Sadly, I haven’t been able to find proper credit or even a title for this beautiful image. I’ll add it if I can.
As a Canadian I am proud of our military hitory and the men and women who have fought to defend us and more often, other, weaker nations and people. It is such a noble thing to choose to put your life on the line for your country or for the people of other nations because someone has to do it and it is the Right thing to do.
Today, I didn’t go to a Remembrance Day service and I didn’t watch the service in Ottawa on tv. Instead I sat alone and in silence with my knitting in my lap, looking out through the rain drops on the window pane. I imagined sending my child off to war. I can’t imagine it. I can’t. I get some comfort from the thought that my child is not the military-type. But that’s a guilty comfort and one I don’t really feel I’m entitled to. It can’t be ok to expect other families to send their children away so that I can hold tight to mine while beaming with pride over ‘our’ soldiers. Besides, I wouldn’t be the first parent taken completely by surprise by a child’s decision to join the armed forces, would I?
I thought about my grandfathers who both fought in the Second World War. One left a wife and two babies behind to go overseas, the other his sweetheart who he married when he returned four years later. Four years. That is such a long time. The things they saw… I think about our current soldiers and I’m afraid for them, as is reasonable. But I’m also proud. And humbled.
My thoughts went back to my grandfathers. Their sacrifices, their choices. They were at the prime of their lives and neither was in the military, yet they chose to enlist to fight to protect Europe. Was it in vain? Of course not. Not even close. But am I doing enough to honour them, their sacrifices and their values? No. Is it even possible?
How do I honour them? I try to be grateful for the things and the ideas that they were willing to lay down their lives for. There are the everyday things: I treasure my family and (failing miserably at every turn) try to show it. I am grateful for the ease with which I can live my life. Compared to 90% of the world, there is so little fear and danger in my personal world. I have to remember that. In general I simply look for the joy in every day - those moments of deep gratitude or connection with other souls.
And then there is the world at large. I try to be concious of what a fragile condition Peace is. I try to remember those who are living those lives of fear and sorrow and hardship. Remembering is important - but only if it brings positive action. My actions are small: some letter writing for Amnesty International, buying Fair Trade when available (yes, this speaks to Peace), speaking up to my government representatives about our responsibilities to those less fortunate all over the world - and at home. .. because I believe that Peace comes from security and contentment and that armed conflict, while horrific and tragic, is sometimes, sadly, necessary. I think that “I’m a lover not a fighter” is a cop-out because some things are worth fighting for - people are worth fighting for - and that we are obligated to take care of each other.
My grandfathers were not fighters. But they were men who made the choice to stand up and fight for others. I doubt that in my lifetime I will ever do something as selfless and noble and terrifying as that, but I can do more to honour them and all that they fought for. And I will. Because we are all obligated to each other.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
that mark our place; and in the sky
The larks still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amidst the guns below.
We are the dead.
Short days ago, we lived, felt dawn,
saw sunsets glow, Loved and were loved,
and now we lie in Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe.
To you, from failing hands we throw
the torch. Be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die,
we shall not sleep, though poppies grow
in Flanders fields.
- Lt.Col John McCrae 1915
Amish Memory Shawls - Woman to Woman
Shelly, of My Mountain Home, and Dianna, of A Sheep in Wool’s Clothing, brought me to tears this afternoon when I read of their plans. They are reaching out to the families of the victims of the Amish school shooting in a big and meaningful way:
… what we have envisioned, is to spin and knit an Amish-compatible shawl for each mother, sister and grandmother (if possible) of the deceased and alive, of the shootings.
Among the victims, they count the wife of the shooter, who, I agree, must be “devastated by what her husband did, and in shock.”
Shelly and Dianna are amazing inspirational women and if you can help by spinning and/or knitting, please see this post for more details and contact information.
I won’t be spinning or knitting for this project (as the yarn I spin is not even knittable and I knit very, very slowly) but I will be a devoted cheerleader. I can’t wait to see the results coming in.
FOs
I knit slowly, but most often, I get there in the end. Recently (as you may have read as I frantically counted down the hours remaining and compared them to the number of rows remaining and the number of holes to be fixed and all the ends to be sewn in… yeah), I went to a baby shower for my cousin who is (duh) having a baby. I almost made it too. I had a blanket, a pair of tiny socks and ONE baby bootie. No matter, the other is finished now and only has to be mailed off to her.
I had a WONderful time at the shower. Why don’t we get together with our families more often? Eh? Why? There is no good reason, really.
