Enticed by a late June breeze, my husband and I relax on the back patio after dinner. Buster and Bonnie, our two aging mutts, meander around the yard, happy to have us share their turf. 

Our decorative bird bath is Mojave dry, so when a couple of backyard Phoebes flit nearby, I fill the 2-gallon Rubbermaid watering can and pour a stream into the basin for them.  They hover but don’t drink. 

Then my husband calls out, “What’s that squirrel doing?” I look up, diverted, at the power pole in the corner of our yard, where the critter is leisurely chewing on the cables. 

“Oh my gosh, stupid thing.”  I yank an orange off our tree and lob it at the squirrel.  It makes a neat arc into the neighbor’s yard.  The squirrel smirks.  After a couple more misses, I give up.  The squirrel shrugs and wanders nimbly across the span.   
   
That’s when I look back down to see Bonnie at my feet, homing in on a tiny bundle of feathers.   

“Bonnie, no!”  I shove (okay, kind of kick) her away from a baby bird, which is still miraculously alive.  A few moments later, the little thing hops over behind a bush, Mom and Dad close by.  

“You probably knocked it out of its nest when you pulled the oranges off,” my husband volunteers.

Thanks, Honey.

I’m horrified.  My evening of backyard bliss is careening violently sideways.   

Bonnie has now migrated over to Dan’s lap, where she trembles, wondering what she did wrong.  Hadn’t we just had chicken for dinner?  Could someone please explain the difference? her offended expression telegraphs. 

I look at Dan with Bassett Hound eyes, my stomach crumpled into a sorry wad of guilt.  Then we both burst out laughing. 

“Not much point trying to help Mother Nature out, is there?”  I ask.  

“Best to just leave it alone,” he agrees.

The next day, though, I refuse to let the dogs into the backyard.  Mama and Papa bird are still there, chirping in a minor key, along with their baby who clearly should still be in the nest.  I work from home and Google what to do with a grounded fledgling.  Did you know they can take 1-2 weeks before they’re able to fly? 

When my practical and kind-hearted spouse gets home, he drags out a length of spare plastic fencing and goes to work, attempting to construct a protective pen around the tiny bird.   I keep a close watch on Bonnie.  
 
Just then, Buster discovers the fun new play toy.  

And that, as they say, is that.  

Dan grabs the clueless mutt by the collar and pulls him away. Then looks at me and shakes his head.  He gets newspaper and wraps the tiny bundle gently, while I apologize over and over to the mother and father bird—still flitting frantically, looking for their offspring.

It’s just too much. 

Suddenly, the little pair symbolizes all that is wrong in the world.  The tragedy of parents who can’t protect their children. The suffering of unendurable loss and uncertainty.  So. Much. Pain.

And we can’t even save a baby bird. 
 
My husband puts the fencing away.  I sprinkle out a little extra birdseed in pathetic consolation.  We are silent the rest of the evening. 

Over the next couple of days, though, I’m surprised that the two birds continue to show up. They exhibit the same attentive behavior as before, mostly centered around our neighbors’ tree just over the fence.   Then, as Dan is outside reading, he calls me to come quickly.  Still clutching a dish towel, I rush from the kitchen to see a smaller, fluffier Phoebe tottering on the line above his head.
 
We grin and exchange a sloppy high-five, celebrating the tenacity and triumph of life.            

On the "We're Not Done Yet" podcast, Susan Kleypas Macias and I discuss how to work together with your siblings when caring for aging parents. Audio and show notes here.

My husband pulled our rented Toyota into the parking lot of the church we'd discovered online, when we were visiting another state on business.  The upscale campus took up most of a strip mall on the outskirts of the handsome, waterfront city. 
 
Cheerful men in orange vests waved us in and a middle-schooler with sparkling eyes opened the door for us. We made our way through a lobby big as a ballroom and slipped quietly into seats near the back of the crowded sanctuary. Late for the welcome, we exchanged quick waves and smiles with the trendy-looking young couple seated just behind us and the woman in a yellow dress to my right. 

Lights were dimmed as a tattooed man with a microphone led the band and congregation in energetic worship, lyrics projected with bold graphics onto massive monitors on either side of the stage. 

