thirty-eight.

Do you want to see, Miss Livingston?" Bubba asks as the sunlight filters through his hair.

"Or are you afraid?" Bobby laughs and pokes the base of the oak tree with a narrow, curvy branch he insists on carrying. He has brushed everyone's skin with it even though Zack has told him to put it away.

We are on a hike on a woodsy trail. The morning is clear, with cirrus clouds moving across the blue sky. I can almost taste the sky-delicate and pleasing, like an almond butter strudel with a hint of nutmeg.

Earlier our hike took us to an opening that overlooked the gentle slope of the mountain range. The mountains were an array of scarlet, gold, and amber. As I breathed in the warm air and turned my face to the sun, I thought I could stay there all day. A hawk cast his wings before us and soared across two mountain peaks.

"It's just beautiful," Rainy said, removing her sunglasses, and she was right.

Now the kids say they have found the hole where an owl lives. With the help of three stones resting against each other to form a stair, each child takes a turn looking into an opened notch in the trunk of a gnarled oak tree.

Dougy peers into the hole, which is the size of a watermelon, and quickly jumps down. "He's in there!" His voice sounds like steam from a teakettle.

"Duh!" Bubba cries. "We told you. We don't lie."

"What does he look like?" asks Joy, who is still too fearful to stand on the rocks and have a turn.

Bubba makes scary sounds, and Bobby jabs Joy on her arm with his stick.

Joy jumps into Zack's arms while everyone else laughs.

Again, I am asked, "Do you want to see him, Miss Livingston?" I look at the child who has just spoken. His dark eyes and hair seem tranquil today, the first time I have ever felt this way about him. He says, "He's sleeping. He won't hurt you."

I am not worried. I would not miss an opportunity to view an owl nestled in a tree. The kids don't know how long I have searched for this nighttime musician. "Yeah," I reply to Darren. "I'd like to see him."

I step onto the wobbling stones and adjust my eyes to the dark hole. All I see is a mass of brown feathers, a few tainted with gray. Cautiously, I edge forward to get a closer look, grasping the trunk of the tree with one hand. I am determined to see this owl, even if I trip and fall into his sleeping place. I focus, squint, and observe the huddled dark figure. I see his body moving ever so slightly. He's alive, I think, real and breathing. He's resting up so that he can serenade the forest again tonight. He is a perfect picture of peace.

"Did you get a good look?" asks Joy, able to speak once more.

"There isn't much to see," I say as I step down from the stones.

"He's a tawny owl," Darren tells us. "Those are the ones who sing the best." Coming from a good singer, I guess he would know.

"Where's his poop?" asks Bobby circling the tree trunk with his stick.

"Yuck." Rainy pops her sunglasses back over her eyes.

"We had to study owl's vomit once," says Bobby. "Remember? In fourth grade?"

"Duh, I remember. It was filled with tiny mice bones." Bubba is enjoying this conversation too much.

I might just throw up today.

Charlotte speaks into the boys' cackling. "They toss it out of their mouths. Did you know that?"

"Toss? Toss what?" Rainy eyes her suspiciously.

"The things they can't digest, like bones, feathers, and claws." Her voice is mellow even when she is relaying something as disgusting as owl vomit.

"Yeah." Bubba stretches the word out long and loud. "You're right. It comes out of their beaks." He uses his scrawny arms to pantomime a regurgitating animal.

Charlotte is so happy to have everyone's attention she looks like she just won the spelling bee, not shared information on the digestive patterns of owls.

"Is that right, Miss Livingston?" Dougy asks as he watches Bubba's gestures.

"I never got to study owls," I say.

Soon we are back on the trail, ambling on top of damp leaves, pine needles, and pine cones, the tall North Carolina pines shielding the sun. Zack and Robert are in the lead, Rhonda is next to Bubba, and Charlotte and I are at the end. The others are scattered across the path, laughing about the most disgusting things they can think of.

"Let's talk about something else," Zack suggests as he runs a hand through his curly hair.

"Like what?" asks Lisa.

"How about food?" Bobby volunteers. "Breakfast was a long time ago." He pats his stomach and announces, "I vote we head back to the campsite and eat lunch!"

"It's only ten thirty," Rhonda says as she looks at the time on her cell phone.

