As filled with chaos as my life has been this year…the sorrow, grief, loss, fear, anxiety, uncertainty, and frustration…the one thing I always knew for certain was that something wonderful was taking place. I had no idea what the outcome would be…I still can’t say with certainty what the outcome will be. But, I’ve always known that life as I’ve previously known it was saying good-bye.

One amazing side effect of all of these shifts and changes in my life is that of integration. All of the pieces of myself that I’ve left in various places, with different people, kept hidden from certain groups of people…all of those pieces no longer wish to be separated or differentiated. It is time for all of them to come together in a unified human. Not in the old ways as the pieces once fit together, but rather, in a new unknown configuration. As each little piece falls into its perfect place, I watch in awe and amazement…acutely aware that some greater force is undoubtedly orchestrating this entire metamorphosistic process.

This blog is as a result of that integration. Two years ago, I set the intention of creating a sisterhood of spiritual women. I felt so alone in my journey, and desperately wanted and needed support and companionship. This year, in the midst of all the chaos, some wonderful women came to me in just a matter of months…reconnecting with long-ago friends, deepening old acquaintances into friendships, meeting new people through online classes and teleseminars. Together, you helped me to realize that there really is a wonderful network of amazing women, even if not all of you are close enough for a pajama tea party. Ironically, you also spoke of a need for community…of feeling isolated and desired support in your journeys. And so, this blog was born…sharing my deepest parts with you, with gratitude that my experiences could help another.

Last night, however, I realized that this blog is also asking for integration. I spent many hours trying to figure out how to keep this blog as it is…I like the intimacy…the anonymity…the focus…the community we are building. Was I really ready to reveal myself to the world and let the world fully embrace all that I have to say and share with the world? The more I contemplated this, the more it became quite clear that despite the twinge of sadness, the answer was yes.

So, this will be my last post on this particular blog…to be continued in a new one that integrates all the different pieces of me in one place. Eventually, I hope to pull all of these posts over to the new blog so that there really is a continuity of experience for those who will need it in the future.

For you who have inspired this deepening and have participated in fulfilling my desires for a sisterhood, thank you for your support and  companionship. I hope that, should you feel called to continue with me in this next phase of my life, you will join me at

With gratitude,


Facing the Earth


“Loving something with your whole body….bending yourself to the earth…The work of our bodies is beautiful when it brings us to a position of receptivity and readiness to pray and commune. Releasing into the earth is beautiful. Bellies to the ground, forehead to the floor, resting in sacred surrender to that which we love.

We can use our movements to hold conversation with the Divine. That is part of the personal medicine of the body.” ~Gayle Woodul


When I saw this photo today, and read Ms. Woodul’s words, a deep part within me opened up. Simply looking at the picture reminded me of the first time I ever bowed…and the joy I feel every time I have bowed since.

As a child in a Christian home, I was taught that bowing to anything except God was a sin. I vividly remember watching other “primitive” people bowing to various things…statues, trees, fire, stars, a witchdoctor…and hearing a variety of teachings flow through my mind: It’s foolishness…It’s an act of futility…Those things are not God…God won’t hear them so long as they practice such abominations…Those people won’t be in Heaven…Don’t go near those people in case you are tempted to join them…and on and on. I was so conflicted as a child because as much as I wanted to please my parents and my parents’ community, I really was quite interested and fascinated by the culture around me. I wanted to understand why these “primitive” people did what they did…for, to be honest, many of their practices seemed to be more true and real than my parents’…because we never bowed to anything…not even to God.

My first season of the Jewish High Holy days was filled with awe and wonder…which is, of course the whole point. Ancient practices from the time of Sinai were followed…ancient melodies, tropes, and blessings were sung, sending chills throughout my entire body. At one point, when the Kohanim gathered up front to bless the people, I traveled back in time…or opened to all time. As they chanted, I heard all the priests from all generations chanting with them…blessing us…as I knew I had been blessed before. Then there was the moment of prostration before G-d. The entire ten days were so filled with sacredness that I didn’t think twice. I gratefully bent to the earth and prostrated myself to the earth…facing Jerusalem…and surrendered in the awe of Divinity.

In that moment, time stood still for me. I connected with everything before me and everything after me. I was suspended…both physically and in time…between the earth and sky…part of nothing, yet part of everything. I felt the flow of All that Is and realized that when I bow this way, I embody the truth of the word humility…from the Latin meaning “on the ground.” In humility, I honored the Divine Spark  that exists in all of creation. I honored the wisdom of surrendering to something greater than my ego self. In return, I received a blessing, which I accepted with gratitude.

