As a young teenager, I was intrigued with, attracted by, possibly even obsessed with Saint Francis of Assisi. I was not raised Catholic, so the canon of the saints holds no special place in me, but for some reason, St. Francis grabbed me. I read his writings, read and reread his prayers, chose him as the subject of a school report and even watched the 1960s era, hippie film (on his life) called Brother Sun, Sister Moon.

I know that St. Francis was a son of a wealthy merchant in Italy around the turn of the thirteenth century and that he gave it all up for God. He had all the money and comforts that a rich, young ruler might have. He took vows of poverty and chastity and then endured the wrath of his father. I know that he often preached to birds and small animals, and is often associated with nature and the love of creatures. What I didn’t know (but learned last night via Google) that he is now the patron saint of ecology and pets. Hmmm.

Last year at milestone event, I selfishly expected some piece of jewelry from my husband. At first I was disappointed when instead of a necklace or something else I thought I deserved, he gave me a large box. Inside was a beautifully framed Prayer of St. Francis. No doubt you’ve heard it:

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
And where there is sadness, joy;
O Divine Master,
Grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love;
for it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning, that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

I promptly hung it on the wall of the downstairs hallway (I don’t think I even read it when he gave it to me; I had read it hundreds of times before). I pass it now, several times each day.

In the materialistic mecca where we live, the wisdom in these words convicts me, it prompts me, and my prayer today is that it shatters me. St. Francis’ prayer is perhaps a call to action, and in the richness of his words, there is much to be gleaned. My prayer is that my humble words might be hope and light in the midst of despair. I have no lofty goals of touching the world at large, but I do want to be an instrument of peace in the lives of those around me.

There is a peak accessible from the trail system adjacent to our house called the “Rock” or the “Roost”. It is the highest point around (if you don’t count the multi-million dollar mansion they are building close by with an even better view) and when you make it up there, you can see everything. To the north, is northeastern Orange County and then the major freeway leading into the Inland Empire. To the west are the cities and then the ocean if you can see through the greyish marine layer. To the south is the burn area that came far too close to the houses last March and to the east are the hills, looking layered in the morning haze.

Weekend mornings are busy in the trails: hikers, girls walking dogs, an occasional rider on horseback and dozens of mountain bikers. And of course, there are always the joggers like me. I ran up there yesterday morning and happened to be alone for a few minutes at the peak. The 90 seconds I stood there in the breeze was my reward for the rise. I’m usually too scared of cliffs and heights to actually climp up on the rock, but I did. Silly, I know, but all I want to do is open my arms up to the wind at a height like that.

Graffitied in childish scrawl on the rock it said “Amy & Jeremy Forever”. Amy & Jeremy Forever. Who wrote it? Probably Amy, given the feminine handwriting. Is she young? What did she leave behind up here, besides her proclamation to the world. The only thing I am leaving is the dusty footprints of my Asics. Does he love her just as much? Are they still together? And then, how long will even the writing on this rock last? This gets hit pretty hard in the rain (when it actually does rain) and then beaten by the wind as it whips up here from the canyons below.

I’m not sure. My reward is over and another mountain biker zig-zagging his way up is my cue to run back. Jogging back toward the house I ask myself what I leave in my own metaphoric wake. Certainly not graffiti. What is my scribble on history? Or even less grand, what is my impression on the present? Do I leave a heritage for my children, my husband, family and friends?

Almost home, I look back and see another runner or biker having his reward after a climb, his form shadowed in front of the sun. And then he’s gone.

…or puffy-fluffy princess shoes. My toddler began when she was just over a year old trying on her sister’s shoes (then she would put on only the right one and then walk lopsided all around the upstairs), and has since moved on to dirty flip-flops, paddock boots, and puffy-fluffy princess shoes. High heels are preferable, of course. She looks oddly grown up with her chubby, toddler feet stuffed into the front of heeled shoes with a pacifier in her mouth and a saggy diaper. Weird.

She was the girl I always wanted to be. I grew up with her thinking, “If I could only look like her, or have her eyes…”. And we were friends for so many years and we laughed and sang and danced in pajamas. She even had the courage I always lacked.

Most everyone I’ve known in my youth has moved away, if not in geography, at least in ideals.

Last year we reconnected at an event after a couple years of silence. Still beautiful, and like me, a couple lines in the corners of her eyes. And it was comfortable. We exchanged emails, small-words and mini-promises. Diplomacy.

About six weeks later I sent her an email telling her how I had missed her and wished there was a way to have a friendship again. I told her how I had been remiss in calling her and I had allowed the relationship to lapse. I said that even if we met at Starbucks every couple of months just to catch up, that was enough for me.

Nothing.

Then the following month I get a return email. She was busy. She didn’t have enough room in her life for a friendship and didn’t know if she ever would. She was sorry. Coffee was even too much.

Those were the last words from her to me. And I, of course, was hurt. I understood: I was just too much work. She didn’t have enough energy to point in my direction. I do understand this. The older I get the less friendships of convenience I can have. To maintain a relationship, my energy has to be deliberate and focused in the direction of that individual. It not like in high school when my friendships consisted of those people who were merely around me. Now, I must actually CHOOSE my friends.

I realized just this week that she actually vocalized the same thing I have done to others (whether deliberate or not). How many relationships have I let go and not put proper time into because the person was just “too much work” or I didn’t have the energy to focus on them? My old friend just said to me the very thing I have thought about others.

She was honest. In the past I have been “diplomatic”…or is it dishonesty? I am beginning to realize that honesty is usually best, even if it hurts a little.

I respect her for that. It might be good I show a little more authenticity (mixed with some diplomacy) in my adult friendships. Thanks for the lesson! I do miss her and think of her often.

How blessed am I? I have girls who scream their giggles from upstairs while I make dinner, no doubt tearing apart their rooms. How blessed am I?

How blessed am I? Hope grows up and loses her second front tooth.

How blessed am I? Naomi is a smurf who polishes off the last of the blue sidewalk chalk and drinks from the bubble container.