What do dreams look like to someone born blind, who lives all his days in the dark?
If my brother as a child ever dreamed of playing football, he never talked about it to me.
He talked about other things. Cars, mostly. And speed. He couldn’t wait to learn to drive.
“Sister,” he’d say, that skinny little boy with laughing blue eyes and legs badly bent from cerebral palsy, “when I get my license, I’ll fly so fast the angels will run and hide their wings!”
I didn’t tell him he would never get a license. Joe was smart. He’d figure it out soon enough. Until then, why not let him dream?
By the time he was a teenager, he didn’t mention driving any more. That’s when he fell in love with radio. He listened to it day and night, any chance he got _ WAGY from Forest City, N.C.
“Sister,” he’d say, that pimply faced boy sporting a blond crew cut and swinging a shiny white cane, “when I’m old enough to get a job, I’m going to be a disc jockey on the radio!”
I didn’t tell him it would never happen. Like most things, he figured it out on his own. In the meantime, he got to dream.
Then somehow _ while I was off in California raising a family and working for newspaper _ Joe fell in love with football.
Actually, he fell in love with a woman, Tommie Jean, who was also blind, and a big Clemson fan. When they got married, he promised to love, honor, cherish and always pull for the Tigers.
They were married 10 years before he lost her to cancer. Now he pulls for the Tigers twice as hard in her behalf.
He never misses a game, thanks to his hero, Pete Yanity, the play-by-play voice on WSPA, Spartanburg, S.C.
“You love Pete Yanity more than you love me,” I say. Joe doesn’t answer, just grins.
Three years ago, after I spoke in Anderson, S.C. (where my column has long appeared in the Independent Mail, and people know about my brother and most other personal details of my life) my husband and I were invited to take Joe to his first Clemson game as guests of the president and his wife (Jim and Marcia Barker, not as Joe first thought, George and Laura Bush.) And Pete Yanity, bless him, invited us to stop by the broadcast booth to say hello.
Talk about a dream come true. Joe had so much fun I thought he’d start nagging me to take him again. But he didn’t. Maybe, with all he’s “seen” in life, he’s learned to take it as it comes.
I wish you could’ve seen him when I told him I was speaking in Anderson again (last week, at a fundraiser for AnMed Health Center) and we’d been invited to the Independent Mail’s box to see Clemson play Georgia Tech.
We picked him up at noon (he was ready at 5 a.m.) and he was wearing his Clemson shirt.
“Why are you wearing a Gamecocks shirt?” I said.
He grinned as he does when I tease him, but he touched the emblem on his shirt to be sure.
Before to the game, we were hurrying to the broadcast booth to say hello to Pete Yanity when we passed the “good luck” tradition that Clemson’s players always touch as they run down the hill into the stadium.
“Joe,” said my husband, “there’s Howard’s Rock.”
Joe reached out and sat for a moment _ a middle-aged man in a wheelchair, his face lit up like Christmas, ever so gently rubbing his hand over a rock.
Later, on the ride home, I would tell him he had played a part in Clemson’s 27-13 victory.
“I did?” he said.
“You brought them luck.”
He threw his head back to laugh and it sounded like angels running to hide their wings.
“Well,” he said, “glad to help.”

A week ago, I told myself that spring was here to stay, and I, for one, was ready for it.

Someday, if it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to get it through my brother’s cannonball skull that there’s a three-hour gap between our time zones.

   So if he calls me at 7 a.m. his time, all chirpy-voiced and raring to talk, it’s only 4 a.m. in my cold, dark world and there’s a slight chance I’ll be sleeping.

   He claims he knows about the time difference, but somehow he just forgets. Yeah, right. As if he ever forgets anything.

   My birthday, for example. He never forgets that. Why would he? It’s so much fun to call at 4 a.m. and wake me up.

   Joe is blind, but he’s no fool. He’s been waking me up at the crack of dawn most of my life.

   When he was little, 5 or 6 _ before he got old enough to board at the state school for the blind _ he’d wake me up most every morning and make me describe for him the sunrise.

   He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it warming his face through the window. When it felt just right, he’d find his way to my room waving his little pink hand like a starfish.

   “Sister,” he’d say, “wake up.”

   “Can’t,” I’d say. “I’m dead.”

   That made him laugh, but it never deterred him. No matter how dead I played, no matter how mad I got, I had to get up and tell him about the sunrise.

   And if my words failed to do justice to the image that swirled in his mind, he’d said, “Nope, that’s not it, try again.”

   I’ve not checked, but if you look in the dictionary under “stubborn little cuss,” you might see my brother grinning.

   He loves to get calls on his birthday. In fact, he usually calls me a week in advance _ at 4 a.m. _ to remind me to call him. He doesn’t get as many calls as he once did. Most of the people he counted on _ our mother, our stepfather, our grandparents and even his wife, the love of his life _ are gone.

   Our sister, Saint Bobbie, who lives nearby, always takes him out to supper to celebrate. The best I can do from three time zones away is send a card and a little gift and make dang sure I don’t forget to call.