That blessing was the realization that I had never fully given myself to anything or anyone. I always held a tiny bit of myself back. And that holding back was an expression of arrogance…because I thought those things or people were never quite good enough for me. I realized that the practice of never bowing, of never prostrating myself even to God, contributed to this attitude of arrogance…of entitlement. As I lay in prostration, I realized I had broken this cycle. By converting to Judaism, I had committed to something wholeheartedly…for the first time in my life. Even though questions and doubts had popped up, the heart conviction that this was the path for me won…the commitment in the face of doubts and fears allowed me to let go…to surrender…to live from a place of my heart’s intuition.

Everything in my life turned a corner in that moment. It wasn’t that life got easier…it wasn’t at all easier. I still struggled to pay my bills and put food on my table. Yet, I was more joy-filled…more love-filled…and it kept increasing…all because my arrogance started to fall away. I let humility in, allowing me to fully see another without judgement…without criticism. I didn’t experience it all the time, but there were definitely moments. And those moments grew longer and longer, and with them I received other blessings.

My faith increased.

My trust grew stronger.

My belief shifted.

All because I bowed.

I surrendered.

And then the love began to flow.


Being Hit; Being Transformed

Heavy Downpour

This week has been an amazing roller coaster for me. I’ve been participating in a transformational cleanse workshop with 15 other present and aware women. During this week of incredible energetic shifts, all of us have chosen something to clear and transform and as a result, we have all experienced some rather dramatic situations…all of which are revealing some brutiful places that are ready to be healed. I chose to cleanse and transform the attitude of entitlement…something I was shocked to discover I had.

I usually teach a piano lesson on Tuesday evenings…at my student’s home. But this week, at the last minute, it was changed to Wednesday…12/12/12…the day we began our final push through the portal into our take-off moment. As I parked in my usual place, I expressed gratitude that I remembered my umbrella, as it was dark and raining quite heavily. I was also looking forward to spending time with my student, as kids always help me find joy within myself…and Wednesday had been an emotionally difficult day for me.

After the piano lesson, I stepped out of the house and looked at my car in shock. Someone had hit it as he/she had backed out. My passenger-side door was quite dented and scratched, and the mirror was crunched in toward the window. There was no note. I had absolutely no idea who had done this…and I was shaken, and felt violated and helpless. I also remembered that in trying to be frugal with my money during my in-between work phase, I didn’t have collision coverage on my insurance. I would have to repair this with my own money.

I began to panic.

My piano student’s parents were very sympathetic and supportive, and said they’d send out an email to all the neighbors, asking if anyone had seen anything. I didn’t have much hope that anyone would step forward, but thanked them for their help and support and got into my car to drive home. As I reached to put my key in the ignition, I placed my payment in my lap. I heard:

Put it in your wallet. Now.

“I’m fine,” I argued. “Who’s going to forget money in their lap?”

You. Put it in your wallet.

“I just want to get out of here…I’m too upset to take any more time right now.”

Suit yourself.

As I drove home, I succumbed to the panic and dissolved into tears. I had absolutely no idea how this could be resolved and cried out to the Universe for help. I was told:

We hear you, and we are supporting you. Now please let go of this completely so we can do our part and show you that you are loved and protected…trust that this is already resolved.

I tried, but it didn’t happen right away. I got home, and had to tell my mom…which resulted in my eyes leaking again. I found my camera and took pictures, all the while feeling resentful and bitter and angry and violated and desperately wanting justice and fairness. Then I heard:

Remember that attitude of entitlement that you asked to be cleansed and transformed this week? Why not use this situation to find all the places where that attitude exists…then send it up to us to transform it for you.

Entitlement? In this situation? Really? But wrong is wrong! Who hits a car and doesn’t leave a note? What kind of person does that? I’ll tell you what kind of person…a selfish bastard, that’s what kind of person. I bet it was so-and-so or him or her…and on I went. After a few minutes, I heard this:

Just because something is wrong, does that mean you are immune to experiencing it? Why are you so special that something unfair shouldn’t happen to you? Please…let it go…accept the situation for what it is, and find a way to bless the person who hit your car.

Are you kidding me???




Ho’oponopono. Start with you first.

So I began.

