(with an "e", of course)

Anne, as in Anne of Green Gables, once said something to one of her pals – Diana, Ruby, I don’t know, someone – about a tree being a poem. What?!? Anne, usually you are pretty entertaining and endearing, but at this point (to my twelve-year-old literary self) you sound just plain crazy. (By the way, I have this theory about people named Anne: They are essential to my life. My mother, for one. My roommate/bridesmaid/gluten-free-baking/ever-sarcastically-teasing friend, for another. Then there was the nurse practitioner who got me Kleenex while I sobbed in the exam room at Loyola’s Wellness Center, and then very kindly and gently led me through the initial diagnosis and treatment of mono. Pretty much, they’re all Saints. Except Anne of Green Gables – she, L.M. Montgomery made clear, is pretty devilish.) But now, years later, recalling that snippet of the amazing, imaginary world that I spent lots of time in with the red-haired romantic Anne, I am kind of starting to “get” what she meant. Because now in my own mind I’m saying that things are other things. That living is a prayer. That forgiveness is an act of worship*. That hospitality is grace. That witnessing and sharing someone’s suffering is holy. So, ok Anne, I guess a tree can be a poem. You stick with sweet, dramatic, poetic things. I’ll dig into more theological things. And we can continue to be friends.

*more to come on this, in a future post