Every woman, at least once in her life, ought to be Queen for a Day. My sister Bobbie waited 80 years for her turn. It came last week on her 80th birthday, when we honored Her Majesty with a royal wingding.

The celebration was shared by some thirty guests: Bobbie’s children and grandchildren, our brother Joe and more cousins than I’ve hugged since I ran off to live in California of All Places.

Every story, no matter how it’s told, has different meanings for different people. This story is about my family. But I hope it’s about your family, too.

My sister was always “the pretty one.” In her 20’s, she worked on an assembly line in a mill and modeled the mill’s line of clothing for corporate buyers.

When her children grew up, she earned a nursing degree and spent years doing three 12-hour shifts a week as an ICU nurse.

After she retired, the strokes began and life became a series of bad falls and hospital food.

Her latest fall confined her to a wheelchair and a nursing home. She keeps in touch by phone with family, especially Joe, who is blind and disabled by cerebral palsy. She calls him daily or he calls her. If she doesn’t answer, he calls me in a panic.

I had planned to do a party for Bobbie, but was thrilled when Cousin Sara and her sweet husband, the Bear Man, offered to host it at their home. They did everything. My only job was to transport the guests of honor to and from the party.

So last week I flew to Charlotte, drove to Landrum, S.C. (my hometown) and checked into a place on a lake.

Joe and Bobbie were 30 miles away in Spartanburg. For three days, I drove back and forth to visit them. Then on Saturday, I hurried down to pick them up.

I knew it wouldn’t be simple. Suffice it to say, I’ll forever be in debt to all the folks who helped get them in and out of the car.

I wanted to do Bobbie’s makeup for the party. (Before the strokes, she never left home without it.) But she did it all herself. I just blended the blush (so she looked less on fire) and put her hair up in a bun.

Staring at a mirror, she shook her head, as if to say, “I’m not young any more.” But to me, she will always be the “pretty one.”

Joe is a big fan of the Clemson Tigers. He was listening to their game on the radio, but gave it up to go to the party. When I couldn’t find the game on the car radio, he said, “It’s OK, Sister. You tried your best.”

On the 40-minute drive to the party, Joe kept saying he could hardly wait to see everybody.

Then, for three fine hours, the remnants of our family talked and laughed and ate and doted on both Bobbie and Joe.

I kept watching them for signs of fatigue. Joe heard Clemson won in double overtime, so he was grinning like a mule eating briars and happy to stay for a second helping of cake.

Bobbie was hard to read. Strokes have dimmed her dazzling smile. But her eyes told me she felt safe and loved wrapped in the arms of her family.

I wish you could’ve seen her.

Finally, it was time to go. Bobbie’s grandson Cree held her close and eased her into the front seat of the car. Bear Man helped Joe into the back. As we pulled out, all the family lined up along the driveway to wave us a royal farewell.

The drive back was quieter than the drive to the party. But at one point, Joe said, “It sure was great having our family together again.” And Bobbie whispered, “Yes, it sure was.”

I left Joe in a recliner at his apartment, and Bobbie in bed at the nursing home, kissed them both and said I’d be back the next day.
Then I drove to the lake, singing a song of thanks to Cousin Sara and her Bear Man and to God and all His angels for an unforgettable day.

Our family was together. Joe’s Tigers won. And best of all, my sister got to be Queen for a Day.

Tomorrow, Lord willing (as my grandad would say) and if the creek don’t rise (as my grandmother would add) I will fly all day to go spend a week hugging necks in the Carolinas.

In the 12 years my husband and I lived in Las Vegas, I flew once or twice a month to speak at events or visit our children.

We had no grandchildren when we moved there. Then they started coming out of the woodwork. Nine grandbabies in ten years. So we moved back to California to be closer to our growing family. Then the pandemic hit and life changed in ways we never imagined.

It’s been more than two years since I boarded a plane, and almost four years since I’ve seen the mountains where I was born, or hugged the necks of folks in a big-hearted family that, despite how I turned out, tried to raise me right.