I love you. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you.

I chanted this, sending the words to myself…with a concentrated and focused intention. After about five minutes, I started to feel the edge ease. Then it all snowballed and soon I was a puddle of vulnerability…soft and filled with compassion toward myself. I let it wash over me…wave after wave after wave…flushing away all the anger, fear, sadness, judgement…entitlement. Sure enough…it was there.

Now chant this and reflect this to the person who hit your car.


I began again. In less than one minute, all the fury and indignation dissolved, and all I felt was compassion. I knew what was going on energetically that day, and I had a tough day. This must have been a super challenging day for those who were completely unaware. I also realized that where I had parked was an easy target for being hit, and that if someone wasn’t paying attention, it was completely understandable how it could have happened…particularly in the dark, and in the rain. I realized that if I had done this, I would have felt horrible. I felt my body engulfed in compassion and reflected it out to the driver…whoever it was. I still had no idea how the situation would be resolved, but I trusted that it would be and that I would be ok.

The next day, a dear friend called me. She told me that her husband had been hit by an uninsured driver earlier that week, and their car was in the shop. He was driving a rental and had parked in a different place the night before. In his rush to take the kids to an appointment, and driving an unfamiliar car, he hadn’t seen my car and had backed into me. He thought it belonged to a neighbor and went straight away to tell her, but she wasn’t home.

I tried to find anger and indignation, but it was impossible…all I could find was compassion and love for him. Tears filled my eyes. What a situation for him! What a situation for his wife…to call me and tell me too!

In a teary voice my heart blurted, “I’m so sorry you’re experiencing such a difficult week. And I’m sorry that I parked where I did…it wasn’t very thoughtful of me to do so.”

She replied, “We feel awful. You are my sister. I love you. I would never want to hurt you. And now we have. Please forgive us.”

I realized that I already had…and I told her so…it wasn’t an issue in the slightest. All I was concerned with was maintaining the friendship connection with someone I loved.

She then told me that they had just been to their insurance company, and told them what had happened, and took full responsibility for the situation. Their insurance agreed to fully repair both cars, and before she had hung up with me, the insurance company had already called me.

An hour later, my mom called me. She asked me if I had gotten paid for my piano lesson the night before. I told her yes. She asked how I had been paid and how much it was. I told her. She told me that our neighbor had walked past our car the night before, soon after I had gotten home, and somehow, in the dark and the rain, had seen the money on the ground by the car. He picked it up and gave it to my mom to give to me. I felt rather sheepish. Not only had I ignored instructions from my guides, and they had still protected and supported me, but in the tumultuousness of the situation, I hadn’t even realized I was missing the money. As I realized this, I heard:

We love you. We support you. Trust. Everything will be ok. All of it.

I marveled at this amazing sequence of events for two days. Yes, it’s been horribly inconvenient, but I’ve met some beautiful and kind people. Every time I felt dread in dealing with some aspect of the situation, I began chanting the Ho’oponopono prayer. Every time I did, I felt peace and support and trust, and the most wonderful things resulted.

Then the children in Connecticut were hit…along with a few adults and their families. Instantly, I was back in that moment of confusion and violation and fear when I first saw my car. However, having this situation so fresh in my mind, it was an aha! moment…a moment of recognition. I’d been here before, and I knew what to do: hold compassion…first for me, then for everybody in the situation…especially the shooter.

I was surprised at how quickly I was able to shift into that compassion space…and that’s when I could see everyone’s pain. I also could see how the portal day and the new moon had really triggered this man’s pain to an intensity that was confusing and disorienting to him. I felt such love and compassion for him, feeling in my own experience those moments when I’d felt alone, rejected, isolated, unloved, unappreciated. I saw all the times I responded to similar emotions with violent words, thoughts, behaviors, and gestures. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel shame toward myself in those moments…only compassion. As I chanted the prayer, I felt those situations shift and heal within me…and as they did, I reflected that to the shooter, his family, and all the members of the community…just as small and entwined as mine.

And in that moment, I could express gratitude for my car being hit…for it taught me what I needed to know in order to help others.

I love you.

I’m sorry.

Please forgive me.

Thank you.

And so it is.

The Message of the Bells, Part 5 of 5

mercersburg 2


Plump white feathers of snow drifted out of the early dark as I approached the house…the only one on the block not gaily lighted and decorated. The gate sagged; the last windstorm had scattered green shingles over the yard. A widow’s house.

