring concert would feature songs from the Sound Of Music.

“Wow, Mama!” Krissie’s eyes shimmered at my news. “You’re going to sing Julie Andrew’s song – ” and she commenced to sing the words in an exaggerated falsetto and vibrato, ‘the hills are ali-i-ive – with the sound of mu-u-si-ic....’

I joined in and we ended up laughing and clowning. Heather, too, was impressed that her ol’ mom had the solo. “I’ve got lots of work to do,” I injected, buoyed by the attention.

“Aww, you’ll nail it,” Heather reassured me on her way out for a drive with Dixie, Charlie and Kaye’s daughter, who was now in her first year at Coastal.

And suddenly, I realized I really had found something I could do well – something that fit. Something that filled in during Kirk’s increasing absences. Music.

My studies soon consumed me, but it was wonderful and exhilarating and liberating. The old fears and psyche shadows receded as though they never were. My creative itch was being scratched and with it came freedom. From the past. And most importantly, from me, my own worst critic. Amid swift eventfulness, with no time to reason, I began to grasp me for who I was.

Another phenomena occurred. My spiritual awareness heightened. Loosed from constant introspection, I looked outward and perceived brilliant horizons. So I carved out a devotion time with the children, immediately after dinner in the evenings, when Kirk did hospital and home visitation. I’d decided I couldn’t rely on him to lead in that area. The years were passing too swiftly so I must do it myself.

One evening was especially intimate.”Let’s start bringing prayer needs each evening,” I suggested to the children. “One can always use help in some area.” I felt it might sharpen their introspection and broaden their thoughtfulness. I was right.

The very next evening, Krissie said, “Mama, there’s a black girl in my class I want us to pray for. Her name is Joanne and she’s so sweet. I feel so-o-o sorry for her....”

Racism doesn’t exist in our home and I said, “Why, honey?”

Her sincerity and depth stirred me as she told of Joanne’s deprivation and poverty. “The kids don’t have anything to do with her.” We prayed for Joanne and I suggested she befriend the girl. “Go out of your way to make her feel good about herself.” She nodded solemnly.

Heather’s concerns encompassed peers who teetered between doing right and diving into the seventies’‘anything goes’ abyss. We grew closer during those hours before an open crackling fire, sharing not only scripture and wisdom but exposing hearts and souls to one another.

“I did what you said,” Krissie tucked her leg up under her on the sofa several nights later, her face surreal in firelight’s golden glow. “I’ve been playing with Joanne. She’s really a nice girl – a real friend.”

I was so proud I could have bawled. “That’s wonderful, honey.”

“I wish I could see Deborah,” Toby said wistfully of his eternally young friend left behind in Hopewell. “I miss her.”

“We’ll invite Deborah and her mother to visit soon,” I suggested.

“Yeah!” Toby bounced up and down on his side of the sofa, stirring dust until Heather, seated next to him, sneezed. But she didn’t yell at him as she once would have.

Little things. But they made a profound difference in our lives.

School demands soon had me peddling uphill as fast as I could. The perfectionist me wanted to be a straight-A student while the mother-me balanced my act. Yet, when I found myself embroiled in term papers and reading assignments, I felt mired in timeless quicksand. The minutes zipped away before I reached my daily goals.

“Mama,” Krissie cleared her throat, standing in my bedroom doorway one evening, “listen to my story – ”

“I’m sorry,” I fairly shouted at her from my bed, where I sat propped amid littered notes and books. “Do I look free to listen to anything right now, Krissie? I’ve got to finish this reading and I’m so tired I already can’t see straight.”

“But this is tomorrow’s – ”

“No!” I gazed helplessly at her as emotional teeth ripped and jerked me back and forth. “Honey, I – can’t. I’m sorry. I just don’t have any time left. You’ll do fine.”

She quietly backed out the door and closed it. I felt rotten but knew I had little choice if I wanted to finish my assignment. Krissie’s composition would be fine, I assured myself. My not listening this one time wouldn’t make or break her.

The next afternoon, Heather entertained us on the piano with a new song, The Entertainer. Toby goofed around with silly dance steps, cracking me up. “Yeah, Heather!” I clapped at the number’s finish “that’s wonderful, honey. I’ve got such talented chirrun.”

I stretched back in the easy chair. “Mama?” I felt a tug on my sleeve. “I need to talk to you, Mama,” Krissie said, very softly.

