My son shot this photo inside the cave where we are going to be filming a short piece called Mary Magdaline’s Message.
1Now upon the first day of the week, very early in the morning, they came unto the sepulchre, bringing the spices which they had prepared, and certain others with them. 2And they found the stone rolled away from the sepulchre. 3And they entered in, and found not the body of the Lord Jesus. 4And it came to pass, as they were much perplexed thereabout, behold, two men stood by them in shining garments: 5And as they were afraid, and bowed down their faces to the earth, they said unto them, Why seek ye the living among the dead? 6He is not here, but is risen...
“A picture now?” I smudged an emergency swipe of lipstick on each cheek, and fumbled through my purse for a comb, while the woman behind the counter at the DMV gazed stoically through me.
The picture could have been worse, I was leaving behind my long brown hair one more time replacing it with a grey-haired picture on my driver’s license. I comforted my pouting self, saying, the loss is all in my mind. The longer it stayed in the side pocket in my purse, the less it would matter to me.
My Aunt Julie renewed her license this week also. “We got caught in the rain without an umbrella. Not only was my hair soaked, but the wind had blown my hair all over the place. I quickly ran a comb through my wet hair and they snapped the picture.” She said. “ At my age, I’m just glad to have a license.”
“Do you live here?” Four little-big eyes peeped through my bamboo stalks on the other side of my fence. “Yes I do.” I said in my friendly neighbor voice. We talked for a moment, the boys are probably 3 and 4 years old. “Be sure to say hello when you see me.” I told them. I am looking forward to more fence chats.
Next door to our house in Pennsylvania lived Mrs Butterbaugh. Her children were about the age of mine now. My little ones were not allowed to cross the street, but they could go once a day to Mrs. Butterbaugh’s for a popsicle.
Life was pleasantly chaotic. We were running a home business, maintaining a 100 year old house while waiting for a call for my husband’s kidney transplant. “Are you sure it’s okay?” I asked Mrs Butterbaugh. Her children had busy lives, she convinced me she enjoyed having my children around. I understand this now.
I turned up the radio finishing off the dishes singing most of the words to Midnight Confessions, by the Grass Roots. At 12 years old, I didn’t own many records, but with birthday money from my grandma, I bought the 45.
After hours recessing the needle back into the vinyl grooves and mashing my ear into the speaker, I was still at a loss for all the words, but sang my little heart out with what I knew and mumbled the rest. It was my favorite song.
Times have changed and in one click, google solved the 50 year mystery of the missing lyrics. Turns out the song is about a guy secretly in love with a married woman. Who knew? I’m embarrassed.
“Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming, “Wow what a ride!”