goodbye to a dear old friend...

"There is no greatness where there is not simplicity, goodness and truth." - Leo Tolstoy

Our dog, Raffi, died a few weeks ago and that made everyone who knew him over the 11 long years of his life sad. There wasn't much that was special about Raffi. In fact, it was his lack of "special-ness" that made him great. He was a simple-minded fellow who barked too much, didn't mind very well and pulled WAY too hard on his leash, in spite of all the training tricks we tried...

He was also a loving boy who showed up every day of his life with enthusiasm and joy, ready to participate in whatever adventure (or non-adventure) lay ahead. Raffi didn't care if nothing at all happened or if something amazing, like a raccoon ending up in the yard, occurred. He lived every day to its fullest and the simple pleasure with which he did so could serve to inspire us all.  

When Raffi was little we called him "Chockie Pie" (for "Chocolate Pie.") He was a pound puppy, a chocolate Lab mutt, who we got to keep our big, fancy Rottweiler, Pru,  company, after her dog friend, Mona, died. Raffi didn't start out as the sharpest tool in the shed and years of being tossed about playfully by a Rottweiler didn't add to his mental acuity, but, that didn't matter. Raffi seemed to know he was never meant to be the brains of the operation and he excelled in his role as enthusiastic playmate and clown.

Our kids were in high school when Raffi was young, so there was plenty of love, toys, games and attention lavished upon him in his early years. One of his favorite games was "Red Dot," which involves chasing a red laser light for as long as someone is willing to point it. We played Red Dot Raffi's whole life, but it always surprised me when, years later, one of the kids' grownup friends would stop by and Raffi would immediately run to the toy basket and start barking, as if to say, "I remember you! It's time to play Red Dot again!" Raffi never let being simple-minded get in the way of keeping track of the things that really mattered...

Another surprising thing about Raffi was that he seized the role of "protector" early on and remained strong in it for the rest of his life, no matter how many other dogs passed through our lives. Definitely "a lover, not a fighter," Raffi was, however, steadfast in his ability to keep our home, yard and the other pets safe from intruders. Over the years, Raffi killed three rabid raccoons, countless rats and possums, and made sure other unwelcome creatures, like feral cats and stray dogs, knew to stay away from our yard.

Late in life, Raffi suffered from arthritis and clusters of large, inoperable, non-cancerous fatty tumors. Even with medicine and mobility aids, these things impacted his ability to get around the way he wanted to, but that didn't get Raffi down. He just kept smiling and striving, building up strength in the limbs he needed to help compensate for the failing ones...I've never seen a creature fail physically, over so many years, while so cheerfully embracing the challenges of maintaining his quality of life. Up until the very end, Raffi took his walks and went up and down the stairs to sleep in his bed next to mine. He kept barking; he kept eating; he kept playing with his toys; and, he kept protecting his yard and his dog friends.

How Raffi loved sitting in his yard at the end of the day, surveying all that was his - all that he had ever known, with a contented look on his face. And, later, when it got to be too hard to go down into the yard, how he loved sitting on the back porch in the evening sun, watching his world settle in for yet another night...

In these days of reality TV, YouTube, Smartphones and everyone's a rock star on their own right, Raffi's approach to life seems like a particularly valuable one. He had no illusions of grandeur; he never even tried to be the Alpha dog. He knew his place in the pack and he embraced it. Raffi seemed comfortable knowing that no one much was watching him and that chances were, even in our household of sometimes pretty ratty rescue dogs, the dog all eyes would be on, would never be him.    

Yet, he did his best to live, love, contribute, enjoy and make a difference in whatever dog-way he could, each and every day. The world might be a simpler, more pleasant place if more of us approached our days the way Raffi did, finding greatness through our own goodness, enthusiasm and simplicity  ...Rest in peace, old Buddy; you will be much missed.   

Storm thoughts...donate & be exquisitely kind

“God will restore what the locusts have taken away – whether that means storms and hurricanes, fires, disastrous childhoods or marriages, and in my experience this is always true. Keep the faith.” – Anne Lamott

Hurricane Sandy, the enormous hurricane turned super-storm that battered the East Coast this week, took nearly 50 lives, caused some 8.1 million people to be without power and resulted in the cancellation of over 12,500 flights. It is being hailed as one of the costliest natural disasters in U.S. history, with damage estimates exceeding $20 billion. Twelve states were hit hard, but New York and New Jersey bore the brunt of the beast, which will leave people mopping up, hoping to recover and trying to carry on, for months.

