Patti Edmon Artist

I wish I could call myself an activist, striving for social justice and reform... but I can't, it wouldn't be true. I'm so weary of the political landscape, the Republican barbs and Democratic mixed messages, that I don't even keep up with current affairs the way I should. I mean, isn't that what we are supposed to do as citizens with voting rights that are enviable in many parts of the world? I am guilty, one of those who feel like one small, solo voice that, no matter how loudly I cry would not reach beyond these four walls. But when I saw the Bloggers Unite for Haiti campaign, a graphic that I could post along with this message and links to various ways to help, I signed on. What prompted me was a photograph on the front page of our newspaper, of a young girl sitting at her brother's feet, the rest of his body crushed by the school they had been attending. Her expression wrenched my heart... the grief on her face so vivid I might have reached out and touched ...

waiting deeper than spoken word, prayer rises from the well of silent hope... What is more difficult than dealing with illness? Waiting... those interminable days or hours between test and result. The slivers of time that no matter how thin are sharply painful, as we hover between the not knowing and the finding out. I have a friend who is waiting right now, to find out exactly what is in that tiny lump. She has hovered longer than her share of time between hope and sanity. You probably know a handful of co-workers, acquaintances, friends and family members that are enduring those elongated moments, in similar situations. The hardest 'waiting' I ever did was in the late '90s. I had a great deal of trouble getting, rather, staying pregnant. After two losses, the third time was charm. Weeks went by until finally, the third trimester. Then a routine blood test indicated that the fetus had an 80% chance of being a Downs' Syndrome baby. I was 38 years old after all, though ...

Today is Woody's Birthday. The Rev. Dr. Woody L. Berry is my pastor, mentor, counselor, collaborator on matters relating to art, life, the journey... and best of all, my friend.  If I hadn't wandered in to Maxwell Street Presbyterian 3-1/2 years ago, I wouldn't know Woody and that's not a scenario I like to consider. I wasn't a Presbyterian then but after my second visit I knew I'd found home. It has been a relatively short distance from visitor to member, deacon, active  membership committee participant, house writer. My frequent conversations with Woody are light posts marking the distance between the stretches that are at times, dark, reflective, sometimes lonely but always filled with meaning. He has this way, that continues to amaze me, of taking a concept that seems difficult, convoluted, maddening, and untangling it into a framework that is so easy to grasp that I can't imagine how I didn't see it in the first place. He's one of the smartes...