She looked a mite pale. “Okay, honey.” I followed her to her room where she purposefully shut her door then joined me to sit pretzel-legged on her bed.

“Is something wrong?” I asked gently after she hesitated and began picking at her yellow chenille bedspread, her gaze riveted to its texture.

I watched her lips begin to tremble and her small chin cave in. “I don’t feel like anybody loves me,” she murmured in a choked voice.

My breath caught in my throat and refused to progress for long moments. “Oh, honey,” I exhaled forcefully. “I love you with all my heart. Why do you feel that way?” I knew. Oh, God, suddenly, I knew.

I watched, horrified, as tears rolled down her cheeks. “Cause nobody pays me any attention.” She shrugged but still gazed at her small fingers, picking, picking at the chenille tufts. “A-and I’m not smart and talented like Heather and not funny like Toby a-and – I’m stupid and – ”

In one movement, I gathered her into my arms and across my lap where I cuddled her as though she were one instead of eleven. “Ahh, sweetie, if you only knew how precious you are to me. And Daddy. And Toby and Heather.”

“Not Heather...she doesn’t like me, sometimes.” The words floated out as guileless as an angel’s song.

“But she does, Krissie. She’s just – ”

“She’s just Heather,” wise little Krissie finished. “And I s’pose she does like me at times.” She gazed up at me with red swollen eyes just beginning to hope again. “She just needs to grow up a little more, huh, Mom?”

I nodded and smiled, thankful for her openness and forgiving spirit. Oh, how I regretted having pushed her needs aside. But this was today.

“I don’t know if I want to be a missionary anymore, Mama,” she said softly. “I want to have lots and lots of kids and I don’t think kids would like growing up in Africa.”

“Mmm. Probably not.”

She sat up to face me again and I sensed the conversation was not over. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Mom, how does it feel to be in love?” Her lips began to wobble again as her eyes, pooling, gazed into mine, trusting me for wisdom.

“Why do you ask, honey?

Her hands flailed the air helplessly. “All I can think about is Johnny, Johnny, Johnny.” The tears this time flowed copiously.

Aha. “Tell me about him.” I reached to gently brush away the tears, knowing Johnny’s family attended Solomon Methodist Church and owned the skating rink where all the kids, including mine, congregated on Saturday nights. Krissie shared with me her crush on the cute Williams boy and how he’d sorta left her dangling. A new thing for my pretty little blonde whose romantic notions were just being stirred. Her hormones, as well, I suspected.

“C’mon,” I stood and held out my hand.

“Where we going?” Krissie asked, already lacing fingers with me.

“For a walk.” Usually, I walked alone, seeking my blasted solitude. Today, I wanted my daughter with me. The stroll along the sun-washed white path was silent as, arms around each other, Krissie and I shared a sweet time of simply being together. Words weren’t needed.

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing for sure,” I broke the silence as warm breezes kissed our cheeks.

“What?” The sweet face turned up to me.

“There are more fish in the sea besides Johnny Williams.”

Something flickered in the blue depths that warmed me. Then she grinned. “Yup.”

The next evening, the two of us prepared dinner together. “Let me peel potatoes,” Krissie pleaded.

“Your hands are too small to handle this knife, honey,” I insisted. “But I’ll cut them into strips and you can dice them. Okay?”

That worked. “Thanks, sug, for folding the laundry.” And sweeping the pine needles scattered across the back lawn into neat, tidy piles and all the other little things you do without being told.

Her face glowed. “I knew you’d be tired when you got in from school.”

I chuckled. “That I was.”

A moment of silence except for the swump, swump of knife dicing potato, then, “I think Johnny likes Sherry Snow.”

“Hmmm.” I raised an eyebrow at her. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

She grinned, then pressed her shoulder to mine conspirationally. “There are more than one fish in the sea, huh, Mom?”

“I’m concerned about Heather.” I sat facing Kirk in the den during a rare one-on-one with him. “She’s spending too much time with Jaclyn Beauregard, who’s already eighteen. I smell cigarette smoke on her occasionally and I know how girls are at Heather’s age. They want to try things.”

Kirk’s antennae rose. That his daughter-vigilance never relaxed was the thorn in our oldest child’s side. Their shared genetic assertiveness created some unpleasant confrontations, but when things slid past my range of effectiveness, I passed them on to Kirk. Most of the time, that checked Heather before she backed me into a corner.