Though I was familiar with some of the songs, others were new, so I just listened.  And as I listened, I felt a groundswell of joy rise up and fill the room. Hands and voices and hearts were lifted, engaged and moving, celebrating as one. I’ve never sensed such a near-palpable presence of Love and I bit my lip to keep from weeping. I recalled the words I heard once, “Tears mean you’re standing on holy ground.”
  
The pastor, a linebacker of a man, admitted that he’d set aside his notes when he sensed that he was supposed to speak a different message that day.  The message he preached was simple, heartfelt, and incisive, sparing no blunt words when blunt words were called for.
 
After the service, I made my way to the bathroom, where several women shared a friendly nod with me. When I came out, the pastor was with my husband and we chatted briefly. Before he turned away, I threw my arms around him in a spontaneous hug, thanking him for the beautiful, unforgettable experience. 

Am I allowed to say that my husband and I were among only a handful of White people there that day? 

The people of that church have experienced the society we share through a different lens, but in that sacred space, skin color was irrelevant.  We were simply brothers and sisters, embraced by Love.      

I know, the grammar’s incorrect. But the “Who rescued who?” paw-print magnet reflects the heart of many pet owners, and I’ve driven thousands of miles with one on the back of my Toyota Camry, testifying to my beloved mutt, Buster.

But this is a rescue story of a very different kind. 

It started at a hotel near Raleigh-Durham Airport. My husband and I had just checked in for a couple of days and were loading our bags into the elevator. We’d hit the button for the fourth floor, but the elevator stopped at the next one and an elderly Asian woman stepped on, looking confused. When we asked which floor she wanted, she seemed unsure. She got off on the next floor and hesitantly turned left. As the doors slid shut, we could see she had done an about-face and was heading back the other way.

“I’ll get the bags,” my husband said when we reached our floor. “Why don’t you go down and see if she’s lost.”

I ran down the stairs and found the woman wandering the hallway, disoriented.

“Hello!” I called. “Do you need some help finding your room?”

She gave an embarrassed little laugh and held out the card with her room number: 323

“Oh that’s just around the corner. I’ll show you,” I slowed my walk to keep pace with hers. “My name’s Leslie, by the way.” Hers, she told me in heavily accented English, was Youko. She looked about the same age as my mother, with the same gentle demeanor.

When we arrived at her room, I turned to leave, but Youko held out the key card again, signaling that she needed help opening the door. Then she motioned me inside. “I have ticket,” she said, eyes darting around the room, hands flapping like startled swallows.

“Ah!” she smiled when she located the packet of travel documents. She handed it to me, and I opened it to find airline tickets, her passport, and a considerable amount of cash.

“What time I go?” she asked me.

Horrified at her trust in me, a total stranger, I looked at her tickets and determined that her flight was to leave early the next morning at 5:45.

“How will you get to the airport, Youko?” I asked, concerned. “Do you have a ride?”

“No, no,” she shook her head. “I take bus.”

The hotel shuttle? Really?

“I tell you what. I’ll ask the hotel to give you a wake-up call. Then all you’ll have to do is take your bag downstairs to the lobby and they’ll help you get to the bus.”

She nodded, but her polite expression told me that the plan wasn’t penetrating.

“I’ve got a better idea,” I improvised. “I’ll come to your room and make sure you get on the shuttle. We’ll tell the driver which airline you need, and they’ll take you to the right place. Sound good?”

Youko seemed happy with that suggestion, and I went down to the lobby.   

“Do you know the woman in room 323 named Youko?” I asked the concierge. “She seems to be alone and pretty confused.”

His face lit with recognition, and he said, “Oh, yes. Youko has been visiting here from Japan for years. She has friends that live in the Raleigh area.”

Where the heck are those friends now? I huffed inwardly. She was clearly in no shape to travel by herself. 

The man scheduled the call, and I went upstairs to fill my husband in. He agreed that I should help so no one else took advantage of her vulnerability, and we set his phone’s alarm.

When the tone chimed very early the next morning, I got up and threw on some yoga pants and flip flops with my oversized T-shirt, then ran downstairs to check on Youko.  

I knocked. No answer. I knocked again and quietly called her name. Silence. I knocked and called a little louder. Finally, I heard rustling inside and she came to the door, dressed but clearly just roused from sleep.

