In our lofty retreat, God had reminded us of the importance of humor. The only movies available were comedies. On the bookshelves we found nothing but tomes of jokes or witty volumes by the likes of Erma Bombeck. After the tears and true confessions, we laughed as we watched a comedy about a wacky race with a gumball machine as the prize. While David grilled steaks, I thumbed through a book by Bombeck. One phrase caught my eye: " If you can't make it better, you can laugh at it."

"I like that," I thought. "Maybe this lady has something."

After reading a few pages, I was chuckling over her take on everyday life. Taking the book outside, I said to David, "Listen to this. 'My second favorite household chore is ironing. My first being hitting my head on the top bunk bed until I faint.' This is my kind of gal."

I had two cross-stitched sayings hanging in my kitchen. I made my own patterns and then hand stitched them. One said, "Cleanliness is next to impossible." Josh and Zach's tiny inked fingerprints adorned it, along with our dog's paw print. The other read, "The only thing domestic about me is I sleep in a house."

Reading Erma stirred the dormant journalistic bug in me. When we got home, I saw an ad in a local paper. They were looking for someone to write the society page. I couldn't imagine anything more boring than writing about weddings, funerals, clubs, and kid's birthdays. I could visualize writing a column about life, though.

While the boys were napping, I took out a piece of paper and started writing. I gave the result to David to critique.

"This is good, Syd," he said. "Better than that Bombeck lady."

That's what I loved about David. He knew how to encourage me, even if he exaggerated a bit.

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Well, there's an ad in the paper for a society page writer. I thought I might send it to the editor."

"A society page writer," he hooted, before falling to the floor in a fit of laughter. When he could breathe again, he added, "Syd, the tabloid domestic goddess. Come on, get real."

"If I got my foot in the door, maybe I could do something more challenging after a while," I explained defensively.

"You wouldn't last a month," he said. "You would die of boredom. Doesn't the society page include recipes? I guess you could tell them how to spice up Kraft macaroni and cheese. And do you even know what tulle is? I think a wedding reporter might need to know."

"I can do research, David. I learned how to do that in college."

"And you were good at it, Syd. I'm sure you could learn all you need to know, but knowledge can't combat dissatisfaction. Believe me, I know. I had all the knowledge I needed to teach high school, but data didn't make the job palatable. Besides, let's be practical. You're the mother of two small boys. What are you going to do with them? I doubt the editor will allow you to bring them to work."

I hated having my dreams overwhelmed by reality.

"Well..." I had no ready answers.

Fortunately David redeemed himself with visionary possibilities that had the potential to turn reality into fulfilled dreams.

"Perhaps you can make him an offer he can't refuse," he said, borrowing the popular phrase from The Godfather. "Wow him with your writing. When he tells you how incredible you are, present your alternative."

"And what alternative is that?"

"Job sharing."

"Job sharing? That's your big idea?"

"Hear me out, Syd. Ann's a stay at home Mom, too, but she loves to cook and sew. She knows about all that domestic stuff. She plans a theme birthday party for Allen every year. She makes Halloween costumes, for goodness sake. Now that Allen is in school, she wants to work, but only while he's in school. She can't get a teaching job because she didn't ever finish her degree, so her options are limited. I bet she could write wedding announcements, but she would never be able to come up with witty columns or riveting feature stories. If you two shared the job, she could do her part at the paper in half a day. How long can it take to write obituaries and weddings and club stories? You could do your part at home and submit it to Ann. I could watch the boys for a few hours a week while you did interviews for a feature story. You could write during naptimes or at night after they're asleep."

"It could work," I said excitedly. "You're brilliant, David, brilliant."

I called Ann and pitched David's idea. She thought it was wonderful. She went right to work on a sample recipe column and whipped up an engagement announcement. I sent a resume and my column to the editor. He called me to come in for an interview. Ann went with me, but waited in the car to be summoned.

"This column is great," Editor Greg Townsend told me. "Your education is impressive. You are a bit short on job experience, but I'm a believer in on-the-job training. Have you got a sitter lined up?"