How do I wrap my head around that, as I sit watching images of the devastation on T.V., warm in my comfy chair, surrounded by snoring pets and the glow of a cozy fire? I can’t; I simply can’t. I’ve never been in a major disaster nor has catastrophe ever darkened my door.   

I’ve been blessed with year after year of good luck, good health and, in the scope of things, very minor challenges – yet, they, at the time, seemed like almost more than I could bear. My daughter’s appendix ruptured suddenly, with emergency surgery the result. My husband was out of work for nearly two years during the peak of the recession. Quite a few dearly-loved pets have died. I fell and broke my shoulder, recently. Other than that and a few hours spent without lights during past storms and some intermittent car trouble, there have been no occasions I have had to rise to. I am so thankful for that.

Watching this gigantic storm and its aftermath unfold in the news has me wondering how I would do, if I were ever truly challenged with a monumental life event. Would I rise to the occasion or melt into a pool of despair? I like to think I’d be one of those cool-headed people who go instantly into rational action mode, rather than turn out to be the Chicken Little yelling that the sky is falling, that I fear I am.    

Anne Lamott is one of my favorite authors. She spends a good bit of time pondering spiritual matters in a very down to earth way. One of her Facebook posts this week was about Hurricane Sandy and her thoughts comforted me. Her advice is “donate, pray, breathe, wait for the water to recede, and be exquisitely kind – even to ourselves.”

She makes the point that guilt and useless mind-spinning about the woulda’, coulda’, shoulda’, what ifs don’t really help anyone at all; I agree. Unless I can get in my car and go contribute some type of action with a practical, tangible value, the best I can do for those dealing with the storm is donate, pray and be exquisitely kind to those I encounter in my part of the world, some of whom are struggling, too.  

Lamott’s pastor, whose wisdom she writes about often, says that anytime things get harsh, broken, strange, sad or crazy, something beautiful is about to be revealed. She talks about how it is in these dark, trying times that people’s outpouring of generosity is revealed, as is their ability to sacrifice for the common good, “which you don’t see all that often without darkness.”

One thing we do see, in the aftermath of disasters, large and small, is that people are resilient, generous, loving and kind. Another thing we see is that our collective sense of humor, eventually, always returns.  

I don’t know many people on the East Coast. A small group of my daughter’s best friends from college (an art school) live and work in New York City, so I know they have been impacted by this storm. It gives me comfort to think of them doing what they always do, in good times and bad, which is to breathe, dance, create something of beauty, celebrate what life and nature have most recently shown them, and exhale. Godspeed, RISD girls, and also to the so many others who have lost so much. May the “Gifts of Desperation,” as Anne Lamott calls them, abound.

my trip down the rabbit hole...

“Do you think I've gone round the bend?" - the Mad Hatter
"I'm afraid so. You're mad, bonkers, completely off your head. But I'll tell you a secret. All the best people are.” - Alice, in Lewis Carroll's "Alice in Wonderland"  

A fall down some steps a few weeks ago landed me in a place that is as strange as the world Alice found herself in, after she fell down the rabbit hole. And, as in Lewis Carroll's book, Alice in Wonderland, things keep getting "curiouser and curiouser" for me.

The tumble down the hardwood stairway in our home crushed my right shoulder; this resulted in surgery to repair the mess. Since then, my life has been a slow-motion roller coaster ride of pain medications, other medications, and adjustment to living a one-armed life. I'm right-handed, which means I started out really useless, but with time and practice my left hand has made great strides towards dexterity.

I am not a patient person. I do not like to be around sick people. Personal independence is one of my greatest points of pride. Imagine how much fun it is for me to be the sick person who needs help, lots of help, all of the time, to accomplish even the simplest of tasks...

"Humbling" doesn't even begin to describe this experience and I'm not through it yet. All reports leave me in a sling for at least five more weeks and, with a bunch of physical therapy, maybe near healed again in six months. The long term forecast ranges from "near full recovery" to "permanent loss of some mobility."

When you have surgery, they send you home with a slew of pain meds and some pretty generous guidelines as to how to use them. I started out on the maximum daily dose - 12 pills, two every four hours. I have weaned myself down to five per day, which is one pill every five hours. The goal is to end up on Tylenol only, ASAP. But, as motivated as I am, this shoulder seems to have a mind of its own...