“It’s about time to leave, Youko. Are you ready?”

I looked around and noticed the phone out of its cradle. Her suitcase was open and there were garments scattered about.

“Oh gosh, well, we’ve got a few minutes,” I said. “Do you want to go get ready and I’ll put these things in your bag?”

Youko headed to the bathroom and came back out a moment later, unchanged. She shoved a toothbrush and a bra in her purse, slid her feet into shoes and pronounced, “I ready now.”

“Um, okay” I responded dubiously. But I went ahead and made sure she had her travel documents, then wheeled her suitcase out behind us and pulled the door shut.  

The blue hotel van was already idling in front, so I handed the driver Youko’s bag, told him where she needed to be let off, and helped her to a seat. As I said goodbye and started to leave, she gave me a little wave and I intuited that she’d never make it home without help. On impulse, I climbed in and sat down next to her.

“I feel like going for a ride,” I smiled, reaching for her hand. We held hands in silence the short journey to the airport, where the driver dropped us off at Departures. I took Youko’s suitcase and walked with her to the United counter.

I told the attendant about her predicament. “I don’t know what she’ll do when she gets there, but if she just makes it back to Japan, I’m hoping someone will be there to help her.”

He motioned for a wheelchair and asked, “Is Youko a friend or relative of yours?”

“Neither,” I confessed. “I just met her at the hotel.”

The man’s eyebrow went up, but he reassured me, “Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of her.”

Youko sat down in the wheelchair, and before they turned away, I knelt in front her. She clasped both my hands in hers and with glistening eyes, said simply, “Thank you.”

Unable to speak for a moment, I looked at her with affection then said, “It’s been my pleasure, Youko. If I ever come to Japan, I’ll be sure to visit you.” As they wheeled my friend toward security, we waved to each other until she was out of sight—safe, my mission complete.

But that wasn’t the end of the story.   

With a sigh, I walked outside to wait for the shuttle. The sky was still dark, but the air was warm, and I enjoyed people-watching as I waited.

And waited.

Now, I knew from experience that the hotel shuttles run on a regular schedule, so I wasn’t worried. I did wonder, though, when after quite some time, I spotted the blue van in the distance, turning another direction. 

I considered my options. I could run to try to meet it, but if I left and another one came to the original spot, I would miss it. I had no cell phone, no money, no ID, and no way to contact the hotel or my husband.

So I figured I’d just wait some more. I settled onto a metal bench and watched as the airport began to trade its quiet nighttime hum for the colorful cacophony of day. 

A security guard who had been keeping an eye on me walked past again and I asked him, “The hotel shuttles come back here, don't they?”

“Oh, no,” he said. “Once it starts getting busy, they go to Arrivals, instead.”

Just at that moment, a white rental car pulled up to the curb (should’ve been a Charger, right?) and my husband leaned over, grinning, “Hey, Lady, you want a ride?”

“Yes!” I said, hopping in with relief. “How did you know where to find me?”

“It wasn’t that tough. When you didn’t come back, I asked the desk and they said they’d seen you get on the bus with Youko. They told me it made regular stops in Arrivals after the first run, but I know you. If they dropped you in Departures, you’d wait in Departures forever. It would never occur to you that they wouldn’t come back there to get you.”

He was right, of course.

And I laughed with delight. Because I was known. Loved. And rescued. 

I have a favorite mug.  I bet you do, too.

More than a humble vessel, the mug has become an icon of our identity. Merriam-Webster dictionary, after all, defines mug as both a cylindrical drinking cup and the face or mouth of a person. (Think “mug shot.”) When someone hasn’t had his or her morning coffee yet, “mug” as a verb may not even be too much of a stretch.    
 
With the abundance of cheap, user-friendly print services, we can easily emblazon a name, picture, or message on a mug that silently broadcasts what we care about or how we view the world—kind of like a tattoo, but less of a commitment. Whether we’re at home, at work or on Zoom, it can be a conversation starter (or stopper). To a world bent on conformity and isolation, we boldly lift our mug to our lips and declare, “This is who I am.” 
      
