Today my topic is justice, nothing light for my early morning contemplation. I’m remembering the various verses I’ve always heard about justice "The just shall live by faith" and "What does the Lord require of you, but that you love justice . . ." I’m trying to reconcile my ideas of justice, truth, and fairness with the circumstances of a trial I’ve been attending.

My dear friend is an attorney in town. I’ve known for months that he was emotionally involved with a particular client. He has worked long hours and absorbed the cost of his labor on behalf of this poor young woman who stands accused of murder one. The facts of the case at first seemed simple. The husband was found dead of a gunshot wound through the roof of his mouth and the wife confessed to police that she pulled the trigger.

After ten days of testimony, the facts are no longer simple. The husband was drunk and beat the crap out of her the night he died. At this point all the court has seen the photos of the bruises. Frankly, in my mind that alone should be sufficient to find her not-guilty of murder, but in its wisdom the high court of the state of Indiana three weeks ago struck down the law that permits the use of "battered woman syndrome" as a defense.

Back to the facts, the husbands fingerprints are all over the gun including the trigger, hers are found only on one part of the gun between the handle and barrel consistent with her testimony that she tried to pull the gun away from him after he threatened to kill himself. She insisted on the stand that she "must have pulled the trigger" because people who kill themselves "always go to hell." It’s less painful for this woman to take upon herself the guilt of his death, than to imagine him suffering torment.

There are more facts, but they all seem tedious and irrelevant to the point of justice. I think that the only way that justice would be served in this case is if the judge sentences this child/woman/child to be adopted by a loving family that will embrace her, love her, and give her a place to heal.

The process of birth begins in a dark place between consciousness and sleep. Shadowy moments of connection lead to the growth of all things. The embryo of dream or of substance likewise comes from the casual joining to two previously unconnected parts.

I have carried and nurtured in my body a human baby. I ate broccoli and cantaloupe and religiously avoided caffeine to promote the growth of that tiny well-loved flesh. I read books, followed instructions, and carefully prepared to receive the child into my life with all the necessary equipment and paraphernalia.

The children of my intellect have not fared so well. The ideas and dreams of my soul, conceived in silence remain long hidden in the darkness. Slowly nourished or not at all. I push them away as low priorities in my busy life. I have at times rid myself of the embryonic dream, a terrible violence to avoid the pain and commitment of birthing and raising the dream to maturity. But unlike flesh, dreams are not once and forever aborted.

I had the idea once that I SHOULD write. Words are floating around in my mind which beg to be connected on paper. Stories wait that can only be told in my voice. I bought notebooks, journals, and a computer with an up-to-date word processor. But instead of feeding my dream with daily exposure to the flow of ideas, I felt guilty for the time I spent reading. I knew enough to carefully protect my embryonic son, but I ruthlessly exposed my immature dreams to the ravages of criticism. I insisted on time for proper rest and exercise for my baby, but I went days on end without picking up the pen, or touching the keyboard.

Today is a special day. It is the 38^th anniversary of my own birth. 7 years ago today I labored and pushed and brought my son into the world – happy birthday, Michael, you are the loved treasure of my days. Today I birth a dream, a new identity. It has been a long time in the dark shadow, but today I claim through labor and sweat, the reality of the dream. A newborn writer stands blinking in the light.

Bribe: I was ten years old the last time I accepted a bribe. Exactly ten years old. It was my birthday. Mom and Dad invited my grandparents to come over for ice cream and cake. I was very full of myself that day, feeling special because I was now into double digits. Ten, that’s almost a teenager, and you know that’s just almost a grow-up. Ten years old.

When my grandfather came in, he was leaning on his cane. He walked slowly and carefully to maintain his balance because the slick paper on the present he carried made it difficult to grasp. If he dropped the present that could be enough to upset his balance and he’d fall.

My grandmother followed him closely. She also carried a carefully wrapped package, and she was moving slowly so that if Grandpa had trouble she could help him. I ran to them and gave them big hugs and kisses. I greedily tore in to the packages and hugged them a second time for the presents.