   Today, on his birthday, I almost called at midnight _ 3 a.m. his time. It seemed only fair. But I waited until 9, after I had a hot shower. (If I have to sing “Happy Birthday,” I find it helps to shower first.)

   When he didn’t answer, I left a message: “Call me or else.”

   Hours later when he called back, he made me sing “Happy Birthday” again, even though I’d sung it on the message.

   “Were you out partying?”

   He hooted. “Yes, I was out partying at my dentist’s office!”

   He was serious. He went in to get his teeth cleaned and the staff gave him a party complete with presents, a new toothbrush and a box of chocolate bars.

   “They were so good I ate six bars on my way home!”

   “I bet they throw parties for all their patients,” I teased.

   “No,” he said, “they really like me. My dentist never charges me a dime. He says the Lord’s been good to him and he just wants to give a little back.”

   For a moment, I closed my eyes and tried to picture the image my blind brother saw so clearly: That of a small band of angels who cleaned his teeth and warmed his heart.

   It happens every day in small towns and big cities. People go out of their way to shine light, to shed grace, to be kind. It happens so often it shouldn’t surprise us. But when it happens to someone we love, it’s a gift to us, as well.

   Someday, if it’s the last thing I do, I’ll visit the office to thank them in person. Today I’ll leave a message. The office is closed. It’s only 2 p.m. my time but, as my brother just explained to me, there’s a three-hour gap between our time zones.

There are moments in life so steeped in prayer that, even if something seems to go wrong, it turns out to be just right.

Months ago, when my daughter announced that she and her fiancé were planning to get married in March, in an outdoor ceremony overlooking the ocean, I did what mothers do best: I bit my tongue and began to pray like crazy.

I am good at the praying part, thanks to my daughter and her two brothers who’ve given me years of practice. The tongue biting part is a bit harder.

I was tempted to say, “Sounds great, but, um, what if it rains?”

Actually, that is exactly what I said. But I said it very nicely.

Spring in California is a glorious season of blue skies, warm breezes and dazzling green hills carpeted with wildflowers that pour over the slopes as if God had spilled buckets of paint _ orange poppies, blue lupine and wild yellow mustard.

March is wedding-picture perfect. You can count on it. Unless it rains.

“It won’t rain,” said my daughter, “it will be beautiful.”

Then she added, “If it rains, we’ll deal with it.”

“You’re right,” I said, “it’ll be beautiful. Will you pray, too?”

“I already started.”

If this was not the wettest winter of my life, it certainly had me fooled. For months before the wedding, each time I checked the forecast (which I did several times a day) I would get a severe weather advisory that said, in effect, “Tie down your goat and start building an ark.”

When my daughter was a little girl, I often pictured her on her wedding day, all grown up and gorgeous, walking down the aisle on her daddy’s arm.

I never imagined it in rain. I never imagined it without her dad, either, until we lost him to cancer. Things change. As my daughter says, you deal with it.

The day of the wedding dawned clear and blue, not a cloud, not a raindrop, not a problem in sight. I kept praying, just in case.

Her brothers escorted me to my seat, then took their places at the altar with their wives and soon-to-be brother-in-law.

When the music began, I stood to watch my daughter, all grown-up and gorgeous, walking up the hill on her stepfather’s arm.

It was a picture-perfect wedding, start to finish, in every way. Except for the cake.

She wanted it to look like a tree trunk with love birds and flowers decorating the top, and on the side, a big heart carved with their initials, “J+H.”

Imagine our dismay to arrive at the reception and find that apparently the baker forgot the plan. No heart. No initials. No nothing. It looked like a bad hat for a snowman.

As the bride and I stood gawking at the cake/hat, her brother _ the same one that she liked to dress up as a girl, back when he was little, and parade him around the neighborhood _ came rushing to her rescue.

“I can fix it, Sissy,” he said.

And so he did. Using a kitchen knife and taking his time, he carved a big, perfect heart complete with “J+H” into the “trunk” of the cake.

“Look at that, Mom,” said the bride, beaming at her brother. “Could anything be cuter?”

Minutes later, she and her husband danced their first dance, took the first steps of a journey Tennyson called “that new world which is the old.”

Whatever storms come their way, whatever life has in store, with the grace of God and the love of family and friends, they will deal with it together.

That will be their job, their commitment to keep every day.

Mine will be to keep praying.

To be honest, as I like to be whenever I can, I’ve never cared much about my birthday.

   Growing up, birthdays were the days other kids had parties and got presents. I felt lucky to get a cake from my mother (chocolate with custard filling), five dollars from my daddy and a lick in the face from my dog.

   In my teen years, birthdays were only rungs on a ladder to that magical grownup land I called “free at last, free at last.”

   “Free at last” didn’t last very long. I got married at 21, had my first child at 23, my second at 26, and my baby at 29.

   After that, birthdays got a lot more interesting. Not just because I hit the “Big 3-0.” (An older friend told me, “There’ll be bigger birthdays, honey, if you’re lucky.”) But children have a way of making everything more interesting.

   After I became a mother, birthdays were the days when I celebrated my children’s births with parties and presents and a whisper in the ear, “So glad that you were born.”