I read the package inserts and Googled the medications I'm on. The result was the clear knowledge that these little white pills are quite addictive, yet information on how to wean off of them is sorely lacking. When I called the doctor's office, his nurse's response was, "We prescribe these medications to help you manage your pain. We don't provide counseling as to how to get off of them..."

No wonder prescription pain medications (opioids, specifically oxycodone and hydrocodone) are the most commonly abused drugs in America. In fact, Americans, who comprise less than five percent of the world's population, use 80 percent of the world's opioids. Granted, chronic pain is the reason most who get hooked ended up down that path, but I can see how, post surgery, one could become overly fond of the soft edges and relaxed state these pills create.

Life on these medications takes on a very different pace and feel. There are no days and nights - only four hour periods which stretch across the days and nights. Dreams, fatigue and little spurts of energy occur around the clock and there seems to be little rhyme or reason to their pace. It's like the pain medication has replaced the sane and steady gatekeeper of my mind with a bad bouncer who'll let anyone or anything in, anytime, to join the party in my mind.

"Hey, Huge Pink Bear! What are you doin' here with my 4th grade boyfriend?...Yes, world peace is important, but it's appliance tax-free day and we need a new dryer...If dinosaurs are extinct, why is that Tyrannosaurus gently placing puppies on my bedroom windowsill? And, am I supposed to bring them in?" Good Lord, sweet reality! I never thought I'd miss you so much!

In this state, the past and present float in and out of each other, colliding gently at times, completely co-existing at others. I have Skype sessions with people from all different periods of my life, as if we're all here together. The other day, I had the nicest "visit" with an old friend I've not seen for years, her toddler daughter (who I took care of 28 years ago, while her mom worked ,) the grown-up version of the toddler daughter (who is now a 30-year-old Facebook friend of mine,) and her two daughters - ages four and one. What a lovely way to spend a nap!  

Earlier on, when the injury was new and the pain was really bad, my beloved Rottweiler Roland visited me one night, in a dream. He died in March, so one of the first things he did was make it clear that he was still gone - that he was just visiting, briefly, from dog heaven  because I hurt so much and he wanted to comfort me. He smelled just like he smelled in real life; his fur was as soft and warm as it had always been. It was so nice to see him and I was so sad, yet thankful when I woke up, wondering how any of that had been...

"You would have to be half mad to dream me up," said the Mad Hatter to Alice; and, he was right. Hopefully my time in the rabbit hole is almost over. As interesting as it has been, it's time for me to switch books, don my ruby slippers, click them together three times and repeat, "There's no place like home," just like Dorothy did in The Wizard of Oz. After all, even the best of adventures must come to an end.   

now I know how Humpty Dumpty feels...

"Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone..." - Joni Mitchell, Big Yellow Taxi

"Appreciate what you have"..."Seize the day"..."Live every day as if it were your last"...such cliches while everything is going well; such wise advise once things take a turn for the worst.

Last week I fell and broke my right shoulder. I would like to say it happened during a dramatic mountain bike accident or while performing some heroic act like saving a child from an oncoming car. Not so. I just slipped and fell down my long, narrow, hardwood staircase and landed squarely on my shoulder at the bottom. 

Now my arm is in an uncomfortable, itchy, ill-fitting sling and nine days into it, I'm still waiting for a coherent treatment plan to emerge. It seems that orthopedists are all very busy these days and my injury is considered a minor one...Thank heavens for medical insurance. If I didn't have Blue Cross and Blue Shield backing me up, I'm sure no one would care and I'd be in this nasty ole' sling for months.

Some people are comfortable in the roll of patient; others, I say, based on years of experience as an emergency room social worker, relish it. They recite their list of ailments, surgeries, accidents and medications as if it were the only litany their lives will ever generate. I, on the other hand, hate doctors, their offices and hospitals with an unreasonable fervor. I don't know why this is. I don't remember any childhood trauma that could've made me this way. It's just the way I've always been.

As a child, I was well-blessed and lucky to never have been seriously hurt. As a young woman, I opted to have my kids at home (under the watchful eye of two experienced midwives and with my MD a phone call away) rather than go to the hospital. As a mother and now aging adult, I have always paid great care to keeping me and mine healthy. And, now that my kids are grown, I am proud to say they are not only health-oriented, but a bit doctor-phobic, as well. It's not that medical care doesn't have its place. It's just that self help, healthy living and the willingness to ride out a fever can serve one pretty well, too.