Four years is too long to be away from people you love. I’m especially looking forward to seeing my sister and brother. But I also hope to see cousins and nieces and nephews and friends who feel like family.

My sister Bobbie is now in a nursing home. My brother Joe, who is blind, lives alone. I’ve had several offers to stay with family or friends. But I plan to stay on a lake where I swam as a teenager; grieved after the death of my first husband; and years later, spent months writing like a house on fire to finish a novel.

That lake and those mountains will always be family to me. Just to see them tells me I am home.

My sister has a big birthday this week. I’d tell you how big, but if she knew, she’d kill me and refuse to go to my funeral.

Cousin Sara and her husband Dennis (I call him Bear Man but that’s another story) will host a party for Bobbie, who will be thrilled to see us all, as long as the food is good. (Bobbie’s a mite picky.) I’m sure the food will be good, and plentiful.

Once, as Sara and I planned food for a crowd, I said, “Do you think we’ll have enough?”

“Don’t worry, honey,” Sara said. “If we run short, we’ll just put out a few funeral home signs and the neighbors will start bringing us covered dishes.”

Joe said he’d be happy to come the party, if he can listen to the Clemson football game on TV while we eat. Joe will love the food. He’s not picky about anything but Clemson football.

This gathering won’t be nearly as big as some we’ve shared in years past. Our grandparents had ten children (nine talkative girls and one quiet boy) and more grandchildren than they could count.

On Sundays and holidays most of us showed up at their house (unless we were deathly ill) to eat the world’s best fried chicken, potato salad and banana pudding.

The women would gossip in the kitchen. The men would smoke and joke on the porch. And the girl cousins would watch the boy cousins try to kill each other with sticks.

We were a family, certain we always would be. Then life took its toll. Some of us moved to foreign lands like California of All Places. In time, we lost our grandparents and parents, aunts and uncles, even some cousins. Many of them lie buried side by side on a lovely hill with a view of the BI-LO parking lot.

It brings to mind a beautiful song by Lyle Lovett that recalls members of his family who are gone, but not forgotten, and describes those still living as the last of the “Family Reserve.”

We are, for now, the last of our Family Reserve. Fewer in number. Scattered apart. But our children and grandchildren and all the children yet to come will one day take our place and be our family forever.

This week we will gather once more to remember loved ones who are gone, but not forgotten, and to celebrate the birthday of our matriarch, my sister Bobbie.

A good time will be had by one and all, by our Family Reserve and countless others smiling down on us from above.

I hope Bobbie likes the food.

What’s your earliest memory, the first thing you recall seeing and have never forgotten?

I was a baby, crying in my crib, all alone in the dark. Suddenly, through a window, I saw the moon. And the moon saw me. I smiled and the moon smiled back. Then it reached down to wrap me up in its long arms of light. And I fell fast asleep.

Did that really happen? I don’t know. But I think of it whenever I see the moon, or feel afraid. It always makes me smile.

True vision _ the ability to see with more than our eyes _ is one of life’s finest gifts. As a child, I used that gift to find my way through a troubled world. A look on my mother’s face would tell me to leave her be. A path in the woods would lead to a place of peace. A dog at my heels told me I had a friend. And a sunset on the mountain would sing of life’s beauty and promise me better days ahead.

When I was 4 years old, my mother introduced me to what looked like a sack of potatoes wrapped in a yellow blanket.

“What is that?” I said.

“That’s your brother,” she said. “Call him Joe.”

She didn’t say he was a prophet, but I could see it in his eyes. When Joe was 6 months old, crawling like a box turtle that’s chasing a beetle, my mother told me he was blind.

“He can’t be blind,” I said. “He always smiles at my face.”

“He smiles at your voice,” she said. “He’ll never see your face.”