Bee Booties and Socks…. both from 50 Baby Bootees to Knit
. I don’t think I made any changes to the socks which are made from Paton’s Kroy Socks and some other bits of blue sock yarn I had around. The Bee Booties are actually Bee Shoes in the book. I don’t know - do the shoes stay on? To me they look like they’d be kicked off in no time, to be lost at the mall, or along the side of the road while out for a walk. Once I’d finished and sewn up one of the shoes, I went back and added a cuff. I used the instructions for the cuff as given for the Pirate Bootees (same book) and felt much better about the whole thing.
I highly recommend that book, btw. The booties (bootees) are uterus-cramping-ly cute and every baby you know could benefit from a pair or three or five.
This is EZ Mystery Blanket from Elizabeth Zimmermann’s Knitter’s Almanac
. I made a few very minor changes. I was knitting with Patons Shetland Chunky (I think I used about 7 100g balls), which gave me a different gauge, so I did a few more rows on each square, increasing to 104 stitches. Because my numbers were off, I had to add some rows to the centre diamonds but the changes were all minimal. I used 12 squares and knit the border as given in the book (another book I highly recommend, btw. If you can only have 5 knitting books, this should be one of them.). Finished dimensions are 35″ x 44″.
There is a lot of weaving in this blanket and once I got the hang of it, it was actually enjoyable. I love that this blanket doesn’t lie perfectly flat and that the edges are wavey. The yarn is very soft, especially after washing. I *really* like the blanket.
However.
My finishing skills are not so great and it shows on this project. Lately, I’ve been much more concious of this and paid more attention to how I do the finishing work, but still… ugh. I have a long way to way to go. Hmm.. that looks like another reason to keep knitting. Cool :D
*edit: Seems I had messed up the comment settings. All fixed now and you should be able to comment again, I think. Also thanks to Sheherazade over at Mulled Cider for the heads up! :)
Part I
I never wanted children. I didn’t see why anybody would want them. They’re noisy and not easily bossed around. I had a little brother I adored and a gaggle of cousins that I also adored. As a teenager, I did some babysitting because you are supposed to as a teenage girl, but more than once, I found myself staring stupidly at a child wondering, “What does it want now?”
When I met the man that was to be my husband, one of the things that made us so well suited to each other is that he didn’t have any hairbrained and romatic ideas about babies. I was saving money to back to university. We were going to be an educated and childless couple with Club Med vacations and designer clothes.
A couple of years later, we were engaged, had put off the wedding for a year to buy a house. Mark worked long hours, often travelling to Asia and I was gone more than twelve hours a day studying to be an engineer. Ahhh.. the good life. I knew people at school who had kids. And whenever they’d talk about their children, I’d imagine making that “L” with my finger and thumb on my forehead and rolling my eyes at them. I mean really, people are stupid, aren’t they?
Then one night, everything changed.
I had a dream. I dreamt I was holding a baby boy. He was my child. I could feel the weight of his head in my hand. I could smell his wonderful baby smell. I bent down and felt his cheek against mine. I stood in one place holding and just looking at this infant and he just looked back at me. There was no else in the whole world. Just me and my baby.
Then I woke up. It was still dark of course, but the alarm was going and I was still half asleep thinking about the joy this baby brought me.
But there was no baby. It had only been a dream. As I woke fully and came to the realization that it had only been a dream, I was heartbroken. And I cried. Mark put on the light and sat up. “I want a baby!” I sobbed. He looked confused. I’m pretty sure he was thinking, “Wow, her PMS is bad this month.” In the end, he had nothing to say and I pulled myself together and went to school.
That feeling never left me. Not for a single moment. I was haunted by that baby. Mark was not keen on the idea. He wanted me to finish school first. I offered to quit. He wanted us to get married first. I asked him to justify that with a reason other than, “because that’s what you do”. Through all of this, I cried and I cried. The sight of children and babies left me reeling. Once, I was in the library and a tour of kids from the daycare came through. I came out from between the stacks and found myself surrounded by them. The sight of those tiny heads and tiny snowsuits. I could hear them breathing and whispering and giggling and I could smell them. I wanted to reach out and stroke their hair. I kept enough control to remember that nobody likes a stranger touching their child and hurried back to the desk where I had been studying. It unnerved me so much that I went home early.
