March 23, 2013
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San Francisco, Noe Valley/Delores Hgts
I am so exhausted at this hour that I long to sleep, but tomorrow is our neighborhood book show, and Noe Valley is actually highest hills, hidden gardens, shopping areas and progressive people all swarming on Sunday mornings. It is already early morning, and I shall sleep before dawn. I am packed and ready for our book show and sale tomorrow 42 of us just in this area. “Pinkhoneysuckle,” will stand out, for I have the awards to show, but somehow this day is not about money, though I will sell copies of my book, give out prizes, and I hope that people will pass the news on that I am a writer who can keep people up all night, for they want to know the next chapter, the next twist and turn, the laughter, the darkness — so dark that I cannot always revisit it, but I will tell you the truth. You can publish all the books you want, but it is an embarrassing small number which has success with Amazon and their publishing arm of Create Space.
There are too many good writers, and everyone has a story in them, and I will have award plaques to show people — I’m among the noticed ones. I have told a story which will tear your guts out, and most of it is true. It is not your Dolly Parton, “We may have been poor, but we had love,” and it is now, “Just the cutest of southern tales; No it is life as it happened in southern Appalachia, and I am one who suffered in thousands. My dear brother, Robert Van Everett began the book with a prologue, and to let you know right away that this story seems like it should have been live a century ago, but it was our lives, every piece of dirt, every whipping, low down tragic part of it, but we are not humorless. We told it like it was — And ears burn from our telling of The Southern Appalachian Diaspora, and only now has anyone had the gall to tell the actual cost. Brother and I told it, and we are not ashamed.
I blessed a man whose name is Richard for putting this together, another kind man who is going to help us out because we do not have the fancy phone with the square. I blessed them, but Richard said he needs blessings, so tomorrow, I am going to take his hands, and He will feel warmth from them for I have something unique that leaves me with hands warm like my Mama’s were, but I want him to feel a blessing through me. I will give him a prayer in a moment which he cannot hear, but I will pray, and he will know something has come over him, for you see; Some of us who have known angels call them down and bless. It is not us, but it is God, the Holy Trinity from whom all things come from when the blessing actually comes. I will walk him to unseen waters, to the whisper of the river, the trail down to the water, but for me it is a vision, and it will help him to rest and hear the real angel speak and to know that he has had a moment by the water, and the power is his to choose to keep.
Some people think I am a Holy Woman, and I may have some gift that I can pass on, but it is not money nor is it fame. It is a moment to feel loved, free, hearing, “I bless you my friend,” and I will not say a word that anyone has ever seen me in this way. For we who have any such power must believe in something much larger than us, and in our humility — Sometimes Grace, the gift of the Holy Spirit must be present, for we see no specialness that is ours to keep, and I have had my hands go ice cold — When I am ill, or if I am not believing that God can work through any one of us and does.
But I will bless this man, and he will feel my hands long after we have parted. How do I know this of myself? Some is in the book, so less hear the nay sayers; “Sure, and she wants to sell a book,” and I will advise you that I am not offended, but it began in childhood in different ways, and then when I went in to nursing, my hands became important to the patients. The first experience in nursing which I recalled was a young girl with rheumatoid arthritis, and they told me she was difficult as a patient, but I could tell that she was in pain, and she wanted me to massage her hands and feet, and instead of being difficult she told me that my hands were wonderful, that I eased her pain, and she would want me all nights that I was on. I began to pray to help others in the same way, and it would happen over and over again through all of the years, and I would console the elderly including my Priest mother in the same way.
Pray for me that God may work through me tomorrow, and that I may offer to this man the blessing he desires, and may it continue in his life so he may pass on blessings to others. Just pray for these hands, and may you find a gift within yourself, the living water gift which comforts all souls. I pray thus for you.
Barbara Everett Heintz, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” Amazon, Kindle, Create Space for my book, and Pinkhoneysuckle, the blog.