From that day to this, thanks to my brother, vision is a gift that I never take for granted. Joe taught me both to see and to hear. He opened my eyes and my ears and even my heart to sights and sounds and feelings that I had never noticed.

“Sister,” he’d say, “what does that look like?” And I’d try to describe the wind in the trees or the ticking of a clock or the color of a cardinal’s wings, so many pieces of life’s beautiful puzzle that I had never put into words.

He’d say, “Hey, listen! Mama’s home!” Then our old Ford would pull into the yard. He knew every car and its driver by the rattle of its engine and the growl of its tires on the road.

Singing him to sleep was a chore, but it was easier to sing than to argue. When he finally drifted off, he’d keep my thumb locked in his fist. Some chores are worth doing just to feel needed.

Joe and I have lived our adult lives thousands of miles apart, but somehow we’ve stayed close. We both were married (Joe for 10 years, I for 30) to wonderful people. Losing them to cancer taught us how to grieve, a lesson we never wanted to learn. We also lost our mother, stepfather and younger brother. And with every loss, we grew closer.

Our view of the world is never complete without insight and imagination. We need to picture everyone and everything not only with our eyes, but with our minds and hearts and souls.

We can choose to look for the best in life, in strangers and loved ones (even loved ones we don’t like); to find hope in despair, courage in fear, joy in sorrow and gratitude in need; to be kind and offer forgiveness and grace, even to ourselves.

True vision is a never failing belief in better days to come.

When my children were born, I wanted the first thing they saw in life to be love. So I held them up to my face and waited until they opened their eyes and looked into mine. Then I smiled and said, “I am your mama. And I will love you forever.”

Now they have children that I think of as my own. Every day I close my eyes and picture them, one and all, at their absolute healthiest, happiest and best. I hope they picture it, too.

My totally blind brother is blessed with true vision. He lives alone, can barely walk, but seldom complains. Instead, he talks about the good he sees in life, the kindnesses of people in his church and how much he loves the Clemson Tigers.

If we look for the best, we will find it. Just close your eyes and look around you. As Joe likes to say, even a blind man can see it.

Of all the emails I read today, one made me especially glad for electronic communication.

I know what you may be thinking: An email is not the same as a card or letter that someone takes the time to write in their own personal longhand, then signs, seals, addresses, stamps and drops it in the mail, hoping it will be delivered in a day or so…or sometime soon.

When I open my mailbox and find a handwritten note, I grin like a mule eating briars. But honestly? I depend a lot on electronic messaging. Even signatures for credit card charges and other documents can be done electronically. If handwritten mail were our only means of connecting, I would be woefully out of touch.

Instead, I delight in hearing daily from family and friends and readers (who are friends I’ve yet to meet) through texts and emails and phone calls and voicemail. And with FaceTime, I get to look into my grandkids’ eyes, see their smiles and even pretend to kiss a skinned knee. That’s hard to do in a letter.

In the past 15 years or so, my mailing address has changed multiple times, but my cell phone number and email address stay the same. So old friends can still find me, even after years of being out of touch.

Take that email this morning. A lifetime ago, Rose and I were neighbors. She and her husband and their son lived just across the street from the house where my late husband and I raised our three children.

Rose and I didn’t spend much time together. We just waved in passing and stopped to talk when we could. But more than friends, we were neighbors, the kind of people you might not see often, but can always count on to be there if you need them.

After my husband died, I remarried and moved away, and Rose and I lost touch. I’d not heard from her in ages until her note showed up today. Turns out, she’s on an email list that receives my column each week. I had no idea she’d been reading it for all these years.

Now retired, Rose and her husband spend summers in the mountains. She said she’d read something that made her think of me and wanted to share it. So we emailed back and forth about our families and our lives. It was such a gift to hear from her, and it might never have happened if she’d not had my email address.

I’ve been blessed with a great wealth of wonderful people. I wish I could keep in touch with them all. And yet, even with the convenience of email, I seldom seem to find enough time.