Eventually, two years after my dream, Mark agreed and suddenly we were Trying to Get Pregnant. The trying went on a lot longer than I expected. I went to my doctor several times, usually in tears. In the past I had brought up with my doctor my concerns that I might have endometriosis. It was always dismissed and I worried that I had been right. I worried that I was too old or too fat or just plain undeserving.
After almost two years of trying, I gave up. I just couldn’t take it anymore. The heartbreak every time I got my period had become unbearable. I truly believed that I wasn’t pregnant because I didn’t deserve nor was I good enough for a baby. I conciously worked to bring my thinking back to my old way of thinking - I was going to be all about career and travel and isnt-the-world-over-populated-anyway? Besides, I prefer to not have spit up on my clothes and I really do enjoy my sleep. I threw away all the fertitily indicator doohickies and I worked harder than ever at school. And I tried to forget that baby boy in my dream.
It didn’t work, of course and I was miserable. But with my fake-it-til-I-make-it attitude I was moving on.
One day in late October or early November in 1995, I was at a baby shower for someone else. It was in a beautiful old house in Rosedale in Toronto. I remember kicking through the leaves in the gutters as I walked from where I had parked to the house. I remember that I wore a black suit - wide legged pants and a vest and that I had made a quilt and crocheted a blanket for the baby. I remember that the food was amazing. And there was champagne punch. For so long I had not had any alcohol in case I was pregnant that I just automatically declined when offered some. But after a moment I changed my mind and went and got a glass. It was delicious. I had another.
A woman - a writer - came and sat with me. I had only met her a few times before and we talked for a bit. She asked me when I was going to have children. “Oh, not me!” I replied. “I’m just not the having babies kind of person. I don’t think I could have a career and be a mother and be good at both and well, I’m more comfortable with computer models than I am with kids!”
That day I was, of course, pregnant. I just didn’t know it yet.
Part II
In the time between becoming pregnant, and discovering I was pregnant, I began to behave strangely. First of all, I had publically proclaimed, with much bravado, my plans to never have children. I missed an exam at school because of what I thought was the flu. The make-up exam was a written test, that I did with the prof, explaining my reasoning and answering supplimental questions as they occurred to him. During this, I was in a strange mood. I giggled a lot, but in a weird, kind of aggressive way. I felt powerful and actually dared him to try and stump me. In the end, I got 98% on a test that had a class average of less than 75%.
I celebrated with an egg salad sandwich.
In fact, in those few weeks, I celebrated anything and often and always with an egg salad sandwhich. Eating had become the ultimate sensory experience for me. Egg salad on thick slices of bakery bread with shredded lettuce was practically orgasmic. I began calling Mark at work to tell him about my food. Once I called (long distance on a pay phone) to tell him about the new coating on the KFC fries and omg they are SOOOOOOOO good! Should I bring some home for dinner?! He declined and it turns out the coating was not new.
One day, the baby I had been to the shower for was due to be born by scheduled cesarian. We gathered together to gawk. I was so cold. I kept asking for someone to put the heat up. I was shivering and g-r-u-m-p-y (and craving an egg salad sandwhich of course). My brother’s dog would not leave me alone. He was constantly sniffing at me and finally I asked my brother to take him away. My brother looked at me, at the dog, then back at me. “You’re pregnant,” he said. “NO I’M NOT!” I yelled back at him (told you I was grumpy). I couldn’t even entertain the idea that I might be. “You’re late!” He said triumphantly. “Yeah, a whole six hours - and that doesn’t mean anything.” He dropped the subject.
I visted the baby in the hospital often over the next few days. Luckily, the cafeteria had egg salad sandwhiches. My period still hadn’t come. I didn’t take this as a sign of pregnancy, but just as another indicator that my insides had curled up and died. Must be early menopause, I decided. But I had missed another deadline at school because of this flu or whatever that would not stay away and I needed a doctor’s note. But, because I had been trying to get pregnant before, I knew that the doctor wouldn’t give me anything for the symptoms unless I was sure I was not pregnant. I had the appointment set, I just had to pee on a stick so I could get some meds.
Well, that thing showed positive immediately. There was no doubt. I have never been so surprised in my life. And then I cried. A lot. Like, really, a LOT. For a while, Mark, who could not understand what I was saying nor could he read the test I was shoving in his face, just stood there looking frightened as I sobbed and jabbered and waved the test around with one hand, while holding my pants up with the other. Eventually, he got the message.
