Hi.
Got in trouble at work today. My [whatever] weren’t up to company standards.
Seems that this door is about to shut.
The wise and foolish who speak for God say, “God never closes a door without opening a window.”
I’ve read the Bible cover to cover quite a few times. Memorized parts. Forgotten most of what I’ve read. But, one thing’s for sure. That door line ain’t in the Bible.
What the Bible says is that God will be with us when we walk through valleys of death and/or deep, overwhelming waters.
As compared to never allowing us to suffer, fail, hurt or get our butts whupped.
Want a great Bible study? Look at all the times God uses the words “but God” in the Scriptures.
My job is toast. But God…
God’s provision, comfort and purpose in my life are not limited or enhanced by my job.
So be it.
**
As I ponder the next steps that must be explored, I remember some of the things friends and others have said.
“What are you going to do?”
“How can I help?”
“You’re a great editor and an even better writer.”
“You love to write and you love your grandchildren. Write a book for kids!”
Here’s a truth for you.
There are a gazillion people who would trade lives with me in a heartbeat.
I have it good.
Healthy.
Well fed.
Money in the bank.
Warm home.
Too many clothes.
The Bike.
I don’t live with anyone who loathes me.
My daughters are well, except for Star’s morning sickness.
I have held my children’s children.
God cares for me.
**
Meeting Moonbeam
Used to spend a week in DC every year at a convention of religious broadcasters. 5,000 of us. The high and mighty. And me. Lots of friends. No foes.
Good times.
One year, when I was between wives, I spent some time trying to find a concert in the Celtic-music-rich DC environs. Made several calls to scope out the who/what/when/where, the cost, and directions, etc.
Got to be pals with the folks on the phone.
Found a concert that was scheduled for a Sunday night, a slow time for conventioning.
Took the Metro to Silver Spring , MD to hear my favorite hammered dulcimer player (THDP) and a few of her cohorts.
[I’m listening to THDP's band’s CD now.]
Great concert in a unitarian church.
(Do you know what renegade unitarians do to their enemies?
In the dark of night they burn question marks on their enemies’ lawns.)
THDP played a magnificent solo. Then she introduced a man to the audience. They were getting married!! Very cool. He was a musician too.
Know what they did? Played a duet on a single hammered dulcimer. He played it facing her, kinda upside-down. How much practice did THAT take?
Great music.
*
So the band took a break.
Saw this rich-hippie-babe-in-velvet lurking about.
Making her acquaintance made about as much sense as trying to flirt with one of the babes on The Weather Channel … through my TV.
Not like I was gonna bring her back to the convention.
My home was [insert distance from ATL to BWI here] away.
She was perfectly beautiful. To my eye.
**
Not sure how we began to chat.
She asked me where I was from. Told her.
Asked why I was there. Told her.
She said her friends told her a guy from ATL was coming.
hmmm
Watched/devoured the rest of the concert with her.
Afterward, she was surprised by how much I loved such Celtic groups as:
Boys of the Lough
Altan
Ceolteori
Croabh Rua
Dervish
Kornog
Solas
Paul Machlis
and a close friend of hers: Sue the Wonder Harper, America
We had a nice time together.
Concert ended.
Time to say goodbye.
Went well.
She asked me how I was getting back to DC.
Metro, of course.
She smirked.
The way all women eventually smirk at me
when they discover that I am an airhead.
It was now . Sunday night.
Nope.
The Metro didn’t run that late from Silver Spring to DC.
Told her I’d take a cab to the nearest functioning Metro stop.
We figured out which one that one was.
Then she offered me a ride there.
Happily took it.
***
The Friendly Moonbeam
No idea what we talked about for much of that trip.
Except
she said she was divorced
and feared/wondered
if she would ever
and this is the word she used
“connect”
with a man ever again.
Tossed the obvious guy facts at her.
She was a magnificent spectacle of a beautiful, intelligent, empathetic woman.
Couldn’t guarantee she’d ever connect with an acceptable man, but knew she’d have many to choose from.
Believe it or not, I tried to tell her – in spite of being at the nadir of my own spiritual orb – that life was more about connecting with God than others.
Gave her my business card.
She dropped me off at the Friendship Heights Metro stop.
(It was a Moonbeam thing.)
Took the train back to the convention.
Remembering her.
Probably saying a prayer for her.
Certainly experiencing her.
***
Connecting with Moonbeam
Not sure what happened next.
But we began to e-mail one another.
Then we talked on the phone a few times.
Then we talked daily.
Then we planned on having me fly to her home near DC.
Back in those days, I had only begun dealing with the devastation of a recent life-shattering divorce.
Had nothing to give to God or man or woman or myself.
Read my Bible. Loved my kids.
But my solace was found in Celtic music, not hymns or pseudosaints.
**
A Rare Moonbeam, Indeed
Moonbeam was “spiritual.”
Gentle. Meditative. Strongly held moral beliefs.
Way into crystals, feng shui and inner discovery.
I gave christians zero benefit of the doubt to be as deep as Moonbeam.
She was also a champion Celtic harper.
Had a music degree from a fancy school.
Killer smile. Heart-melting giggle.
Dressed like a hippie princess.
Always donned hues of purple and lively, earthy colors.
Not showy. Merely rich enough to buy herself whatever she wanted.
Ladies, can you imagine the velvety, velour-y fabrics she wore? The open-woven shawls she used to adorn her shoulders on chilly evenings?
Just graceful, imho.
I liked her.
Trouble was in our path, however.
I didn’t believe too much in God, but I knew there was no future in choosing her over a path back toward God.
**
Talked to my pastor.
He led a church of mostly former or wannabe hippies. He wasn’t freaked out at all.