Jeremy answered the door.

“Mom’s almost ready,” he said. “I’ll call her.”

“The folks will be by for your mom. I’m walking walking. Want to come?”

“Are you alone?”

“All alone.”

“It’s nice of you.” He looked down at me. “You feel sorry for me, don’t you?”

Did I?

“No,” I decided. “I don’t feel sorry for anybody tonight. There are Christmas lights all over town and it’s snowing. Our house smells of spices and greenery; it’s overflowing with presents and happy people. I’ve never had such a Christmas. I’m full up and need to share it with somebody, and I thought of you.”

Far off, I heard a thin shiver of silver sound.

“You thought of me,” Jeremy said. “I think of you a lot, too.”

His brown eyes, less guarded now, met mine. I looked away. Christmas spirit did not require a loss of decent pride.

“I wouldn’t have guessed it,” I said cheerfully. “Coming?”

He nodded, called to his mother, and found a ski coat. We stepped out into frosty silence; I must have imagined the silver sound.

“For a while, all I thought of was raising the devil,” Jeremy said.

“So I heard.”

“There wasn’t anybody special. If that’s anything.”

We passed the Wilkes house. Lights twinkled on a big blue spruce, reflecting pools of color on the new snow.

“I’ve wanted for a long time to come home,” he said.

“Well, you’re home now.”

“Not quite,” said Jeremy.

Dune McGlasson had spotlighted his hand-hewn crèche. Jeremy’s face was illuminated for a revealing instant. I had overcome my loneliness and longing; I had no defense against his.

“Jerry, I still love you,” I blurted. “If that’s anything.”

The bells began to ring at the Corinthian Cathedral.

Beneath the swelling sound I heard Jeremy breathe my name, on a half-sob. I felt his arms around me.

The bells chimed a shimmering crescendo that must have spoken peace and joy to men of goodwill for miles around.

Unless they were ringing only in my heart.

The End.


My sincere thanks to the author, whom I was unable to locate.

The Message of the Bells, Part 4 of 5



They were married in a quiet ceremony—quiet except for the bells. I don’t know how that was managed, but if any mortal could order the wind, I suppose it would be Henry Velie.

Mother permitted certain minor changes. She still indulged in spates of cooking, but not for pay. Mainly, she went on being herself, to Dad Velie’s apparent satisfaction.

Jimmy started college. I went to Minneapolis. A big-city newsroom is a far cry from a country weekly; I rated slightly lower than the copyboys. But I was learning. Moreover, I shared an apartment with another newspaper-woman, and there were new men in my life. This was living.

I did not return until Christmas weekend. I caught the train after a good hard workday, and dozed most of the way. Then I walked to the club car for a soft drink.

Jeremy Winter sat gazing out a window. He looked thin and tense and extraordinarily tired.

I had not thought of Jeremy in months. It seemed best to leave it that way. I started back to my seat, and heard my name.

Jeremy was on his feet.

“Susan. I’d like to talk to you.”

I went back and joined him, pleased to find myself quite calm.

“I owe you an apology,” he said. “I wanted to explain….”

I felt my cheeks get hot.

“What I said at Dad’s funeral—I hated it, afterward,” he said. “You came up so sweet and sympathetic, and got your little nose bit. I was all wrapped up in myself; I guess it was the first time in my life I had ever done any heavy thinking. What I meant was, you didn’t have anything to regret; you surely never worried your dad.”

“What you said to me wasn’t important,” I said. “Jerry…your father would be proud of you now. Holding a job and making the Dean’s List.”

“How did you know that?”

“Why…your mother told my mother, and she wrote me….”

“my mom did?” Jerry actually flushed with pleasure. “It’s been a long time since Mom’s taken an interest in…anything.”

We pulled into Corinth. I forgot Jeremy in the joy of homecoming. Mother, Dad Velie and Jimmy were waiting, radiating love and welcome. Mother, always a great Christmas keeper, had outdone herself.

They had taken a leisurely trip in the fall, driving on back roads to see the leaves and to forage for small treasures, each chosen to gratify the wish of a friend. People kept coming; the laughter and reminiscing inspired by a sackful of butternuts or a McGuffey’s reader were something to warm the heart.

