Janet Benlien Reeves

Fog descends like a stage curtain Hiding all but the main characters, The closest hemlock, cedar, vine maple, From view, Creating for these a lightbox For stand-out photography Or perfect imprint on mind’s Silver halide.   As the fog rolls in further, embracing my home, suddenly I exist within its lightbox, Centerstage nearly unaware: Just my room, Varied leaves outside my window, The chickadee perched on closest branch, And me—   Centerstage in a bounded world No one can see. *** Photo by Studio Pizza on Unsplash

When my husband and I pastored a small church in Maine years ago, a sweet lady in her 90s was a member of our congregation. May Duplisea had lived in that small papermill town her whole life. She had never married nor had children, and I don’t know what she did for work in the days before her retirement. But she had attended the church we were privileged to pastor for a time from the first Sunday her parents brought her as a baby. May knew more about the Bible than anyone we knew and didn’t hesitate to correct my husband if he got a detail wrong during a Sunday school lesson or sermon. Sometimes he had me run fact checks before he taught or preached just to be sure his work would pass May’s scrutiny. Even in her 90s, May could quote lengthy Bible passages by heart, and sometimes my husband invited her to do so both to keep her sharp and to let her set an example for the younger generations. May’s favorite ministry, however, was her art. During the week, May would trace pictures of ...