"No sitters," I said.

He handed me a list.

"These are all good candidates," he said.

I handed it back.

"I meant that I don't plan to get a sitter," I said.

He looked at me like I'd just grown horns.

"Your husband plans to keep them?"

"No."

"Then you're wasting my time," he said in dismissal.

"No, I'm not," I said.

I took out Ann's sample recipe column and handed it to him. He looked at it.

"Why are you showing me this? I already know you can write. Besides, I can pull any woman off the street, and she can do this kind of stuff."

"Perhaps, but not every woman would love writing that kind of stuff – me for example."

When he tried to interrupt, I held up my hand.

"Hear me out, please," I said. The please was the southern variety that thinly disguises a command. "The woman who wrote that column loves cooking and sewing and all that domestic drivel. We come as a team."

"I only have one vacancy."

"And we only want one job. She wants the domestic drivel part, and I want the columns and feature stories. She would work here at the paper halftime. I would work out of my home halftime. Together we would make a whole."

As he sat before me looking suspiciously like a flycatcher, I asked, "Would you like to meet her now?"

Before he could answer, I jumped up, walked to his window and waved to Ann. I had parked the car right outside his window. She came in the office demurely, but with all the southern charm I lacked.

"How do you do, Mr. Townsend, sir," she drawled. "I sure do appreciate you taking time out of your busy schedule to talk to me. I don't have nearly the talent Sydney does. Why when I read her column, I laughed louder than when I read Erma Bombeck. She needs to write, Mr. Townsend, and I'd be honored to make that possible. She shouldn't waste her time writing about weddings and kids' birthday parties. I know for a fact she doesn't know the difference between cotton and rayon. And, would you believe she uses boxed cake mixes and feeds her children Kraft dinner and microwaved hotdogs? With Sydney and me teaming up, every woman in this parish would want a copy of your paper. And I'll let you in on a little secret. Lots of men would read her columns and stories. My husband laughed almost as hard as I did at Sydney's little write-up about a man's blind spot."

By the time she finished her memorized tirade (she and I had written it out and practiced it the night before) poor Mr. Townsend felt like an avalanche had just buried him. We got the job. Two days later, the first "Taking Off With Lander" appeared in the Parish Pride.

#

Mama sure had a lot of chutzpah. Faith wasn't sure if she would have the nerve to do what Mama had done. Then thinking about her excursion to ULM, she realized that you do what you feel like you have to do.

Faith went to her computer and logged on to Angelica's site. She hadn't checked that email since creating it. She found a note from Kyra.

"Hope you made it home okay. If there's anything else I can help with, let me know. I don't intend to be a pest, but I think what you're doing is important. Hang in there. Your new friend, Kyra."

Looking at the signature, Faith realized that she genuinely liked Kyra. Under other circumstances they could be friends. Under the existing ones, though, she knew it could never happen. She needed to cut her loose, but gently.

"Between the job and writing, I've not got much time," Faith lied to Kyra once again. "Don't be surprised if I don't do a lot of emailing. I may write if I need some more help understanding the emotional impact of an abortion or if I'm having trouble putting myself in my character's shoes, but that could be months away. Thanks for all your help, though. It changed a lot. I view women who abort differently now. I have a lot more compassion. Books take a long time to write and even a longer time to get published. In fact, first books rarely make it to print, but if mine ever does, I'll send you a copy. Your friend, Faith."

"You used her," Faith's inner voice accused.

"I had to," she argued back. "How else was I going to come to terms with Aaron's admission? If she knew everything, she'd understand."

"Then why not tell her?"

Faith ripped the clipping that was stuffed between the pages of the journal as she hastily yanked it out.

"Now see what you've done?" she complained aloud.

She smoothed it out and taped in together.

"This one sounds like an amusing column, not a tear jerker like the one about Grandpa," she thought as she read the title. "That's just what I need, something to make me laugh."

Printed neatly at the top in Mama's library lettering script were the words: "My inaugural column, the one that launched my career."