Plans were afoot to shed a bit of light on Clara Winter’s Christmas. The church had been given a fund made up of contributions from Mr. Winter’s company associates. Mrs. Winter had left its disposition to the trustees. The fund, augmented by a large anonymous donation, had gone for handbells. Mother had secretly trained the young musicians. The Winter Memorial Bell Choir would be presented at the Christmas Eve service.

“We’re taking Clara,” Mother said. “I saw Jeremy get off the train…why don’t you invite him?”

“Indeed I won’t.”

Dad Velie’s benign Santa Claus smile vanished in puzzlement.

“Why ever not?”

“We had quite a thing going for a couple of years. He let it die. If he wants anything started, he can take the initiative.”

“My stars,” said Mother. “It would be no more than a courtesy.”

“If a lady is available, she should make it known,” said Dad Velie with a twinkle. “Some things are too important to be left to chance. Think; I’d never have come home again if somebody hadn’t sent me a copy of the Citizen.”

Mother turned pink. “Susan,” she interposed hastily. “Did you ever figure out Henry’s legend of the bells?”

I thought back. The pieces fell into place. Corinthian Cathedral…First Corinthians, Chapter Thirteen. “Though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor…and have not love, it profiteth me nothing….”

“The bells ring,” I said slowly,” when someone gives out of his abundance…of love.”

“That’s my gal,” said Dad Velie….

To Be Continued…

The Message of the Bells, Part 3 of 5



The next morning after my interview, I hastily polished my story. It was publication day. We put the paper to bed at noon, my story nestling on the front page next to an old engraving of Mr. Velie, moustached and dapper in a portrait made years earlier. We okayed the proofs and took the afternoon off.

Mother was taking fragrant loaves from the oven. “Mmmmm,” she said, with an artist’s appreciation. “Not bad. I think I’ll take a loaf over to Uncle Loren, while it’s hot.”

“How can you make any money if you keep giving away the product?” I objected.

“I baked extra,” Mother said. “Loren hasn’t anything to look forward to but eating, since he retired….Listen!”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“I thought I heard those bells.”

I listened again.

“You heard the doorbell,” I said, and answered it.

It was Henry Velie.

This time he was impeccably groomed and had is valise, apparently ready for his trip back to New York. I glanced from him to Mother in the kitchen doorway, and wished I could have given her time to run upstairs and change. She was flushed from the heat of the stove and her apron had flour on the front.

“Well, henry.”

“Hullo, Lucille.”

“How long? I do declare, more than twenty years.”

“Twenty-two. I believe you’ve taken on a little weight, Lucille.”

“Drat your time, Henry Velie.”

“Now, Lucille. It’s wonderfully becoming.”

“Spoken like a gentleman. Well, come on in, Henry; I’m glad to see you. I’ve a fresh pie and some coffee; I’ll dare a few more calories if you’ll share them.”

“Delighted,” said Henry Velie.

I followed, and soon was absorbed in local color: Depression days in Corinth; the changes wrought by World War II. I heard my brother Jimmy at the door and went to prevent a galumphing interruption.

“Don’t come in hollering, for a change,” I greeted him. “Mother’s entertaining a millionaire in the kitchen.”

“A millionaire?

“Mr. Henry Velie.”

“Gee….Why in the kitchen? Haven’t we got a living room?”

“You know Mother.”

Jimmy made his manners, and went off to play ball. I tried to stay within earshot. Mr. Velie was telling about his life—how exciting and glamorous it sounded! The telephone rang. It was the mayor, wondering whether Henry was ready to be driven to the airport.

I went back in time to hear Mother say we were managing quite well, actually; her cheeks were more than ordinarily flushed. I guessed we had been offered a share of Mr. Velie’s abundance…maybe an offer to lend Jimmy money for college?

Anyway, my announcement cut the discussion short. Mr. Velie departed, genial and friendly. If Mother had rejected some kind offer, she had managed it without offense.

In my story, I had taken pains to play up Mr. Velie’s intriguing legend of the bells. Corinth picked it up and bandied it about. Mr. Flynt held that it was some of Henry’s nonsense, and why not? If Henry wanted to perpetrate a spoof on Corinth, he’d certainly earned the right. Mr. Schurtz, the sociology teacher, called it a piece of capitalistic arrogance. Dunc McGlasson, a dedicated tither, declared he knew exactly what Henry had in mind.

Meanwhile, Community Chest boosters changed their slogan from “Give ‘til it Hurts” to “Give ‘til the Bells Ring” and Mr. Velie’s legend was woven into the tapestry of our town.