But there’s another way to stay connected with friends and loved ones, even those who left this world long ago. I learned it as a child from my dad, who taught me how to feel close to him whenever we were apart. In recent years, I’ve taught it to my grandkids. Even the youngest, at 18 months, is already trying it.

I wish you could see her.

It works like this: I begin by telling them, “When people we love have to go away, they leave their love with us. We keep it safe in our hearts, along with our love for them. And our love for each other keeps us close until we’re together again.”

Then, when I say goodbye, I ask them two questions that they’ve learned how to answer:

“How much do I love you?’’

“All!” they shout (because all is as much as anyone can love.)

“And where is your nana when you can’t see her?”

Placing a hand on their chest, they whisper, “In my heart!”

Sometimes the older ones roll their eyes as they say it. And the younger ones get confused and put their hand on their belly. But they all understand the meaning of those questions and answers. Or they will someday.

People leave, but love remains. We can feel it in our heart, so we always know that it is there. And love will keep us close forever.

Sometimes I just sit and think. And other times, I just sit. I tell myself I need to move. Then I sit and think about how to do it.

All my life, for as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be better at most everything I do.

Take cooking, for example. This morning, for probably the twelve-millionth time, I made pancakes. I don’t make them for my husband and me, because we don’t need to eat them. But I often made them when my kids were growing up, and will, if one of the grandkids sleeps over.

Wiley is 9. He loves pancakes. He and my husband were good sports this morning. They’ve learned not to complain. (Once, when I gave Wiley a cookie, he said, “Nana, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but this doesn’t really look like a cookie.”)

These pancakes looked like pancakes. But they were thick. And dry. And burnt. When Wiley tried to cut them, he looked like Luke Skywalker wielding a lightsaber. Not even butter and syrup could help.

How hard can it be to make pancakes? I’ve tried countless recipes and mixes. Same stove. Same kitchen. Same cook. But no two batches are the same.

That’s true of most everything I do. When it works, it’s good and everybody’s happy. When it doesn’t, we scrape the plates and dish up some ice-cream.

I wish I could say cooking is my only weakness. But it’s just one of many improvements I’d like to make. There’s this voice in my head (it sounds like my mother, but I picture it as God) that keeps reminding me of all my sins and shortcomings.

I wish you could hear it. Just the voice, not the sins.

When my children were small, that voice would tell me in no uncertain terms that I needed to clean my house, flea-dip the dog and be a better mother. I agreed absolutely. But try as I might, I never quite measured up.

That didn’t stop me, of course, either then or now, from taking great pride in the people my children grew up to be and the kind of parents they’ve become.

Raising a child is a moment by moment juggling act of faith and fear, failure and forgiveness, grace and hope and joy. No one does it perfectly. We can only do our best and pray for a miracle to turn our mistakes into blessings for our child.

One of the people I’ve admired most in life is my husband’s late father. In his 80’s, when he was hospitalized for a diabetic infection in his foot, I listened as a doctor suggested changes in his diet to improve his health.

Bob listened politely, nodded and said, “You’re an excellent doctor. I appreciate your advice. I’ve had a great life. I don’t plan to change it. Whatever time I have left, I just want to enjoy it with my family and friends.”

The doctor smiled. “Sounds like a good plan,” he said.

When the voice in my head starts cracking its whip, telling me I need to shape up, I think about my father-in-law’s plan for the last years of his life.

I, too, have had a great life, more happiness and blessings than I ever dreamed possible. I wake up each day just to see what will happen next.

But even on the best of days, there are always things I’d like to change, or at least, try to do a little better. Here are a few:

I want to sit less and move more, so I can keep moving.

I want to think less and trust more, to feel more at peace.

I want to ask more questions and do less talking, because asking is how we learn and learning keeps us alive.

I want to be a better person as a wife, mother, grandmother, friend and even a better cook, because the world needs our best in everything we do.

I want to enjoy life with the people I love and know that they love me, too, just as I am.