Some people have a collection of mugs, swapping them out to evoke a feeling, a memory, a moment. Do I need a laugh or inspiration?  Feeling nostalgic or grumpy? Reminded of someone I love? Others use the same mug every day or grab whatever’s clean and close without paying much attention. I have mugs collected as souvenirs on travels, received as gifts, comped from businesses, inherited from loved ones, bought on a whim from a garage sale. Depending on what day it is, I may choose a mug that’s large or small, sturdy or delicate, old or new. It may even go undercover: for those endless on-line meetings, mugs might contain beverages other than coffee or tea and who would know? 
 
I don't use it all the time anymore, but my favorite is a mug my husband gave me the first year we were married. (It’s in the photo above:  can you guess which one?)
​
So now I’m curious. Tell me about yours or send me a picture!

When I head out to the gym in the morning, the sky is still dark, the stars fighting for the last word with the approaching dawn.
I don’t really like to exercise, but I like the feeling of having worked out. So I crawl out of bed, swap PJs for yoga pants and a sweatshirt, then drive half-awake to my small group training session, thankfully only 10 minutes away.
 
When I’m running late, I can usually find a corner of the large, functional space among all the other women focused on their fitness.

But I have a secret motivation for showing up early.

I get to claim my favorite spot at the end of the corridor across from the gym’s east-facing front window. As we warm up and stretch, I watch shades of deep indigo and gray gradually surrender to a spectacular light show, a slow explosion of shimmering crimson and gold. The powerful beauty infuses my cardio with energy, my muscles with strength, my spirit with delight. Fiery brilliance of sunrise subsides, breathless, into gentle pastels…lavender, pink, coral. As we finish our workout, the sky settles on a hue barely blue, silhouetting the trees and street signs outside.

Sure, working out is drudgery. But for those few moments, my sweat was sanctified by extravagant, fleeting glory. I tuck away the memory of my early morning gift along with water bottle and towel, then step into the day with a hallelujah smile.   

We're Not Done Yet:  Managing Aging Parents with Your Siblings
https://www.susankmacias.com/podcast/76​
Digging Deep for Treasures:  How to Have Peace When Life Throws You a Curveball  
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Apple 
The Proactive Caregiver:  Caregiver Relationship Building
YouTube

My mother, an artist, spoke eloquently the language of beauty.  She communicated it through her paintings and sculptures, yes, but throughout her entire realm, as well:  her home, her lovely appearance, even her handwriting.  We, her children, grew up embraced by beauty, nurtured by it, encouraged and applauded in our personal pursuit of creative arts: visual, musical, literary, dramatic, or decorative.  We were all fluent in the parlance of art as our family culture’s native tongue. 
  
Except for my dad.  A physicist, inventor, and business owner, he spoke in numbers.  Spreadsheets. Mathematics.  Art to him was the neat row of framed patents that lined his office wall.  His creativity flowed when he pulled the ubiquitous ballpoint pen from his breast pocket and grabbed a nearby napkin or receipt to sketch the genesis of his next product design. Preoccupied and peripheral at home, he of the left brain watched as his right-brained wife and progeny blossomed around him in a riotous garden of creative expression.  

The children grew up, moved out, had families of their own.  Over the many years, his mental acuity began to soften and fade.  Her artistic hands became stilled by arthritis.  Then one day, her gentle voice of beauty was heard no more. 

Artists use the term “negative space” to describe the area in a painting, photo, or sculpture where the subject is not. The background surrounds the subject and helps to define its shape.  Think of Michelangelo, chipping away the marble’s negative space to release the masterpiece trapped within. 

The passing of someone you love creates a negative space where they once were but are no longer. The absence may be palpable—as real and dynamic a thing as their presence ever was—and the negative shape can have an unforeseen, positive power to transform what remains. 

Without my mother and without his former mental prowess, my father began to put forth tiny tendrils of artistic expression into the void. He painted a picture of flowers, primitive and child-like, which I treasure. He led his pretty physical therapist in an impromptu walker-dance before giving her braid a playful tug with a laugh.  At a Dixieland concert, my dad couldn’t contain his kinetic delight in the upbeat tunes but played invisible drums and “conducted” with his gnarled hands until the last note sounded.  Beauty flourished in this surprising and sacred negative space.  So when the Creator’s whispered words of love fell gently onto the tilled, fertile soil of his heart, he understood and nodded simply, "Yes."