Pete Slade came home for the holidays and gave me a little rush. It was a welcome break in routine, though Corinth offered few prospects for rushing. Pete was not as creative about this as Jeremy had been, I thought as we sat before the fire munching Mother’s cookies. Jeremy had found an aged sleigh in someone’s barn that last winter, starting a rage for sleighing.

“How’s Jeremy these days?” I dared to ask, carefully casual.

“I don’t see much of old Jerry,” Pete said. “He runs with a wealthy crowd; they’ve all got wheels and go places for weekends. I can’t keep up.”

“How’d you like to go to college with a car and fancy wardrobe and run with the smart set?” Mother asked me.

“You could dude me up out of all recognition, and I’d still not fit in with the smart set, “I said.

“At your age, you could probably adapt,” Mother said.

“Man, I’d make a heroic effort to adapt,” Pete said. We exchanged a grin. Neither of us was likely to have the problem.

Later I heard Mrs. Slade telling Mother some details Pete had loyally failed to mention. Jerry’s crowd had held a wild soiree at a ski lodge and very nearly wrecked the place. The parents had stepped in, paid for damages and persuaded the Dean to let the youths stay in school, on probation. Even before the scrape, Jerry had been under a cloud, with warning notices in two subjects. Clara and George Winter were frantic.

Jeremy had been a good student and I had admired him for it. The story took off some of the shine, which was just as well.

Our town settled in for the winter, smothered in snow, badgered by biting winds. I scrounged for news and dreamed of the day when I would work for a big city newspaper. A distant dream. Not that Mr. Flynt, with his connections, couldn’t get the job. He had promised as much. But Mother needed my board money, and would all the more with Jimmy in college.

March brought shocking news. Jeremy’s father had been killed in a freeway accident.

They brought Mr. Winter to Corinth for burial. Mrs. Winter said they had lived in Corinth longer than in any place since their marriage, and it seemed like home.

Jeremy came for the service, shaken and sober. Impulsively, I went up to him, remembering how it had been when we lost Daddy.

“I’m so sorry, Jerry. I know how you feel….”

“You couldn’t possibly,” he said harshly.

I turned quickly away. A snub from Jeremy could still hurt.

He left the same day. And of all things, Mother brought Mrs. Winter home to stay with us.

She was in a terrible state, bitter and frightened at the prospect of assuming the responsibilities of widowhood. There would be financial pressure…they had let their children go through their savings. The insurance and company annuities wouldn’t begin to support the standard of living they had back East. Not that she wanted to go back. She dreaded the impersonal neighborhood, the empty house….

So Mrs. Winter stayed on, leaving financial arrangements to her lawyer and the closing of her home in the East to a married daughter.

“A small town is better for a widow,” Mother approved.

I couldn’t help thinking of the expense.

“Now, Susan,” Mother reproved. “We have the room and plenty to eat, by the grace of God. Who else could help Clara through this first awful adjustment period? Takes somebody who’s been over the road.”

She cocked her head, with a listening air.

“That crazy Henry and his bells,” she added obscurely.

In a few weeks, Mrs. Winter’s tenants found another house. She sent for her furniture, and moved in. As time passed Mother and the other good women of Corinth drew Mrs. Winter into the Ladies Aid, the Literary Society and the Wednesday Card Club. She needed the diversion, for Jeremy did not come home that summer.

“He has a job. He can make more back there,” Mrs. Winter said grimly. “A good thing, too. Things have changed for us.”

Jimmy’s preparations for college made me more restless than ever. I tried not to show it, but I sometimes felt Mother’s gaze and realized I’d been uncharacteristically snappish.

“You could go to college, too,” she said one day.

“How, in heaven’s name” We just barely get by as it is.”

“Mr. Velie would send you. Lend you the money, or whatever.”

“So that was it. Well, I don’t want to be sent, or lent money by a perfect stranger. Don’t you know what I really want? I want to work for a newspaper in Minneapolis. As soon as Jimmy’s through college, I mean to shake the dust of Corinth from my feet.”

“Four years,” Mother sighed. “Susan, I guess I’ve done the wrong thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well…Henry asked me to marry him.”

I stared at her.

“I refused,” she said quietly.

“Henry Velie? Proposed? You mean…when he was here?”