   They in turn would celebrate mine with burnt pancakes, crayoned cards, handpicked daffodils from the neighbor’s yard and a beautiful sticky mess of maple syrup coated kisses.

   I liked those birthdays a lot.

   The celebrations grew  more sophisticated as they, and I, grew older, with dinner at Denny’s or a hotdog at halftime of a basketball game.

   I didn’t want gifts or parties. I was sure I had everything I’d ever need. My birthday could come and go, it wasn’t a big deal. There would always be another one next year, right?

   Then my husband was diagnosed with cancer. And suddenly birthdays, holidays, every day, really, shined with a sweeter, clearer light.

   My children were in their twenties when he died. Three weeks after his memorial service, my daughter and my younger son packed me in the car and drove for five hours to L.A. to celebrate my 50^th birthday with their brother. I’d never felt so glad to be alive.

   One of the gifts that comes with loss is a finer appreciation for what remains. We were close as a family before we lost their dad; but in the wake of his death, in the fire of letting go, we drew even closer.

   The best thing about birthdays is not parties or presents or even a cake (unless it’s chocolate with custard filling); the best thing about birthdays is being remembered by those who matter most.

   And you know who you are.

   Some years ago, I mentioned in a column that my birthday was in February, but you did not need to send me a card, unless you really wanted to.

   You would not believe the mail I get in February. Contrary to what some may think, I do not own stock in Hallmark. But if I had half a brain, I would.

   Thank you for the cards you have sent recently and the ones still arriving. Like the phone calls from my children (“So glad you were born, Mom”) and the cards and kindnesses from family and friends, they lit up my heart like a thousand candles on a chocolate cake with custard filling.

   It’s tacky to brag about gifts, but too bad, I can’t resist. First, a mourning dove sang outside my window. I had heard it sing before, but never just for me.

   Then my youngest, a teacher like his dad and his sister, called and had me listen as his class of third graders sang “Happy Birthday” just for me.

   Finally, my husband took me to see Tony (be still my beating heart) Bennett, who sang “The Way You Look Tonight.”

   Yes, just for me.

   There are bigger birthdays than 30 or 50 or whatever, if we are lucky. And I am.

   But you don’t have to send me a card, unless you want to.

  What have you read lately that helped you in some way or just put you in a good place?

   That’s the question I posed recently. I listed a few books I’d been reading and asked you to tell me about yours.

   I don’t know why I did that. It seemed like a good idea. Like the time I thought it would be fun to invite a few of my husband’s coworkers over for dinner and ended up trying to feed 40 people with 20 burgers and a bag of stale chips.

   Good ideas, on my watch, have a tendency to get out of hand. It started with a note from a reader in Naples, Fla., who wrote: “I like to read but do not care for books with bad language or violence. My problem when I go to the library is that I do not know how to choose a book. If you could recommend any … I would appreciate it.” _ D.L.

   I could’ve played it smart and told D.L. the best source for a book recommendation would be her local librarian.

   Librarians know a lot about books and they live, bless their hearts, to help you find one. All you have to do is ask.

   Still, I couldn’t resist offering a few recommendations and asking you to send me yours.

   And oh my, did you ever. Who knew there could be so many good books? So many recommendations, so little space on my hard drive.

   First, let me say thank you to everyone who took the time to tell me at length about their latest literary love affairs. Though time won’t permit a reply to each (I don’t expect to live that long) please know that I read every note and enjoyed each one thoroughly.

   Second, let me apologize to those of you who wrote with such passion about books that didn’t make this list. If I can figure out how to do it, I’ll try to post them on my web site. 

   Let’s start with your favorite series: The Mitford books by Jan Karon; the “No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency” series by Alexander McCall Smith; “Anne of Green Gables” by L.M. Montgomery; “The Ladies of Covington Send Their Love” by Joan Medlicott; the Cedar Cove series by Debbie Macomber; the “Tending Roses” series by Lisa Wingate; the Harmony books by Philip Gully; Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum mysteries; and Brendan O’Carroll’s “Mrs. Browne” trilogy.

   Next, the top three titles you mentioned most often: “Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet,” by Jamie Ford; “Still Alice,” by Lisa Genova; and “Same Kind of Different as Me” by Ron Hall, Denver Moore and Lynn Vincent.

   Here in no certain order are some books that you loved and that I hope to read: “Cutting for Stone” by Abraham Verghese; “Here if You Need Me” by Kate Braestrup; “Zeitoun” by Dave Eggers; “The Art of Mending” by Elizabeth Berg; “The Water Giver” by Joan Ryan; the Book of Ephesians by the Apostle Paul; “Fathered by God” by John Eldredge; “Three Cups of Tea” by Greg Mortenson; and “The Hearts of Horses” by Molly Gloss.

   Finally, my favorite recommendation came from Marilouise Montgomery in Redding, Calif., who wrote to say the most important book in her life was “The Catcher in the Rye” by J.D. Salinger.

    When she reached for it on the shelf of her college library, she said, she brushed hands with a young man she knew only slightly, who was reaching for it, too. The library had only one copy of the book, so they decided to read it together.

   “We read together for 47 years,” she said, “until he died.”

   You’ll be glad to know, as I am, Marilouise is still reading.