My pregnancy was more than a little uncomfortable. The morning sickness lasted all day - for five months. I often just made a bed on the floor beside the toilet out of blankets and towels. I fainted a lot. Once I fainted in the glass christmas ornament section at Michael’s Arts and Crafts store. As I felt myself about to go, I reached for the cart beside me for support. The woman pushing the cart yanked it away and out of my reach. A few minutes later, as I was struggling to get up, I could hear her complainly loudly about “the drunk lady” and why would management allow someone like that in the store. No one helped me or asked if I was ok. I was so humiliated and as quickly as I could get up and get moving, I fled the store, crying and praying that I didn’t throw up and went back home.
By this time, I had withdrawn from school. I had made that decision a couple of weeks earlier when, after what had become a daily struggle to get ready for school, I hit my head hard on the roll bar of my Jeep, nearly knocking myself out, and then, as I was crouched at the edge of the driveway throwing up into the bushes, Mark called from the doorway, “Better hurry up, you can’t miss anymore school!” I got up, grabbed my book bag and headed back into the house. I said not-nice things to Mark on my way by and went back to bed, clothes and all.
But… bed on the bathroom floor notwithstanding, I had never been so happy in my life.
So, I had nothing to do and couldn’t really go anywhere, so I basically stayed home and gestated, which, as it turns out, can be a full time activity.
I was a Girl Guide leader and the baby loved the sound of the girls singing. He would flip and kick and spin. The girls would take turns sitting beside me with their hands on my belly.
That April, I turned 30. It was a nightmare. That week, after much research and brainstorming, it became clear that I’d have to sell my beloved Jeep for something more practical. I hit 200 pounds. I got my first stretch marks. My breasts … god. I didn’t even recognize them anymore. My bosom was like some kind of alien beast. And I was sick. Really sick. But within a couple of weeks, I suddenly began to feel much better. I had reached the 6-month mark and the morning sickness was finally gone. It was the beginning of May and I was feeling good.
Towards the end of that month, people started commenting that I must be due any day… oh no, not for weeks! Baby classes began and a tour of the hospital was scheduled.
One night, I woke Mark up. “I think the baby is coming.”
It had taken some doing to get me to the point of accepting this. My water had broken hours before, but for some reason, I was convinced that I had merely developed a bladder control problem. But now the contractions had begun and a warm shower wasn’t slowing them down at all.
Mark called the hospital to say we were coming in and then came the closest he ever has to throttling me when I spent forever choosing which earings I wanted to wear. We drove down the escarpment in heavy fog. It was cold. At the hospital, there was construction in the car park and we couldn’t figure out how to get into the building. Finally we were in and headed up to maternity. Someone found me somewhere to sit. They were just waiting for my files, they said. “Looks like that’s gonna be a big baby!” one of the nurses said to me.
After some time, Mark went back up to the desk. “What’s going on?!” he asked. The nurse looked at him like he was an idiot. “What’s going on, sir, is that your wife is having a baby. Please have a seat and we’ll see you when the files come from downstairs.” Mark glared at her and shouted, “But she isn’t due to have this baby for another two months!”
All hell broke loose then.
Part III
I suddenly found myself in a room (why was it dark?) full of activity. There were actual doctors. Machines were being wheeled in. Someone was taking my vitals and someone else was taking the baby’s. I got two IVs. I had the first ultrasound of my pregnancy. A doctor was saying to me, “A baby born at this gestation will not have fully developed lungs; boys tend to have less developed lungs at this stage than girls. Expect your baby to be in the neonatal ICU for at least 6-8 weeks. Do you understand that, although we are unable to identify any problem in you or in the baby that would cause premature labour, that labour this early is usually an indication that there is something seriously wrong?”
I nodded. “I feel very calm. Everything, in the end, will be ok.” He smiled and continued. There was still time to consider whether or not to use drugs to try and stop or slow the labour. He told me that since this was my first baby and because there was no dilation or effacement of my cervix, that I had another 15-20 hours of labour ahead of me.
Fifty minutes later, I was fully dilated and pushing. I was on a stretcher that was racing through the halls to the delivery room. There were so many people in that room it could have been a rave. There was a team just for me… in case some undiagnosed problem existed. There was another whole team just for the baby, of course. There was my labour nurse. There was the regular baby delivery people. And then, of course, there were all the students.
At 1049AM on June 8, 1996, my baby was born. “Its a boy!” someone shouted. He was nearly 6 pounds - huge for how early he was. I caught a glimpse of his angry red face before they whisked him away to the other side of the room, ready to take emergency measures to save his life, if necessary. A few minutes later, a nurse brought him back, bundled in a cloth.
