I spent days doing very human things like having medical tests and warding off the symptoms of Kidney stones which other humans who have had them can tell you – pain is a part of that process. And yes, in those few days I was a little bit slower (okay a lot slower) and focused on myself just a bit more. I was trying to get through my days like everyone else and accomplishing even smaller tasks had become a little . . . taxing? Challenging? Yes! And making me so much more appreciative for the former weeks where I was having fun with the Adorables at the beach (the grandgirls) and those few weeks ago were beginning to seem like ancient history. I crept around, managed a very nice social Dutch Lunch (which is part of my monthly routine in Nashville with authors and other book-minded peopled) – and then IMMEDIATELY went back into my shell of not talking to anyone.

On one of this days I crossed paths with someone who was very much NOT in a shell. She walked into  a business speaking loud enough for all the patrons to hear, wearing a medical gizmo and giving out lots of recent medical details of her trials and tribulations. I tried not to make eye contact because I didn’t want to talk to another human for one more minute. But the entire time I was thinking – all she wants is a chat, a small chat, to share a few sordid details – all you have to do is go Ummmhumm once in a while – but all that self talk didn’t move me. I made my escape with that woman still on my mind. And yes, I prayed for her later I really did. But a friendly five minutes sure might have been worth more to her. OK – if I were a betting woman I’d give you some odds here.

Then I spent a few more days surfing the city with slower steps and even shorter sentences. And yes, I kept seeing people I felt needed a prayer here and there but my heart wasn’t in it. Pain sure does have a way of side tracking you in a multitude of ways. A few constant twinges and a bit of anger and self-pity.  What began happening at the same time was this kind of dark feeling as if I was entering some sort of grey nebulous.  That pulling away. Where I had been so plugged into the human story for over a year, I was beginning to disassociate. And the numbness that went with that was not at all pleasant. I no longer feel compelled to pray for a person every day as I did in 2009 during the resolution year although I usually still do. But after a few days of not being engaged in that way I can certainly tell a difference. I don’t like it.

The following day I was walking through a local health venue and instead of looking for someone, or being sensitive to someone who might need a special prayer I started remembering all the people I had prayed for here and there walking through that store in the previous year. And remembering the few I had told in person. Which somehow made me busts through my spiritual lethargy and walk up to a woman and say – “Hey, What is your name if you don’t mind me asking because I do this thing – (you can feel in the blanks by now) and today you are my special person. I just want you to know that.”

“Alright!” she said, and pumped her arm a little in the air. “Alright!” she said again.

A smile crept up on my face in spite of my pain. I nodded my head, thinking ‘Alright!’ to myself for different reasons.Then we spoke for a little while where I explained to her how much more she was helping my soul that day than the other way around. And it sure was the truth no matter how she might have looked at it. I told her about the past year, the resolution, and the forthcoming book next April with some of those stories like hers.

“I’m tearing up,” she tells me.

“Yeah, me too.”

And I”m so glad I still can. Seriously. Those bitten days of functioning at a fine level until I could get somewhere to cloak myself, walk through a crowd unnoticed and unfeeling – there’s not much good there. Give me a few short minutes, a stranger here and there any day over the ones where I armor myself with my own life’s pain and pleasures.  And it wouldn’t hurt for me to have a little more patience too. A few minutes of ummmhumm’s might go a long way to water someone else’s soul. No doubt, it would water mine.

Been up and down the road a bit. Capturing memories in my back pocket. Spending summer vacation days with the Adorables as they had time off from school, and totally eating up every sunshiny sandcastle moment of it. I’ve also been praying for strangers at every turn. Old people in restaurants, young sassy people at the deli counters, amusement park kids running the ferris wheel. One thing about vacationing – it gets you off the couch and out into the sea of humanity in a very major way.

For those keeping tabs – Praying for Strangers is now in the hands of its most excellent editor at Penguin, the final book cover is in design, and other talks are happening about the best way to present this amazing story to the world. IN the meantime as my life goes on in a multitude of writerly and personal ways, I keep praying for those that cross my path in a special way. Although it was never what I intended – my resolution has truly become a lifestyle.

And this is what it looks like up close from the inside out.

I’ve had weeks of vacationing with the Adorables (officially grandchilden girls 8 and 3) and have pulled out all the fun cards that a Zaza can find (their official name for me).  Then husband and I delievered them safely home again to North Carolina and drove north to visit his Dad, his old stomping grounds of his babydom of Slaughter Beach, Delaware and up the coast to the old gang outside of Philly where we hit the neighborhood Tavern to meet with his high school buddies where they could catch up on life. Now, as I’m talking to one of the wives I look up and lock eyes with the Spanish woman pushing a broom. I smile and she says “HI!” like she knows me because for a moment she thinks she does. I get up and walk over to her, put my arm around her shoulder where I can hear her. “You’ve been here before? Yes?” “No,” I say, “This is the first time I’ve been here.”

Then I start listening to her story. Her Name is Nora. Her life is not an easy one. She tells me some day she’d like to write her story before she finds out I’m a writer. “I’ve had a hard life,” she says. “I’ve lost my daughter. I don’t know where she is.”

She talks about being from the Honduras  about how long she’s lived here. About her daughter being American and angry with her for not having things like the other girls her age. Things like cell phones and new clothes. Then she asks me questions about Nashville, about what it’s like and if its friendly. “And work? There is work there? What type of work can people like me do there?” People like me. I look at her and think about rules and laws and immigration and my thoughts about those things. Policy thoughts are one thing, Looking into Nora’s eye’s is another. “I’ve got my visa,” she says. “Are there people like me there in this place Nashville?”

“Yes, Nora, there are people like you there.”

“And what kind of work do we do there?” She looks quickly around for the manager that walks through the door to the outdoor patio, she begins pushing the broom, her eyes following it’s path as she continues talking to me. “Work like this yes? This kind of work.”

“Yes, work like this and other work. Restaurants a lot.”

“But it’s friendly there yes? People are nice?”

Yes, I tell her. But what do I know really. People are friendly to me. They are friendly to my sister. To strangers. We find it to be one of the friendliest people on the planet. We like our adopted city. It has big heart we think and quick to lend a hand. But is that what Nora would find as she keeps searching for a place to accept her, to give her a job. To call home?  I can’t tell her the truth or a lie. What do I know? All I can do is offer up a prayer so I tell her that but I also scribble my cell number on the back of business card just in case she finds her way states away on a dark night where it turns out the place isn’t as friendly as I’d hoped it would be.

I give her a hug and she pushes her broom on across the floor under the mangers watchful eyes. She looks back at me one more time before she goes through the door. I pat my heart and point to her trying to say, “Right here Nora, will be keeping you in my prayers and I’ll remember you.”

And I do.