Whatever He Says

The aromas of coffee, bacon and pancakes mingled in the air as a stream of guests arrived for breakfast on Saturday and the Annual Missions Committee Planning Morning.  Debby; o ne of the members of the committee; said, smiling  as she walked by me, "Good morning Belinda; have you talked to your brother lately?"  "It's been a couple of weeks; I'll have to call him later!" I said and smiled to myself at how often people ask me if I've called my brother lately. Either that or they ask, "How's your dog?" I don't have a dog, but I felt like I did when Brenda lived downstairs with Molson. He went with me to so many places and became beloved friend of so many people, and became well known here too, through his regularly recorded adventures. It was a couple of hours later, after serving the missions committee what seemed like a million or so English pancakes with lemon and sugar that I tidied up the kitchen, left them to what sounded l

I was the last to read a piece of writing out loud at the meeting of our writers group--our challenge being to write a description. I had rewritten a description of an old friend, originally written as an assignment for a writing course. Before I started reading I thought I had done a fairly good job of describing her, but as my carefully crafted words left the page and passed through my lips into the air, I felt them sinking to the the ground, lifeless. "She" wasn't in them somehow. I had painted a word picture entitled "Bird of Paradise;" but the soul that had touched my soul and left a lasting imprint, was missing; I knew it; did they? I finished reading with a combination of embarrassment and relief. It was the end of the evening anyway; I knew my friends needed to head out into the cold January night before it got very much later and I was anxious to end a moment that felt awkward to me. I looked up from the page with a smile, preparing to conc