An Evening Note about Maggie and Grace

Art by Rebecca J. Hartman

Sometimes we forget what we’re doing.

When I began this series of Morning Stories, I intended to set down a year’s worth of honest pieces I’d like to read myself—passages to start each morning or to end each day calmly—with hope. I meant to be ‘soul-full.’ But I lost my way.

What to do when at a standstill?

Most of us simply wait. If nothing changes, inspires, points the way forward, we look back for clues or push ahead anyway. For me, that meant going to the tattered box in the front closet to retrieve my Charlie Martin notes, the ones I wrote five years ago when my gentle, wise counselor encouraged me to begin this writing project with ‘unconditional generosity of giving.’

“Be a channel for light,” Charlie Martin said, and I thought then exactly what I think now: That’s a very tall order. Then he said, “Ask this: Who wants to help me?”

Neatly, in thin black ink, I had written, “gather a community of thoughtfulness.” And there, mixed with my Charlie Martin notes, was a random quote by John-Mark Smith: “I am asking, not for a confidence of ego, but a confidence of spirit—one that doesn’t fret over missteps or agonize over regrets. One that looks not to advance, but to deepen.”

I sat for days, neither advancing nor deepening. Maybe you’ve been there, too, at some juncture where you are immobilized regarding some personal choice—a job, a project, any decision important to you.

And then came the note from Maggie, whom I’ve known for the better part of a century, though I could count on one hand the number of times she has written a personal note to help me clarify something.

With one simple complimentary observation (which may be true, may be not true) she turned the key, opened the door, letting me back into myself: “You are a writer,” she wrote. “I am a storyteller.” ( She’s absolutely correct about the second part. Check out her Substack, “All That To Say.”)

Between Charlie and Maggie, I felt myself back on the path, walking next to the security of the right genre and purpose, which is not and never has been to create fanciful narrative. I have no gift for that.

Dear Reader (as the Victorians would say), I never meant to suggest that I had an entertaining coherent story to tell, and so, as soon as possible, I will have to change the name of “Morning Stories.”  These pieces are not stories—like Maggie’s or Sean Dietrich’s or Flannery O’Connor’s. They are humble reflections that take me well into the evening, every evening, processing and rewriting over and over before they can bring comfort to anyone, especially me. They are Evening Notes, meant to help leave the world behind, to put the day to rest peacefully. I don’t need to ‘think’ this into oblivion.

“Don’t let your mind sabotage this project,” Charlie said five years ago. “You just do the earth part.”

Is this one form of grace? To be still and listen? To trust that an email will arrive, a set of notes will be unboxed, a message will come, a peace will settle around the right way to go?

If so, (again as the Victorians would say) Gentle Reader, I wish you grace and peace and caring souls who will remind you of the truth of who you are and what you set out to do.