He was like, “Hey, you never know. If you can control yourself, go visit her.”
**
Talked to Moonbeam.
Told her I’d visit, but I didn’t want to sleep with her.
No, wait. That’s a big, fat lie.
Told her I needed my own room, because I [oh, you know what I mean].
She thought that was fine.
Told her I was going to call my pastor every night, to be accountable.
Didn’t even freak her out.
**
Chez Moonbeam
wow
Didn’t just have my own room.
Had my own wing in her dandy McMansion.
One of her favorite toys was a like-it-was-made-for-Louis XIV concert harp. That sucker was about six feet tall and weighed a zillion pounds.
She rented it out to a lady who played in big league orchestras.
**
She took me around town.
Met her friends.
Enjoyed one another.
And ended our days in our own rooms.
We were growing closer.
**
I suppose people can fake closeness. Maybe it’s common. I dunno.
Tell you what you cannot fake. Knowing who is calling you when the phone rings, without ringtones or caller ID.
She used to call my office during the day. I don’t care a whit if you believe this or not, but the truth is I knew when it was her.
I’d just pick up my phone and instead of presuming it was any of the hundreds of radio stations I dealt with … I’d just say, “Hi, [Moonbeam].
Freaked her out.
She’d call from payphones, friend’s houses and all that.
I’m telling you … with rare exceptions … I knew when it was her.
We were connecting.
**
Visits from Moonbeam
Yup.
She came and stayed at my house.
I vacated at night and stayed with friends.
I’d come back in the morning.
Once, as I pulled into my driveway, she was on my front porch playing her travel-sized lap harp. Gorgeous music. Skillfully, artfully played. Heavenly.
She came to church with me. Met my pastor and pals.
At one of our after-church meals, she played her harp as we ate. Even sang, if I remember correctly.
I was falling in love.
I can never tell with women, but I think she was too.
**
Showed her around town.
Drove up to the highest hill in the area and let her embrace the vista.
A-tippy-top that hill, my favorite house nestled itself into the landscape.
White. Low. Old. Picket fence. Vines. Flowers. Brick walkway, I think.
Sunroom laying bare the mountains, clouds, rainbows and storms.
It was for sale.
We called the agent.
Turned out Moonbeam had a real estate license.
She worked out a reciprocal deal with the listing agent.
Talked about how much the owners would take.
Could she spin off some of the land? (We didn’t need the little barn or pasture.)
Moonbeam was convinced we could buy it – easily – if we wanted to live together.
[long pause]
**
I tease a lot about wanting to marry a rich widow.
Might seem as if I have a thing for money or women with money.
Yes, my dad told me, “Robert, it’s as easy to love the rich as it is the poor.”
But when I married My Favorite Wife, I paid off her credit cards and helped her get out of debt. Helped her get a good job. Helped her set up a retirement account. Helped her buy a refrigerator and stuff when she moved into the house I helped her buy when she chose to live life without me.
It’s as easy to love those who aren’t rich, as it is to love the rich.
**
I’ve met women who had more money than some Third World countries.
One had a ministry to women.
One ministered to musicians, as only an unknown groupie could.
Money just gives people more opportunities to do what they want to do, good or bad, imho.
Money isn’t worth loving.
People aren’t worth loving just because they’re rich.
**
Memories of Moonbeam
We flipped the lid on my convertible one summer day and wafted up to Highlands , NC. Great road trip.
Got up there and Moonbeam wanted to stop at an art gallery. Like, a real one, but the art was for sale. It was filled with HUGE artsy-fartsy paintings that you and I could duplicate if we closed our eyes, spun ourselves in a tight circle for about ten minutes, then splattered paint on a canvas-covered wall before we regained our balance.
I will never forget what happened before we got out of the car.
Moonbeam de-convertibled her hair.
Reached for her little tapestry handbag.
Pulled apart the arc-y wooden handles.
And moved stuff around looking for something in particular.
She had this – mass – in her purse that I simply could NOT identify.
Abandoned all guy decorum and said, “What’s that?”
She didn’t know what I meant, at first.
Then she held up the proverbial wad of cash and said, “This?”
Sorry, but I’m still amazed.
Rich people are different in one big way.
They’re rich.
**
The Fading Moonbeam
One of the last times I saw her, I drove to DC to watch her perform with her group at the Kennedy Center
They were/she was great.
I think I surprised her by waving from the crowd, but I don’t exactly remember.
But I remember hanging out with her afterward around the Kennedy Center
I loved Moonbeam.
Really did.
We just did well together.
Had nothing to do with money or beauty.
We connected.
**
It’s hard to carry on a long-distance relationship.
Calls became fewer.
Plans to visit changed.
Differences in our religions arose.
She/we faded into oblivion.
OK.
Not oblivion or I wouldn’t have thought of her so much in the past couple of weeks.
**
Friends recently got married. Popped them a CD of Celtic music. Gave it to them, not on purpose, in a case where Sue the Wonder Harper wrote a nice note to me.
Then a few weeks ago, my pal Kiddo moved. Up to one of the highest hills anywhere around. Like, right across the street from my favorite house.
Yup. That one.
**
Gotta wonder what would’a happened if I had hooked up with Moonbeam.
Without a doubt I wouldn’t be in the job I’m in today.
(The one I might not be in tomorrow.)
But no regrets.
OK. That’s a lie.
I have TONS of regrets
But Moonbeam was a blessing.
A lovely woman.
Charming.
A skilled, gifted artist.
Great giggler.
Easy on the eyes and the heart.
Hope she’s well.
Appreciated … loved … and cherished
in spite of her money
music
beauty
brains
wit or
wardrobe
but because Moonbeam is worth connecting with
if only in clouded memories.
