The Women I Know

*Note: Each paragraph is a different woman and you are all very special to me.

You seem so strong and beautiful, even in the heat. You are a lady, and I cannot imagine you having any hardship. Then I learn of the deaths in your childhood, how your mother raised you alone, and how you lost so many babies to miscarriage.

You and I always have the nicest chats about life. We take turns telling stories, laughing and joking. Then you tell me quietly of how you watched your mother waste away with Alzheimer's and how you begged God to let her die.

You tell me that frolicking is quite all right, and that to be single is to blessed.

You teach me poetry when I am young, and we both love the word "crimson." You seem so carefree and happy. Years later, I learn of your losses. All along, when you were teaching me that orange and silver have no rhyme, you were mourning your family.

We read the same books, write stories that are never published, and for a time actually believe that Lori Wick is a good author.

You share dinner with me and guide my feeble attempts at painting. You are warm and kind in word and deed. Everyone you meet is your child, in some way. It is only when I am older and know the truth about the past that I weep for your grief, while you continue to praise God loudly.

You pretend that all the stress of life does not burden you, but behind closed doors you are weeping. I know because I hear you through the walls.

We both like Sundays, basking in sunshine, and long, handwritten notes.

I pick flowers for you, and you are the only one entitled to call me "Baby."

You are so wise, so prudent, so intent on being a good student. But, over breakfast one morning, you surprise me with your unabashed love for all things science fiction. You proceed to beat me at Star Wars Trivial Pursuit.

You - everyone of you - draw me closer to my Heavenly Father with your words, your deeds, and your hugs. I don't know where I'd be without the women I know.