“He is crying; that’s a really good sign. And he just peed all over the nurses. Another good sign. His scores are really high. You can hold him for a few minutes, and then we’ll take him for more tests while you get settled in your room.”
I held him and he cried and blew bubbles. After a bit, he stopped crying and just blew bubbles and looked around. They took him in an incubator out one door and me on a stretcher out another.
The tests showed that he was breathing on his own, but it was not efficient and was physically very difficult. He was a fat baby, unusual for a premie. This was good news though, as he had the energy stores needed to work those lungs. He was in an incubator with controlled temperature and extra oxygen. He had tubes and wires and IVs connected all over him.
That first night, the doctor came to see me. He had put the baby on a respirator just to give him a rest, because breathing was so much work for him. But the baby, it turns out, had different ideas. The nurse told us and the doctor the next morning what had happened. The baby had worked at that tube for over an hour, his intent clear. Finally, he got hold of it, and pulled it out.
That is one determined baby, she said. He’ll be a handful when he is older.
The doctor said, There is no mistaking what this baby wants!
The respirator was taken away.
For the next week, the baby was under lights trying to control the jaundice. He was fed breast milk with a tube several times a day after encouraging him to try and nurse. He just didn’t have the energy for it. Mark and I tried to agree on a name. Mark said, “Nothing unusual or weird, nothing that can be used to make fun of him.” But I’ve always had an unusual name and I’ve always loved it… I wanted that for our child. Obviously, we had a long way to go to middle ground.
There was only one baby in the ICU that was bigger than mine, and that baby was dying of a brain disease. There were babies there that were no bigger than your hand. There were some very very sick babies there. But my baby was big. And strong. And more responsive. And yellow.
And furry. Like many premies, the baby was covered with fine white hair. It was silky and soft. There was a spot on each of his shoulders where this silky fur was long enough to twirl on the end of my finger. I spent many hours with my arm through a hole in the side of the incubator, stroking and playing with that hair. It was gone by the time he was a couple of days old.
Not having a name for him yet, we resorted to the obvious. With all those tubes and wires we dubbed him Borg Baby. And Hugh. And 3 of 9. We tried to teach him to say “Resistance is futile,” and “Live long and prosper” while doing the Spock salute thing… but he was pretty busy sleeping all the time. Finally, with the jaundice under control, they were planning to transport him across town to another hospital since he didn’t need the level of care this hospital offered. They preferred he have an actual name before they sent him, so Mark and I sat with our short list of names and finally agreed on Jordan.
Jordan was transferred to St Joe’s on the 6th day. I followed the ambulance in my Jeep (we were supposed to go trade it in the morning he was born). The doctor there was great. One of the nurses made a nametag for Jordan’s incubator that hangs on his bedroom door to this day.
The goal at this hospital was to get the baby to nurse well enough to start gaining weight. And he tried, but no. The babies were weighed before and after feeding, so we could tell he wasn’t successfully nursing and then he’d be fed with a tube. One day, he suddenly got it and weighing him showed that he had eaten (and kept) three times the amount of milk he was being fed with the tube. He never looked back.
I remember the morning after he first nursed. We were just coming in from home and my mil was with us. We had to wash and put on gowns before we could go in. I could hear Jordan crying. This was not the whine-cry of a premie, but the feed-me roar of a hungry baby. I nearly knocked people over trying to get to him. Someone said to me, You don’t even know that’s him, just relax. Oh, it’s him. And it was, of course.
Eleven days after he was born, the doctor came to me and told me that Jordan was ready to go home. What?! I panicked? What about 6-8 weeks? Can I bring those alarms with me? I’m not ready!!
The doctor laughed at me. This is one determined baby. He knows what he wants and is very clear when he expressses it. We’ll keep him one more night, but really, trust your instincts and listen to your baby and everything will be great.
Best advice I ever got.
Part IV
I think that leaving the hospital without my baby was the most unnatural thing I have ever done.
That sense of being undeserving had never really left me. Throughout my pregnancy I had this constant feeling of surprise and of deep gratitude. When I realized I was in labour and that I might lose the baby, part of me felt that, really, it was only what I deserved. When I caught that first glimpse of his face in the delivery room, I was frantically trying to memorise it.