We aren’t meant to be perfect. We are meant to be ourselves, just trying to do the best we can.

I wish someone would explain that to the voice in my head.

What’s the best thing anyone ever said to you? The most helpful, or even life-changing?

Let’s exclude the obvious, “I love you.” I can’t think of better words than those. But there are lots of others we need to hear.

When someone speaks the truth, straight from the heart, we are wise to listen closely and take from it what we need.

Here are some examples:

_ As a child, drying dishes with my grandmother, I dropped her favorite platter and cried, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to break it!”

“Child,” she said, drying my tears with her apron, “accidents happen. I know you’d never do anything intentionally wrong.”

I’ve often fallen short of those words. But they were my first lesson in forgiveness and grace.

_ Once, when I was 10, feeling homely and sad, my brother Joe said, “Sister, you’re a beauty.” Joe was blind, but he was gifted at seeing things others never saw, and at saying words that needed to be heard. I still felt a bit homely, but not so sad. It’s hard to be sad if you feel loved.

_ In 12th grade, praying for a way to go to college, I wrote an essay titled “My Life.” After reading it, my English teacher took me aside and said, “You’re a writer. You might not know what it means now, but you will someday. Just keep writing.”

I’ve been writing for years and still don’t know what it means. But I like to think that he knew.

_ From the day she was born, people often said my little girl was beautiful. I’d smile at her and say, “Yes, she’s a beauty. She’s also smart and funny and kind.” I liked all those people a lot. Especially the ones who said she looked just like her mama.

_ My mother grew up with little praise and never saw much need to give it. The best thing she ever said to me came the day I phoned to tell her I had won a national award for my column.

“For your what?” she said.

“For my column, Mama. You know, that thing I write every week for newspapers?”

“Oh,” she said, thinking, then added, “Well, honey, I guess you’re smart, aren’t you?”

_ Once, when I gave a talk on writing to some third-graders, their teacher made them write thank-you notes. My favorite came from a girl who wrote, “I liked everything you said, and I especially liked your hair.”

_ On another occasion, I sat on the floor with a kindergarten class and recalled a story from my childhood of how I tripped my brother (not the blind one, the one I called Monkey Boy) on a barbed wire fence and he got stitches in his leg. I told them I felt awful about it, had no idea what made me do it, and was so glad my brother forgave me. Most of them confessed they’d done bad things, too, though nothing as bad as what I did, and they’d also been forgiven.

Then a boy who’d been silent raised his hand and said, “That’s the meanest thing I ever heard. I can’t believe you did that.”

I was proud of him. He spoke the truth, straight from his heart. Truth isn’t always easy to hear, but it needs to be said.

_ In the final hours of my first husband’s battle with cancer, I told a friend, “I don’t think I can do this. How can I help him and our children get through it?”

“You can,” she said. “You will. God will give you all you need.”

She always spoke the truth, straight from her heart. I had to believe her. And she was right.

Some people seem born with a gift for saying just the right thing at just the right time to make us smile, forgive ourselves or do what we fear we can’t do.

But we don’t need to be born with that gift to make it our own and use it to help others. It doesn’t take a great chef to know when someone is starving and give them something to eat.

We can all find the words that will feed a hungry soul, as long as those words are true and spoken from the heart.

Who needs your words today?

Twelve years ago this week, I held in my arms a gift fresh from Heaven. It was slightly bigger and sweeter than a 5-lb. sack of sugar. And it changed me into something new.

I was still all the things I had been before: A daughter, a sister, a wife and a mother. I loved all those roles, wouldn’t trade them for the world.

But from then on, forever, I would also be a nana. It was a major career move, but I’d had years of training from my grandmothers. I’d studied those two women the way fans study movie stars. I wanted to be just like them. Except for their gray hair, false teeth and pot bellies.