I am not naive enough to think that good luck and the watchful eye of the Good Lord haven't had a hand in my family's many doctor-free years. I don't know why some families are blessed with good health, while others are challenged time and time again with illness, cancer, accidents and disease. There's no making sense of it. We can only remain thankful for the good times and trust He is with us in the bad...

Back to this shoulder - there is no question it has ruined my Fall plans. Now that the weather is nice again, I had long lists of yard projects, garden work, hikes, bike rides and little trips here and there, all spinning around in my head. So much to do! Where to begin? Now my list is the same every day: "Try to do what needs doing using one arm and one hand." Since Mr. Clark works out of town all week, this is a special challenge. Thanks to good friends with generous hearts and willing hands, I am making do, but by the end of the day, it's easy for the pity party to begin...

In spite of myself, this shoulder is also teaching me some valuable lessons. Humility and patience have never been my strong suits. I value independence above many things, which means I don't accept help readily or gracefully. I like control and feeling like I'm in the driver's seat. It's not easy for me to roll with the punches, take things as they come or ask for help. Thanks to this shoulder, I am learning to be a more humble, more patient and more accepting of what fate throws my way. I am also learning to accept help readily and with sincere thanks.      

Based on my Google research (in lieu of responsive orthopedic care...) I've got a long row ahead of me. If this bugger needs surgery, well, there's that...if not, life in a sling long term is no picnic, either. It sounds like either way, I'll be lucky to hang any ornaments on my Christmas tree this year. But, no matter. By the time the holidays roll around, I like to think the lessons "Shoulder" has taught me will be worth the price I paid to learn them.   

Lorin Sinn-Clark is a writer for the Barrow Journal. She can be reached at lorin@barrowjournal.com

it's good to be a princess...or an archer...or both.

"I am Merida, and I’ll be shooting for my own hand!" - Princess Merida in the Disney movie "Brave"

I named my daughter Amelia after Amelia Earhart because I believe there is power in a name and I wanted her to have a brave, adventurous spirit that would follow its own dreams and not listen to a world that said "No!" if she wanted to do something unique, unusual or not yet done by a woman. That was 1981, and while women had made great strides, there were (and still are) plenty of barriers to be broken and much to be accomplished before men and women are considered true equals.  

Like many little girls, my daughter loved Disney movies - in particular, she loved Disney princesses. There is just something about all that pale blue, pink and purple, those overly large doe-eyes, all that fabulous unruly hair and those wonderful dresses that draws a little girl in and holds her hostage for a few years.

The Disney princesses back in my daughter's day were clever, brave, kind, mischievous and a bit rebellious - all things I hoped my daughter would be. Their stories, however, were inextricably tied to the men in their lives. Their acts of bravery and rebellion, the lessons they learned and all of the trials they went through before gaining their "Happily Ever After" had to do with earning their father's respect, or rebelling against their father, or missing their father; and, there was also the matter of finding Prince Charming and winning his heart.  

These were not the most self-directed princesses. There were no plans for education or lofty goals for the future. Once peace was restored to the kingdom and they were happily wed, those princess' work was done and their stories faded away.   

I did not want my daughter's life script to include the idea that the cornerstone of her motivation was to gain the emotions she wanted from the men in her life. While I'm all for romance and true love, I hoped she would follow a bunch of stars before settling down and finding her "Happily Ever After." And, I wanted her to choose that "Happily Ever After" herself; I didn't want fate, a kiss or the breaking of some magic spell to choose it for her.

As it turned out, her story has a happy ending. My Amelia grew up with many of the traits I admired in those princesses, yet she set a course of her own, accomplished her dreams and didn't let the need for male approval guide her actions. She then married her own Prince Charming, who ended up being her high school sweetheart and, I believe, her one true love. No fade out there...they are still writing their stories together with dreams yet to dream and challenges yet to face.           

Flash forward to this summer, when our nieces, ages 10 and 12, came to spend a month with us. Since I hadn't had kids this age in the house for awhile, what was the first thing I turned to in my search for common ground and a way to relate? A Disney princess, of course.

One of the first things we did together was see "Brave," Disney's latest movie with a princess heroine. She is Merida, a skilled archer with a head of particularly spectacular red hair and a mind of her own. She is determined to carve out her own path, no matter the cost. Since it's Disney, the plot includes her hand being offered in marriage, only this movie offers a twist. When the princes in the kingdom come to compete for Merida's hand, she defies tradition, declares archery the contest, shoots for her own hand and wins.  