Finally, my great grandmother made her way through the door. In 1973 she would have been over 90 years old. She was unattractive even in her youth and at age 90 she could frighten grown men. She had a huge goiter on her neck from an iodine deficiency in her youth. Her face was scarred from multiple skin cancers that the doctors must have removed with a blowtorch. And her legs were constantly black and blue because her brittle skin couldn’t withstand any contact.

I sat on the floor amid the bright wrapping papers and waved "hello" to the old woman. She entered the room cane first and made her way to the chair next to the table. She always sat next to the dining table so that she could use it for extra support to get up and down.

I didn’t hug or kiss her. I waited. I felt that I was so important on my tenth birthday that my hugs and kisses were not available to just anyone. I didn’t say anything and as far as I know I didn’t do anything to reveal my new found self-importance, but I’ve never been accused of subtlety so I’m sure that it was obvious to the adults.

Grandma placed her pocketbook on the table. A huge black purse that looked like an old fashioned medical bag. She opened the snap at the top and slowly reached inside. She fished around for a minute and pulled out a quarter. She held it out to me. "Happy birthday." I felt my face flush hot.

At that moment I earned my place in the adult world. I knew that I had set my price at twenty-five cents.

When I discovered John 15, I found an analogy that showed me how I could be both a part of God and an individual. As the leaves on a tree are a part of the tree, yet are each individual leaves with individual characteristics, I could see myself as one visible aspect of an organism that drew its nourishment from the mystery hidden in the deep rich earth that was God.

I remember the excitement and the wonder of new revelation. I was ready to do great and marvelous things on the strength of God flowing through my veins. I remember that when I tried to tell my grandmother about this, she said, "Isn’t the 15^th chapter of John the one where the unproductive branches are thrown into the fire?"

I don’t remember ever trying to talk to Grandma about God after that.

I thought I’d call my neighbor for sympathy. She hates spiders as much as I do. Plus I wanted her to commiserate with me over my poor destroyed lilies. We brought the goats out of their pen to eat bushes, and instead they ate all the buds from my lilies. She likes to laugh at my urban foibles as I try to squeeze my 21^st century soul into a 19^th century farm, so I knew the tale of the goats and the flowers would be good for a laugh.

She wasn’t laughing. When she picked up the phone she was crying. Her dog, the beautiful golden retriever she’d raised from a puppy, is dead. We all liked Hester, she romped with my boys and teased the cats. She saved my youngest time and again from falling into the river where he never exercised caution. She licked the ice cream that dripped onto the porch beneath summer treats and she waited patiently for popcorn from the Christmas garlands.

Hester died the way she’d lived, faithfully looking out for dumb farm animals. In this case it was a young Nubian kid. The baby goat was startled when the farm truck backfired. He bolted for the road. Hester chased after him and tried to herd him back to safety, but it was too late. They were both struck by a car at the bottom of the big hill where everyone drives too fast.

Now my friend was grieving the loss of her friend. We talked about the little things being the hardest; waking up to quiet, having cold feet because Hester was absent her usual space on the other end of the couch. We talked of other losses, funerals where we were too numb to cry and cemeteries where dirt and wilting flowers marked the spot.

Hester is buried at the back of the field under a little redbud tree. From the spot beside her grave, you can look back and see the house with the pond, cows, ducks, barn and garden. You can look in the opposite direction to the river. It’s a good spot. We talked about that too, and whether or not it was wise to turn a favorite place into a place of sadness by using it for a gravesite.

It’s easy to extrapolate from that one site to all the earth as a grave. In the ages that creatures have walked across the soil, they have lived, died and been buried so many times and places that almost anywhere you dig, you find evidence of forgotten lives. When I tilled the dirt around my house for a flowerbed, I found multiple little fossils. To me they were a nuisance, nicking the tines of the tiller. But at one time they were life.