To Princeton and Back Again

I read a lot of blogs of women my age who are married with children. On occasion I feel weird that I cannot relate to mortgages, dirty diapers, and kiddie soccer games. When I see pictures of spectacularly beautiful children and anniversary celebrations I get that 7th grade feeling -- standing on the side of a gym, lights dimmed, pop music throbbing in the background, wondering if Kevin Ramonis is going to ask me to slow-dance. I'm the awkward outsider that buys shoes and gears up for lame dates and drags in my own groceries-- scads of dinners for one. This does not make me feel sad. My journey has other riches, as my friend Scotty reminded me this weekend. My life is rich, indeed. Not much money, but when I've gone down I've gone down big. And when I've won I've won big. I'm no magician, but I know magic. I have tasted and felt it.

We've had different journeys, but I find that blogs are the great equalizer. Best described as "online scrap-booking," I have a slew of favorite writers who share tidbits about their lives and somehow I feel close to them despite the miles.

This weekend I went apple-picking. Autumn is my favorite time of year and October is especially delicious. I love pulling on a sweater and a scarf. I love drinking hot apple cider and the unique golden light that brightens crisp cornstalks and flaming red leaves. I drove up to Princeton to meet my old friend Scott. I met Scott when I was 19 and full of idealism and dorky ideas about the world. Old friends provide good orientation and it was nice to ease into a seamless conversation that has been going on well over a decade. Scott came to Philadelphia on Sunday. He had not been to church in awhile and had never seen me in a leadership position. He said there were multiple times during the service he wanted to stand up and say, "Carms, come down from there."

Me too, my brother! Me too.

Church can be so very strange and even a little disappointing at times. It is not always the community it should be. After I waved goodbye to Scott on Sunday I hurried to change my clothes for a funeral. As I stood at the graveside of a young man who left this world far too early, I was reminded again of the sweetness of friendship-- those people who help us tell our stories. There was a group of Boy Scouts who grew up together and cried tears of grief at the grave of their dear friend. The weather was kind and someone whispered to me after the service, "I am glad you do this job." I pondered this for awhile. I'm not sure that I always agree, but If nothing else, I hope I will always be a good witness. A good witness, a good storyteller, and someone who treasures the stories of others.

Thank you for sharing yours.