“No…he thought it over, and wrote. Oh, Susan. Can you picture me presiding in elegant idleness over a rich man’s penthouse? Hobnobbing with celebrities? I don’t mean I’d feel inferior. No, indeed! But to fit into that kind of life, you’d need to start younger. So I said no. And now I find I’m a burden to my daughter.”

“I didn’t say that, I didn’t mean that, and I’m sorry I opened my mouth! I’m only twenty; it won’t hurt me to wait…Anyway, you shouldn’t marry someone you don’t love, under any circumstances.”

Mother looked past me; her eyes full of memories.

“I used to fancy myself in love with Henry, long ago,” she said. “Not that he took it all that seriously then. Your daddy, thought, never looked to right nor left after he set his heart on me.”

Suddenly I remembered Mr. Velie reminiscing at the office. “Mother,” I breathed. “Could you be the girl who didn’t wait?”

The big gray eyes snapped back to the present.

“What do you mean? Did Henry tell you that?”

I summoned the exact words.

Mother sat for some time in unaccustomed idleness, wearing a look of gentle wonder. Finally she said with a sigh, “Even so, it just wouldn’t do.”

Some time later, I came across an item in the state paper we scanned daily at the Citizen to avoid the expense of a wire serve. Mr. Henry Velie had turned active management of his corporation over to Mr. So-and-so. He would continue as chairman of the board….

This news was hardly cold before Mr. Henry Velie arrived, rented a suite at the Corinth Hotel and laid siege to our house.

Mother said there was no use getting in a dither; nothing could come of it. Nevertheless, she rolled her hair nightly and put on girdle and hose the first thing each morning, which for Mother was a considerable dither.

Henry Velie sat in our kitchen puffing his pipe and watching Mother do her daily baking. He discussed his plans.

He could see to everything quite well from Corinth, he said, with only an occasional flying trip East. He had intended to retire here; why wait until he was a doddering old man? He had made up his mind to relax and enjoy life.

“I’ve had about everything this world offers, Miss Susan,” he said, for Mother’s ears. “Everything except a real home. That’s what your mother could give me. No other woman on earth could.”

Mother turned from the stove with a face like a prairie sunrise.

“Henry,” she said faintly, “I do believe I hear them.”

“You should have, all along.”

“I didn’t think I had that much to offer.”

“You have everything,” said Henry Velie.

He was on his feet; Mother opened her arms. I left, but nobody noticed….

To Be Continued…

The Message of the Bells, Part 2 of 5



Not long afterward, a rumpled, gray-haired man strolled into the Citizen office so casually I thought it was one o f my boss’s Rotary cronies, and didn’t look up until I heard Mr. Flynt’s cry of recognition, followed by a round of glad-handing and reminiscing.

I was sure Mr. Flynt would get my story, and very likely he would have, but for Mr. Velie.

“I was to see a Miss Susan Todd,” he said presently, glancing in my direction.

My boss looked startled, then pleased. He admires enterprise; I had won my job by bringing in unsolicited news items and “personals” while still in high school.

Mr. Flynt introduced Mr. Velie, who rendered a slight bow and charming smile, and who then sat down and proceeded to interview me.

“Are you Will and Lucille Todd’s girl?”


“How are your parents?”

“Mother is fine. My dad died three years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t hear. Three years ago…must have been in Australia. I don’t keep up on Corinth so well, now Mother’s gone.”

I saw my opportunity and snatched it.

“How did you happen to hear about the fire?”

“Somebody sent me a copy of the Citizen.


“I don’t know. Somebody who guessed I’d be interested…my best memories of Corinth are centered around that church. Used to sing in the choir. So did your mother and dad.”

“Mother still does.”

“You favor her, Miss Susan…You’re not going to college?”

“Working for Mr. Flynt is my college; I want to write for newspapers. My brother Jimmy will go. He gets good grades in everything, so he’s a cinch for a scholarship. I was a social promotion in math and science.”

I was led into a discussion of Jimmy, of our family life, and finally into a recital of my own dreams and ambitions…

“What, no young man?” wondered Mr. Velie. “All that Rapunzel hair, big gray eyes and dimples, and no young man?”

There had been a young man…Jeremy….

“Nobody in particular,” I said. To match his teasing air, I added: “I shall go out into the world and seek my fortune.”

“That’s what I said at your age,” Mr. Velie chuckled. “There was a young lady, though. I was the poorest boy in town, but I was going to make a fortune and then lay it at her feet.”

Here was something new. Mr. Velie was, by reputation, a sought-after but elusive bachelor.