But part of what I needed to know as a nana, I’d learned as a mother: Every child is unique. No two, or their needs, are the same. As mothers and grandmothers (and dads and grandpas) we need to love them for who they are, take time to be with them, and do our best to give them what they need. It’s long hours, hard work and no pay, but the benefits are great.

Randy was named for my late husband, who left this world before Randy arrived. They never met, but share traits passed along through Randy’s dad: Curly hair, a gift for music and a mischievous grin that always makes me smile.

I wish you could see him.

I can’t believe he’s turning 12. Old people often look back on their lives and say, “Where on Earth does the time go?”

I used to laugh at that. (To a child, time crawls on its belly getting to Christmas.) But lately, I’ve started saying it, too.

Looking back over Randy’s 12 years, I can recall, oh, so many memories. Here are a few:

When he was 2, he and I liked to sit in his playpen and pretend we were breaking out of jail. I’d let him climb on my back and roll over the side. But then, when he was supposed to pull me out, he’d run away laughing.

When he was 4, I kept him for a night, and at bedtime, he said, “I kinda miss my mom and dad. But, Nana? Sometimes, I like it when it’s just you and me.”

When he was 8, I visited his class to talk about writing and saw him beam with pride as his classmates laughed when I told them the “jail break” story.

When he was 9, he folded an origami paper crane (like those on the cover of a book I wrote) and gave it to me for Christmas. It hangs in my living room.

And recently, when he was 11, I watched him in his wetsuit (that he also wears for lessons to be a junior lifeguard) jump off a pier into the deep dark sea.

Years ago, when I remarried, I had no idea what a wonderful grandfather my new husband would be. We share nine grandkids (five boys, four girls, three from his side, six from mine.) Randy is our oldest. Our youngest, Leilani, is just over a year.

Each one is a gift and a wealth of photos, videos and memories. Not to mention fingerprints on windows, cookie crumbs on the floor and Legos embedded in the soles of our feet. I could fill a library full of books with all the wonderful, funny, unforgettable things they have said and done.

You and I know countless people who’d make wonderful parents or grandparents, but for whatever reasons, they’ve never had children or grandchildren of their own. Yet, so many of them have found ways to invest in young lives _ as teachers or coaches or volunteers in youth programs, aunts or uncles or good neighbors and friends.

We all have children and grandchildren, whether they sleep in our arms or in our streets. They are gifts, every one of them, to be treasured.

To celebrate the birth of a child, I hope you’ll share this wish from you and me, the same wish I’ll give Randy: “Happy birthday, sweet child. So glad you were born. May all your birthday wishes come true.”

On a glorious fall day in 2016, I stood before an audience of cancer survivors and wondered, “What can I possibly tell them that they don’t already know?”

The event was a “Celebration of Life,” hosted by United Hospital Center in Bridgeport, W.Va., to honor oncology patients and to remind them that they were not alone.

I had no degrees, no expertise at all to offer. But I’ve raised three children and buried my share of loved ones. I lost my mother, my stepfather, my brother’s wife, and my first husband, all to cancer. I’ve been a daughter, sister, wife, widow, mother, grandmother and a student of life. And I’ve learned a few things along the way.

So I told them my story, hoping it might be their story, too. Here, in part, is what I said that day. It’s still as true as it was then.

My first husband wore a lot of hats. He was “Dad” to our three children, a high school teacher, basketball coach, marathon runner, Young Life leader and a handyman around the house.

He loved doing those things and kept doing them, even after he was diagnosed with cancer and given six months to live. By the strength of his will and the grace of God, he stretched those six months into four years. And along the way, we learned several lessons.

The first lesson was kindness. We were swamped with offers for help. So many casseroles showed up at our door I thought I might never need to cook again. Friends and even strangers said they were praying for us and that their children were praying for our children.

Kindness heals. I watched it heal the Coach, even as he was dying. I watched his spirit bloom with the realization of how much he was loved.

