This morning I was to walk with a friend. We often meet early for a walk at Tennessee Valley. This time of year it is cold, and the animals aren't even awake. She called me this morning to inform me that her daughter just woke and found her roommate dead. This is all I know. She was on her way out the door to help.
How often do we go to bed with that old childhood prayer on our lips? Sometimes I actually do. Maybe I am more aware than I think, I realize, as I sit here.
With the book, The Measure of My Days, by Florida Scott-Maxwell, I just let it fall open. This is where it opens now.
"It has taken me all the time I've had to become myself, yet now that I am old there are times when I feel I am barely here, no room for me at all. I remember that in the last months of my pregnancies the child seemed to claim almost all my body, my strength, my breath, and I held on wondering if my burden was my enemy, uncertain as to whether my life was all mine. Is life a pregnancy? That would make death a birth."
May it be so!
Prayers today for my friend, her family, and the family of the roommate of her daughter. Prayer and Peace!