“Have you seen anything – ”

“No. No – Heather’s too smart to get caught. Jaclyn is, too. She’s polite and all that but, there’s something about Heather’s hero-worship of her that alarms me. Heather’s so vulnerable right now.”

“Well,” Kirk stood and reached for his suit coat, “we’ll just have to keep our eyes open.”

Dale Evans sat at the piano centering the outdoor stage of downtown Charleston’s Marion Square, taking part in the Sunday afternoon Spiritual Celebration. The concert, featuring Dale, Andre Crouche and Children of the Day, drew scores of low-country people, now thickly planted on blankets spread from corner to corner of the grassy music arena.

We’d piled into the VW after a quick lunch to drive to the festivities, allowing Heather, after much pleading, to ride with Dixie Tessner and other Solomon Methodist teens.

“Only,” Kirk stipulated, “if you follow me. Stay within range in case you have car trouble.”

Heather rolled her eyes after Kirk turned away but was pleased not to be ‘scrunched up’ between Krissie and Toby en route there. I knew she, along with everybody else, anticipated hearing and seeing Andre perform.

Yet, two hours into the celebration, the star performer’s plane still had not arrived. Dale, gracious as ever, returned to the podium to continue her ministry. Seven-year-old Toby people-watched as parents, on adjoining blankets, bottle-fed babies and shushed active toddlers. Heather lounged with her peers. Krissie sat huddled against my side, beginning to shiver in the late afternoon breeze.

“Cold, honey?” I asked, putting my arm around her. She nodded her shag-cropped head.

Kirk volunteered to take her to the car for a sweater, happy, I was certain, for an excuse to stir around a bit. Stillness has always made my husband antsy. I watched them track their way, hand-in-hand, through pallet mazes, dodging elbows and feet until they disappeared into the parking area. I smiled, pondering Krissie’s mother-hen ways...and her aspirations to cook and clean alongside me.

She was my shadow. Heather avoided me like strep. Go figure.

Dale Evans’ voice pulled me from my reverie. “You’ll just have to put up with me for a bit longer,” she informed the crowd in her folksy way. With one eye on her and one on the reappearance of Kirk and Krissie, I heard Dale’s account of her thirteen-year-old daughter’s death in an accident. “The church bus carrying her and other teens home from a gift-bearing mission to an orphanage crashed, killing her on impact.”

Kirk and Krissie quietly resettled themselves beside me as a hushed silence fell over the audience. Krissie snuggled close and I slid my arm around her thin, jacket-clad shoulders.

Dale paused to compose herself and in that moment, even the babies rested and toddlers grew still, their gazes glued to the platform silhouetted against gray-blue, primrose-veined sky. A coastal breeze, bearing earth’s fecund, winter fragrance stirred softly.

“Until then, I’d had an acute aversion to death. But at the funeral home, God took my hand and led me every breath, every step of the way.” She went on to share Debbie-vignettes, spiced with the girl’s vitality and sweetness. Dale’s parting comments moistened all eyes. “It is not given to us to understand everything that happens on this earthly vale of tears, but someday, if we trust the Lord explicitly, He will make all things plain. Christ did not promise one easy way for the Christian, but He promised peace in the hard way.”

Dale waved and made her exit amid a roar of applause.

My gaze swept over Krissie and Toby, then sought out Heather’s animated features in the sea of young faces. Dale’s account left me a bit troubled. If this could happen to Dale Evans, the perfect mom, then who was safe?

My self-assurance began to wilt, to lose substance. I didn’t like the feeling.

You worry too much, Neecy. Kirk’s litany echoed. It was true. I did fret too much.

I pushed away the unsettling emotions. Each case is unique. Faith in maternal mindfulness recoagulated. Godly vigilance could and would ward off harm.

“Andre’s plane still has not arrived,” the loudspeakers blared.

“We’ve gotta go,” Kirk murmured, motioning to the teen group. “We’ll be late for evening church service if we don’t leave now.” They nodded while gathering blankets and paraphernalia for the forty-five minute drive to Solomon.

There, I caught up with Heather on the church lawn and walked with her up the portico steps. “Can’t believe we didn’t get to hear Andre Crouche,” she groaned as we entered the church. “A wasted trip.”

“No,” I slid my arm around her shoulders, where, these days, she was more inclined to accept it, “nothing is wasted in the spiritual realm. Don’t ever forget that.”

Her fingers slid into mine and the soft reply just barely reached me. “True.”

And I thanked God for where He’d brought us.