“What happened?” I prompted.

“By the time I made my fortune, it was too late.”

“She didn’t wait!”

“Actually, she waited quite a while, bless her heart. I should have realized she wasn’t all that anxious for a fortune. She married the next-to-the-poorest boy in town.”

I tried to cast Mr. Velie in the role of broken-hearted suitor, keeping faith with a lost young love. The idea had appeal, but it didn’t fit the man who faced me. He looked much too pink and prosperous, taking his ease in the boss’s swivel chair, drawing pleasurably on his pipe and studying me with blue eyes that were both shrewd and merry under bristly gray brows. He was obviously a man who had found life good and expected more of the same.

Mr. Velie now came obligingly to the point.

“What do you think of our Corinthian Cathedral?” he asked.

He confirmed what I already knew, until I got to the bells.

“Wind, indeed,” snorted Mr. Velie. “DuBois has it all wrong. It has nothing to do with the wind. Those are miraculous bells.”

“Miraculous bells?” I reached for my pencil. A bit of fantasy would be fun.

“Miraculous bells,” Mr. Velie intoned solemnly. “They ring only when someone gives out of his abundance.”

I started to write, then stopped.

“But that’s not…I mean, isn’t giving out of abundance sort of opposite from the usual tradition?”

“Exactly. This is a Corinthian cathedral.”

“Well…this is Corinth. I don’t quite see…”

“Do your homework, young lady. First Corinthians, Chapter Thirteen.”

A group of local businessmen burst into the office; in my annoyance, I forgot Mr. Velie’s advice. Mayor Wilkes and the others buzzed around like flies at a honeypot. I wondered sourly whether Henry Velie had known he was leaving behind so many friends when he fled Coring a penniless youth…anyway, it ended my interview.

I arrived home to the usual heavenly cooking odors; my mother baked goodies on order. I reported to the kitchen, accepted hot cookies and told Mother about the miraculous bells which rang when someone gave out of his abundance.

“Sounds just like Henry Velie,” Mother said with an odd little smile.

“Well, it must be true. If they rang for the widow’s mite, we’d have heard them Sunday when I put in my collection envelope.”

“I guess it’s a good philosophy—from where he stands,” I said. “Only a rich man’s gift would count.”

“I doubt that’s what Henry meant,” Mother said mildly.

I went to my room to think, not of magic bells but of broken romances. Maybe Mr. Velie’s ladylove had given up the waiting because she thought it was no use. Like me. Perhaps I was giving up too easily. Still, a year of silence!

Jeremy’s long rangy form rose before me. A lovable clown’s face, big-toothed grin and stand-out ears…the mouth sweet and sensitive in repose. A rambling, loose-jointed gait, big feet and hands…beautiful hands. Why did I remember every foolish detail?

Jeremy Winter had come to Coringth when his father was made manager of our local branch plant, a rung of a mighty corporate ladder. Like all up-and-coming managers, Mr. Winter was soon promoted. The family moved East the summer after our high school graduation. Bad luck for me. But probably I’d have lost Jeremy anyway.

In retrospect, it seemed strange that he had singled me out. He was a swinger by any standards; I was considered square even in Corinth. Jerry thought so, too. He teased and cajoled and sometimes fought with me about it. But he kept coming back.

They had left behind one tenuous root. Mrs. Winter, greatly taken with Corinth’s shaded brick streets and American Gothic ways, had refused to sell their house. In a fit of rebellion against corporate nomadism, she rented it, and vowed to return.

Jeremy’s best friend, Pete Slade, attended the same college, and brought Jerry home the first summer. Things were the same for us: Jeremy amusing, appealing and annoying, constantly testing the limits of my conventionality.

“Hey, Susie Squaresville. You’re not going anywhere.”

“Yes, I am. It’s late…Jerry! Jeremy Winter, if you don’t turn me loose this instant, I’ll lean on the horn and make a scene.”

“Susan. Look, no hands.” Hands in the air, in surrender. Holding me with his eyes, warm brown eyes, now soft and serious. “Don’t ever change, Susan. I love you just as you are. And don’t go away. Wait for me.”

I suppose he meant it then; not everyone has my Old Dog Trey temperament. But I heard less and less from him. The second summer, Pete returned alone. He began dating me, carefully avoiding the subject of Jeremy. Plainly, it was time to stop waiting….

To Be Continued…