Denial

The breeze came as the rooster crowed. Had it not been for the chill on my neck despite the dry breeze, I might not even have remembered the words of the teacher.

"The rooster shall not crow until you have denied me three times."

I was so certain of myself, safe in the company of this man I had come to love like no other. I would fiercely defend him to the death and was confused at the lack of faith he had in me, even though I showed my faith in him time and time again. Had I not left trade and family to follow him? Had I not stayed with the other 11 when the original 300 scattered to follow another rabbi or to return to lives missed?

But oh the chaos, crowds and confusion. Jesus was beaten and taken away and the Sanhedrin wanted blood. The crowds were turning violent and ugly that night, even as the wind threatened to pick up the fires that blazed this place and that and ignite us all.

"You are one of his disciples," she said to me.

"I am not."

"Aren't you his disciple?" asked another that warmed himself by the flame with me, turning his head to study me.

"I am not," and turned away to hide my face, and the fear that he would surely see in my eyes if he looked closely.

"But I saw you in the garden with him," said the relative of the guard whose ear I had cut off in defense of my friend.

"No, I tell you! You are mistaken," I said, throwing the last words over my shoulder as I ran.

My words had not even registered until that accusing crow. Liar. Betrayer. Enemy. I ran as fast as I could from the crowds until the quilt of darkness enveloped me, and collapsed to my knees in sorrow. Sobs racked my frame and I buried my face in my hands in my shame. But there was no hiding. This is who I have become; a coward when he needed me most. And now they would offer him up because he will not fight for himself and would not let us fight for him. He will be gone and will not return.

He said he was the Son of God, and I said, "I know him not."

Letter To My Daughter

I have told you that I love you and I am proud of you, but lately it seems to be after some heated words when I know you need the affirmation. I despise the feeling that you are on your way to work or a friend's house, and are hurt or sad  because I was too harsh or my tone didn't match the feelings I had in my heart at the time.

But I am proud of you and love you. I wonder if you know just how much. On the day you were born, I realized a love I had never felt before, and a responsibility that took my breath away. I knew the minute I first held you that my life would be defined from that moment on by the way I treated, nurtured, and loved you. An overwhelming desire to protect and provide for you was the mantle that was placed over my life at that moment. I was mom and you were daughter.

How I treasure moments watching you sleep, feeding you, and showing you off when we went out. How I loved dressing you up and holding you close, watching you learn. As you grew, I reveled in your joy at the discovery of the world around you and I caught that sense of wonder like a virus.

These days I treasure these memories. Newborn, helpless, milk-sweet smell. Toddler, jumpy, smiling, spinning, laughing. Teen, moody, friends, sleepovers, makeovers, games and dances. I look at you now, woman, working, learning and breaking free. I simultaneously treasure the little girl you were in your footie pajamas with baby-shampoo-clean hair and your crooked smile and grieve her loss at the same time.

This emotion is new for me and my heart is at war with itself. I want to say, "Stop, stay here, don't leave," and also, "Go, I trust you, trust yourself." And I do trust you. I trust the woman you are and the choices you've made and I give you the permission to keep being yourself because I love who you are, not just what you do.

I would say, "Go, make me proud." But you already have. As you continue this journey, know that you have my unconditional love and my heart is always open. I am always your home if you need it.

Chocolate

I love chocolate. I don't mean that in the quaint way people say, "I love kittens or warm rainy nights," or even "I love God." I mean, I LOVE chocolate.

My co-workers forbid me to eat chocolate before or during staff meetings and they keep it on their desks and give me some after lunch if I've been particularly helpful. You've seen a cat on catnip? Well, that's me on chocolate. Hyper, talking, frequent laughing. Add a couple more pieces and I'm bouncing up and down in my seat, gritting my teeth and slobbering like Cujo.

BRB. I'm going to get a chocolate doughnut.

Okay. It's amazing how much of our lives revolve around food. Baby showers, weddings, birthdays and funerals, from the cradle to the grave we celebrate and mourn with food. New baby? Eat!  Birthday? Eat! Sick or in the hospital? We'll feed your family. Eat! Married? Eat! Lost a loved one? Eat!

There are some things we don't celebrate with food and probably should. Divorce. Bankruptcy. Getting fired. Failing a grade. A spoonful of sugar and all that. I celebrated the end of each Weight Watcher's meeting with a Big Mac and super-sized fries and wondered why that particular program didn't work for me. Food celebrations are all through religious tradition. Marriages, communion, baptisms and confirmations. But no matter what I celebrate, chocolate will be on the table.Unless my nephew is there. He doesn't like chocolate, never has. Personally, I think he was dropped on his head when he was a baby. So, if he comes, we try to remember to bake two cakes. One without chocolate. He will eat tootsie rolls though, which makes me happy because I always suspected they were counterfeit chocolate anyway.