"It seems the heart is not something which can be forced, in other words,
you canít force the heart. Therefore, like seasoning a Creole stew you
donít add the best ingredients until just before the end; and neither does
life give our hearts the most precious information until weíre close to
being through on earth. Weíve had to experience the heat of the fire, the
whirlpools of lifeí stirring commotion at length, until finally, we are
able to lay all aside and say honestly from the heart "teach me." The truths
canít be forced upon us, we have to come to a place where we will embrace
them. Truths much more worthy than anything natural weíve known.
of an answer to this came to me when I was only twelve years old, though
I didnít realize the lesson until probably just a few months ago when discovering
my illness. I had gone to a nursing home with a youth group from my church.
Frankly, I was there under duress (my mother). I stood before this ancient-looking
woman, holding a bouquet of crepe paper flowers. Everything about her saddened
me - the worn-down face, the lopsided grin, the tendrils of gray hair protruding
from a crocheted lavender cap. I thrust the bouquet at her. She looked
at me, a look that pierced me to the marrow of my twelve-year-old bones.
Then she spoke the words I havenít forgotten in 35 years. "You didnít want
to come here, did you child?"
stunned me. They were too painful, too powerful, too naked in their honesty.
"Oh yes, I wanted to come," I protested.
lifted one side of her mouth. "Itís okay," she said, "you canít force the