This creates a big stir which involves a witch, a magic potion and some very impulsive and poor decision making on Merida's part. But, the ending is happy and includes a new decree which allows young people in the kingdom to marry whom they wish. The nieces liked that ending and so did I.  

Another brave heroine functioning off her own script this summer is Katniss Everdeen, from Suzanne Collins' "The Hunger Games" books.  Like Merida, she is a skilled archer, independent thinker and uninterested in boys or male approval. Also like Merida, she is not much of a people pleaser, which, at times, has difficult consequences.

Katniss' story involves being one of 24 young people picked by the clearly evil, ruling regime to fight to the death in the annual Hunger Games. And, without revealing the ending, I can say, she sets a pretty awesome and inspiring example for girls and young women - so much so, that when I told the nieces we would set up an archery range and start shooting together, their faces lit up like the flames Katniss, "the girl who was on fire," was famous for.

We shot almost every night and the girls seemed to really enjoy "channeling their inner Katniss," as they called it. Life can be hard, scary and confusing for a girl trying to grow into an empowered woman. Self-esteem is critical, as is self-direction. I'm glad the princesses and heroines these days set that example, for as Katniss said, "As long as you can find yourself, you'll never starve."    

Harvest, 2012 in the Sinn Family wheat fields

"There is no substitute for hard work.” – Thomas Edison

I come from a long line of hard working people who sweat a lot and what better time to celebrate that than the week of the Summer Solstice? The longest, hottest (at least this year) day of the year – come on, everybody! Let’s go work outside!

My kin on both sides have been farmers and ranchers out West for generations. That means lots of outdoor time, lots of time in the sun and lots of sweat. We are not like you Southerners who become “dewy” as the temperatures rise. Oh, no – we sweat so profusely we need to carry bandannas to mop our faces and (at least before wicking material was invented) our clothes and hats were soaked and salt-stained by mid-morning.

Imagine how unlady-like someone of that constitution feels here in the South, from mid-June until early October…”Bloom where you’re planted” takes on a whole new meaning for me this time of year. If I had a dollar for every time some well-meaning, concerned Southerner asked me if I was okay over the years (my face gets so red when I’m hot I look like I'm about to have a heat stroke), well, I could’ve sent myself on a vacation or two somewhere chilly by now.  

But. it’s not all on the down side with sweat; sweat has a very noble meaning. It means you’re working hard. It means you’re getting things done. It means you’ll soon have something to show for your efforts. And, that’s why I don’t mind sweating a lot when I’m doing hard work. It gives me a sense of accomplishment.

I also really love when the work is done and it's time to go into the cold A/C. I often wonder what life here in the South was like before air conditioning. Frankly, I can't imagine it. People had to be tougher; they definitely moved slower and I bet they didn't get as much done on a hot day as we do...But wait a minute, that's not true. People back then did get a lot done all summer long. I bet most of them could out work most of us on a blistering hot, thickly humid July day. As much as I hate to admit it, I believe air conditioning softens us. It makes us too comfortable. It takes some of our drive and a lot of our interest in going outside away.

My dad worked a wheat farm in the summers when I was growing up. His early tractors didn't have cabs, let alone A/C, so there he was, day after day, all summer long, in the dust and the wind and the heat, sweating like a cold glass of ice tea on a very hot day. I remember thinking he looked miserable and I remember thinking what a strong and

determined man he must be, to go do that every day. I admired him for that.

One of my fondest memories of him is the sight of his dust-crusted face, sweat streams still running down his cheeks, stepping off that tractor when the sun finally set. He looked tired, but he also looked content and almost triumphant – like he'd beat the elements and really accomplished something that day.

Maybe because of those memories (or maybe out of temporary insanity) I worked as a house painter for awhile and that included exterior work in the Southern summer. One of the guys in the trade told me the secret to surviving the heat was to never get cool – at least not ‘til the day was done. He was right. Once you get in the rhythm of working hard, sweating hard and drinking water as you go, you can last all day. But, go into a restaurant where the A/C is cranked down to 70 for lunch? You’re a goner – hesitant to go back out into the heat and resentful of the oven it is for the rest of the day.

I am still proud of the work I did as a house painter. For a long time, I could drive by my work (houses I had literally poured a little blood, a lot of sweat and a few tears into) and re-experience the pride of that accomplishment. Working at a desk, in an air conditioned office never seems to feel that way...   

These days I garden and work in the yard when it's time to sweat. And, doing so puts me back in touch with my roots and what really matters, which sometimes is simply putting in a good long, red-faced day of sweaty hard work.    