I had almost not wanted him, almost not conceieved him, and now, I had only almost carried him to term. While I did have a strong sense of peace during all of this, I found myself memorising his face and his fingers and his sounds, just in case it was the last time I saw him.
The first night I left him there and went home I wasn’t sure I would survive it. I stood at his incubator and looked at the door down the hall. How does one do it? Physically, how does a person make it happen? I just didn’t believe that my feet would carry me through that door. I looked back at the baby. Memorise. Memorise. He still didn’t have a name. I made a pact with him: We’d both make it through the night and be together again in the morning.
Night night, Sweet Boy. I love you.
You have sweet dreams, baby and I’ll see you in the morning.
…
I love you, Sweet Boy.
I have said it to him every night since.
And still, every day, memorise, memorise.
A couple of weeks ago, while Jordan was in Art School, I went to a branch of the public library in Guelph and studied for a bit. The place was PACKED. In the middle of the afternoon on a Tuesday. Weird. There were construction guys at the computers and reading magaizines. A tonne of people reading newspapers. Several people, who appeared not to be together, were looking at historical maps of the region. A few moms and their kids. There was nowhere to sit so I headed for the basement. There were dozens of people there too - and this is a little library. I found a seat at a long row of desks set up like one long table.
Behind me, beyond some book stacks, were the washrooms. The toilet paper dispenser in the men’s washroom squeaked. And honestly, one man after another went in there and was yanking on the paper roll. squeeeeaaaAAAAAkkkkkk! SqueeeEEEEEEEEAAAAAKkkkkkkkkk! There was so much traffic in and out of there and so much squeaking, I was beginning to wonder if the men’s washroom at the Guelph Public library was a rendezvous point for gay men.
A ways down the row of desks, to my right, and across the table from me, sat Jesus. And here, by “Jesus”, I mean, “a tall bearded white man with blue eyes and long wavy sandy-brown hair wearing a long trenchcoat”. Jesus, it seems, has ADD. He was quite a ways from me, and I am a pretty quiet person, but I was no match for the super-senses of the Messiah. Every time I turned a page or picked up a pen or put down my eraser, His head would bob up from the magazine He was reading and swing around to see what I was doing. I tried to be even quieter, but it was no good. Jesus has piercing blue eyes, so I could tell, even out of the corner of my eye, that He was looking at me and for how long. Each time He looked, it seemed, He did a thorough check of my books and me and what I was doing. He wasn’t scowling or anything; He seemed pleasant. But still, I felt bad for disturbing Him.
Here is something I didn’t know about ADD: it is contagious. You see, I’d be lost in my work, and Jesus would be reading his magazine, and I’d turn a page. Jesus’ super-senses instantly pick up the page-turning and His head bobs up and He’s looking at me with that piercing stare… and I’m aware of His umm.. awareness and I feel self-concious for disturbing Him and out of the corner of my eye I watch Him watching me until He turns his attention back to His magazine. With all this covert looking back and forth, I began to feel like I was flirting with the Son of God.
Eventually, I was aware that Jesus was getting ready to leave. I kept my eyes on my books but after a moment I realized that Jesus was coming toward me. “Oh god, I hope He doesn’t want me to wash His feet!” I thought to myself. You see, I hate feet. And then, when I realized I had not a single drop of wine with me, I was really concerned. Sure enough Jesus stopped in front of me and waited. Looking up, I was careful to mask my surprise at the fact that Jesus smelled strongly of cigarette smoke. I smiled. “Hi!” I said, because I really have a way with words. “Hi!” Jesus said, “I was wondering where you found that reference book. It interests Me and I’d like to look at it next time I’m here.” He was pointing to my hokey anatomy book.
“Oh, that isn’t a library book it’s mine. I got it last week at Chapters in the bargain books section. It was only twelve dollars or something.” Jesus looked sad. “Umm.. it is only a basic book, not a lot of the really fine detail.” I added. “Yes,” He said, “that’s what I have been looking for. I’ll go to Chapters this weekend.” I told him that I wasn’t using the book at that moment and He was free to look at it for a while if He liked. And He did like. He sat down, right across from me and read my hokey anatomy book for about 10 minutes. I was sad to see that Jesus has tremors. Finally, He got up to leave. He thanked me kindly for the use of my book, smiled, and strode away. I watched the back of His trenchcoat as His long legs carried him across the floor until He disappeared behind a book stack. As I heard His steps on the stairs back up to the first floor, I imagined him rummaging through his coat pockets for a cigarette and lighter, because Jesus smokes, you know.
