She called to say, 'I couldn't sleep last night. I had this song on my mind.' And she got out of bed and turned her DVD player on and listened to this song over and over. Writing down the words to the song--trying to get them just right. She doesn't have the Internet or Google and even if she did--she doesn't know how to research for lyrics of songs, and really don't care to learn. Her next birthday, she'll be 81 years young. And she listens to the songs of old. Hymnals.

There's a certain stillness of the Last Supper, His Dying, the silence of Saturday and then Sunday--the Resurrection--Easter. Sitting outside on this beautiful Sabbath--the spring flowers are in early bloom and the wind blows gently while the bee sings praise for the first taste of sweet nectar. Everything is quiet. Everything is slow. I'm been thinking a lot these past few days about Mary Magdalene and Simon Peter and the other disciple Jesus loved--rushing to the sepulchre

She was many things–a gleaner of wheat, a widow, a loyal daughter-in-law, a daughter, a damsel, a stranger, a Moabitess. And she described herself as different. A foreigner–not beautiful, different from the other handmaidens. Ruth traveled a long distance with her mother-in-law to Bethlehem after her father-in-law and husband died. She could have easily left Naomi and gone back to the land she knew–to her home where her mother and family resided. Turned and walked away like