The second lesson was how to embrace change. As the cancer took its toll, he adapted. When he could no longer run, he went for walks. When he could no longer hike, he took photos of mountains and put them in scrapbooks. When he could no longer coach, he sat on the sidelines and cheered for his former players. When he could no longer teach or walk or change channels on the TV, he lay on the couch and welcomed a stream of visitors.

One by one, he let go of things that once defined him. Instead, he focused on what he could do, rather than what he could not.

We were fortunate to have friends who made us laugh and reminded us to be thankful. That was the third lesson: Gratitude. Near the end, I gave the Coach a journal.

“I want you to use that,” I said, “to make a list every day of five things you are thankful for.”

“What if I don’t do it?”

“I’ll hide the TV remote.”

So he did it. My name often showed up on the list, but never at the top. He always listed God first. He said God never threatened to hide the remote.

After he died, I learned yet another lesson from the words of a friend who wrote: “The challenge for you now, having lost your loved one, is to live a life that is honoring to his memory, while at the same time that life moves forward, so only one person has died, not two.”

I don’t know why some people get to live longer than others. But I believe that those who do, owe it to those don’t, to live well; to keep moving forward; and to be more, not less, alive.

From my grandmothers, I learned I was loved. From my blind brother I learned not to fear the dark. From my children, I learned there are things I can do, and things I have to leave to God. From my late husband, I learned to let go. From my new husband, I learned to believe in second chances. And from my grandchildren, I’ve learned I will live forever in their hearts.

If there is any art to living, it might be this: Be kind. Embrace change. Be thankful. Live well. And always celebrate life.

How should I describe this? Try to imagine, if you can, the way it might feel to wake up one morning and realize that, during the night while you slept curled up in your bed, you somehow got hit by an 18-wheeler pulling a double-wide mobile home.

I’d had sniffles for a few days, no fever or cough. Allergies, maybe. To be sure, I did a home test for Covid, waited and prayed for 15 minutes, and was very thankful to test negative. I wasn’t hit by a truck. It was just a cold. Remember the days when a cold was “just a cold”?

Since the start of the pandemic, even the slightest sniffle is enough to make me think maybe it’s time to put my affairs in order. In my case, that would mean cleaning my closet.

After so many months of face masks and social distancing, I can barely remember how it feels to have “just a cold.”

But I’ll never forget the day, about two years ago, when I phoned a friend who was hospitalized with Covid. She sounded so weak I wasn’t sure it was her. But when she heard my voice, she said, “Oh, I’m so glad you called! I am so sick!”

We’d been friends since we were little girls, through good times and bad, and I had never heard her sound so ill. Thankfully, she recovered, not quickly, but completely.

Since that day, I’ve often heard from readers who’ve lost loved ones to Covid. My heart goes out to them. It seems most everyone I know personally has had the virus, and fortunately survived it. My husband and I have tested on several occasions, and always been thankful for good results.

After testing negative a few days ago, I wanted to believe I had “just a cold.” But it kept getting worse. Then, when I woke up yesterday feeling like I’d been hit by a truck, I decided maybe the test had been wrong.

I’ve known several people _ you probably have, too _ who tested negative one day, then positive two days later. So I took another home test. Waited and prayed another 15 minutes. And once again, I was thankful and relieved to test negative.

Yet, the way I felt seemed to say it was not “just a cold.” It was a nasty bug I never wanted to give to anyone. To limit the risk to my husband, I’ve been keeping my distance, sleeping in the guest room, using a separate bathroom and covering my mouth when I cough.

But when he insists on bringing me water or coffee or chicken soup or brownies, I don’t argue. I just say, “Thanks.” He says, “You’re welcome,” and I’m pretty sure he means it.

This morning, I rolled over in the guest bed and reached for a pillow I was given years ago by a friend. One side of it is embroidered with these words: “I love you to the moon and back.” The other side has a pocket for her photo. I took out the photo and, despite how sick I felt, her beautiful smiling face lit me up like Christmas.