Church Fire

"It's a living thing. It breathes, it eats and it hates. The only way to beat it is to think like it. To know that this flame will spread this way…not because of the physics of flammable liquids, but because it wants to…The only way to kill it is to love it a little." - "Shadow" Rimgale in the movie "Backdraft" 

I have passed by the old First Methodist Church, then Sanctuary of the Holy Spirit, on the corner of Center and Candler Streets nearly every day for the past 22 years. The lovely old majestic structure is a few blocks from my house and is on my path to almost anywhere and back home again. Now it is gone - destroyed by a ravenous fire that is believed to have been started by the brief and vicious lightning storm that happened around 10:30 p.m. last Thursday night.    

We were watching a movie, but paused it to go outside and marvel at the lightning. A few minutes later we heard sirens, so went outside again. The street was filled with thick gray smoke; something big was on fire. Clad in pajamas and slippers, I grabbed my camera and headed for the fire. My plan was to stay in the shadows, catch a few shots of whatever was going on then return home to the movie. As I neared the old church I could see thick, dark brown smoke pouring from the crack between the walls of the side towers and the sanctuary. It didn't look bad and there were a lot of firefighters and equipment on the scene, so I figured they'd have it handled in no time.   

By the time I rounded the corner of Center and Candler Streets I could see the fire licking at the stained glass windows in the front of the church. A few moments later, tendrils of flame began peering up over the roof line. There were two pumper trucks, one on either side of the church, pouring a torrent of water onto the fire. Firefighters from Winder and Barrow County had multiple hoses aimed at the structure, but it became clear very quickly that this fire's intent was to burn out of control.

As I moved around the scene, staying in the shadows and out of the firefighters' way, I marveled at how quickly and quietly they moved, in unison, with minimal talk and no drama. It was as if they were all reading from the same script, a script they had rehearsed so many times that when it came time to perform, their stage being this horrific fire, they knew exactly what to do and they did it without pause or hitch. There were men on hoses and men on the ground. A couple of men manned the well-lit equipment panel on each pumper truck; a few more, dressed in full firefighting regalia, hovered at the bottom of the ladders on the pumper trucks, waiting to do whatever it is firefighters do from high above the fire.   

The fire spread so quickly. Within minutes it blasted the stained glass windows out of the church and was chewing on the thick, once ornately-carved front doors. What once had been the sanctuary was now a bright yellow inferno. The flames grew taller and taller, engulfing the roof and reaching high, high into the sky. It became obvious the fire was going to destroy the building - it already had. In what seemed like only a few more minutes, the attention shifted to containing the flames and protecting the structures nearby.

The firefighters continued to work quietly and efficiently, without pause. An eerie yellow-orange light from the flames illuminated everything within a block or two. It looked like a movie set and reminded me of "Backdraft," a 1991 movie about fire and firefighters that has always been a favorite of mine. Only this was no movie set; the heat bellowing out of the building reminded us of that, as it blasted our faces and shot out into the night.

Bystanders gathered, but seemed so startled and mesmerized by the fire's voracious dance they remained quiet, humbled, respectful. No one even tried to sneak past the Winder Police officers who guarded the scene. I was as mesmerized as everyone else, standing across the street from the front of the church, watching it burn, burn, burn. The two towers fell, as the flames continued to engulf the sanctuary and reach to the sky. It was as if that fire couldn't get its fill; it just kept eating and growing and eating and growing.

The smoke was also quite eerie. It hovered and swirled, slithered and danced like a “Smoke Monster” on TV; it was as if it had a life of its own. It was so vicious and vital, at times, I swear, it looked like it had evil yellow eyes.

I went home before the fire finished its nasty work. I couldn't bear to watch the destruction anymore. As I walked, tears welled up in my eyes, which surprised me. It wasn't my church; I'd never even set foot inside. It was, however, such a beautiful old structure, only recently, so painstakingly and lovingly restored by the congregation of the Sanctuary of the Holy Spirit…Imagine all the tears, prayers, hopes and fears that have hovered between those walls since it was built in 1904…Weddings, funerals, christenings and celebrations…God’s energy, love, light and blessings, comforting and touching so many…and now it’s gone.

There’s no explaining why lighting strikes a historic and holy place like that; but it did. May the memories of all that happened in that church comfort those who will miss it so sadly. I will try to focus on that as I drive by it’s sad shell. Loving memories…sometimes that has to be enough.