Dear Angels,

I gave a bit of advice to a friend online yesterday, hoping it was helpful. As I woke up this morning, I felt the familiar tears of sadness. Bob was not and never can be, on the other side of the bed. Hot tears traced this truth down my face.

And I thought of my friend Peter, who realized he was bigger than the sky. I am, too, I thought. I am in a human body with all that entails. And it’s really, really hard. But my real home is in heaven.

So I got up and wiped my eyes and blew my nose. Had some chai and a bowl of cereal. It’s early, the Memorial Day holiday. I will get out a bit this morning but other than that, the day stretches before me in its essential emptiness.

My friend T. says that our most important connections to heaven happen while we are asleep at night. He also says that I must try and be outdoors more and to be with others when I can. Alas, the introvert bookworm in me prefers the air-conditioned solitude. But his wisdom bades me listen.

Here is a poem:

The morning air glows leafy green.
And I am somewhere in between
the mists of heaven and the
turpitude of earth.
Bound and free, I would be
love so I can see the pain
within the human eye,
always asking “Why, why, why?’

There is no answer save the
living of the pain.
And that, my friends,
leads to a greater gain.

Vicki Woodyard