In a day or so, if I still feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, I’ll probably get a lab test. And clean my closet. But today I’m feeling well cared for and trusting I’m on the mend.

It’s no fun to feel like you’ve been hit by a truck. But it helps to spend time waiting, praying, being well cared for and getting the glorious gift of good news.

I hope you will never for any reason get sick. If you do, I hope you’re blessed to have someone who loves you enough to bring you water and coffee and chicken soup and brownies.

I hope you take hope knowing countless others have recovered from the same illness you suffer.

Sick or well, I hope you’re surrounded by smiling faces that light you up like Christmas.

And if you or a loved one ever need to test for Covid, I surely hope you’ll get good results.

Negative can be positive news.

Do you ever dream of doing something big, but find yourself feeling too small to try? When I feel that way, as I often do, I like to think about Darleen. I first told this story 20 years ago. If you recall it, your memory is better than mine. It goes like this:

Long after it was over, folks liked to speculate about what exactly possessed her to do it. Some said it was the mower. Others blamed the bull. But there was more to it than that.

While visiting family in the Carolinas one summer, I wrote columns at a friend’s house surrounded by cow pastures, where I’d be free of distraction. At least that was the idea. I’d arrive early, work hard, then go have supper with my family.

One morning, I’d just written a promising lead, when I heard a truck coming up the road. It was Jason, the teenager my friend hired to mow several acres of her yard. I’d not met the boy, but I grew up with his daddy.

“Hey, Jason!” I said. “I’m glad to see you were lucky enough to get your mama’s good looks!”

He laughed, thinking it was a joke. I offered iced tea (in the South, not to do so is a sin.) He said, “No thank you, ma’am,” and fired up the mower. I watched him cut a strip by the fence. Then I went back to work.

Minutes later, I heard the mower stop. I looked out the window and saw Jason sprinting across the yard, flapping his arms like Big Bird on fire.

“Lord help us!” I prayed, “the cows are out!”

For the record, I grew up with cows. I could still milk one, maybe, if need be. But milking is a far cry from catching.

Once, as a child, I got chased up an apple tree by a nasty herd of Herefords that held me hostage until I handed over every last apple in my bucket. Since then, I’ve been a bit wary. It’s not that I don’t like cows. I just don’t trust them.

Still, I’m a country girl, born and raised. When cows are on the loose, I can’t ignore them. Besides, poor Jason was pitifully outnumbered. I’d have given better odds to Custer.

The culprit was Darlene, a sassy little Holstein, all black and white and full of herself. For some reason, she’d apparently decided to jump the fence and lead her sisters in an unarmed, four-legged rebellion.

“Jason!” I shouted, running out the door, “What’s the plan?”

“I’ll try to cut ‘em off!” he yelled. “You go call Mr. Lee!”

I found the number. A woman answered on the third ring.

“Tell Mr. Lee his cows are out,” I said, “and it looks like they mean business!”

Meanwhile, Jason, bless his heart, had managed to corral most of the escapees under an apple tree where they now milled about munching apples, looking all guilty and glum.

Suddenly, in the corner of my eye, I saw a black and white flash moving fast: Darlene was making a break for the road!

Not one to be cowed by a cow, I grabbed a big stick, planted my feet and met her head on.

“Stop!” I ordered. Much to my surprise, she did. Lowering her head, she turned her muzzle to one side and stared, as if sizing me up. And then I saw it: A fiery hot gleam in her eye. When she twitched her tail and charged, I threw down my stick and ran.

Darlene never looked back. She kicked up her heels, trotted across the road and jumped clean over a barbed-wire fence to join Bubba, the neighbor’s bull, in what I hope for her sake were much greener pastures.

What do you think? Did she do it for love? Or for adventure? Or just because the mower scared the bejeezes out of her?

No. I saw the gleam in her eye that day. I wish you could’ve seen it, too. She did it mostly for one good reason: Deep down inside of her big, bovine heart, Darlene believed in herself.