Bobby inserts his blue inhaler into his mouth and takes a couple puffs. He fills his lungs with air and then coughs. "Ah," he says, "but I can't breathe, and I need nourishment."

"You'll be fine," I tell him with a smile. "Think of your favorite things."

"Owl throw-up," whispers Bubba, and then we are all laughing.

"You like owls, Miss Livington?" asks Joy as she paces her strides to mine.

I think of how the one in my backyard calls throughout the night, how it kept me awake early on. Then one night the noise that had been so disturbing became a welcomed lullaby.

"Because I hate them." Spontaneously, Joy covers her hand to her mouth. "I mean," she says with careful intonation, "I don't care for them."

"They sing me to sleep at night," I tell her. "So I guess I do like them."

Her response to my answer consists of sticking her tongue out and grimacing.

I've learned learned to like the owl, I could say. Just like I've had to to like the owl, I could say. Just like I've had to learn learn to like each one of these kids. Instead I add, "An owl's song can grow on you, and before you know it, you actually look forward to hearing it." to like each one of these kids. Instead I add, "An owl's song can grow on you, and before you know it, you actually look forward to hearing it."

Darren, walking a few steps in front of us, turns his head to give me a smile. Like he knows exactly what I mean.

So often it is the small moments that bring the assurance of contentment. These can come in tiny waves, standing out from the rest of the minutes and hours of a day, and as swiftly as they arrive, they leave, slipping into an ordinary moment. You have to be on your toes; you have to be ready to embrace them.

My talk with Charlotte and later with Darren last night are two of the most recent waves of reassurance. I must be doing something right. I recall my prayer for patience. Humans always want to get the glory, but without God to rely on, I'd have given a series of high-pitched sermons to these children. Instead, I asked for patience, and God presented it, working it deep into the fibers of my heart.

And forgiveness? The sparse leaves still clinging to tree limbs rustle as though they are begging me to remove the poison of bitterness and anger I harbor for Lucas. When you forgive, you are really doing yourself a favor-that is what I have heard pastors preach. Forgiveness is the gift you receive in order to freely give it to others.

Lucas never asked for my forgiveness, I want to remind the forest breezes.

Much of the day has passed; dusk settles over the campsite. The picnic table has been set; even the juice boxes have been placed at each setting. A bowl of soft rolls sits in the center.

With a large wooden spoon, one of Grandpa's utensils, I stir the iron pot of Brunswick stew over the grate. Earlier, Robert started the fire and supplied a pile of sticks for me to add to it. Then he and Rhonda took the kids to a clearing to play kickball.

Zack unloads two bundles of firewood from the bed of his truck and places them near where I am standing. He didn't join the others; I'm not sure why. He set the table as I opened the six cans of stew and poured them into the cast-iron pot.

He seems preoccupied as I stir the carrots, potatoes, and cubes of beef. He's got something on his mind.

The silence between us is fine by me. Having lived alone the last few years, I'm not used to the constant conversation we've had with the children during this weekend. In fact, the quiet right now is a refreshing and sought-after change. I don't mind listening to my own thoughts for a while.

Once, back when I went to Sunday school classes, the teacher said that Jesus holds whatever we need in life. "If it's patience, he has enough to supply you. If it's love you need, he has that, too. Ask."

I close my eyes.

And am startled when I sense Zack standing beside me. "Rhonda..."

I am about to tell him that my name isn't Rhonda, when I realize he is going to say something about her. I look up from the cooking pot into his eyes. They are solemn this evening.

"I just wanted to say that..." He fumbles for the right words. "I'm sorry for the tension."

"Tension?" I'm confused by his word choice.

"Between Rhonda and me." His voice is low, sincere.

"Well, it's none of my business," I am tempted to blurt out. But on the other hand, maybe it is. He wants to apologize. If it will help him feel better, then I should let him do just that. "She really likes you." The moment I finish my sentence, I feel like we're no older than these kids. I'm back in middle school, telling my friend that somebody likes her. Girls are putting lipstick on in the restroom and whispering that Lester Hurman is chasing me.

"Rhonda and I have a lot in common," Zack says. "I guess since we work together we've thought that maybe something could happen."

Office romance? We had one of those at Palacio del Rey. When the waitress and bus boy broke up, the strife between them could have been cut with any sharpened kitchen knife. Working anywhere near either of them had been a test of everyone's sanity. We went home weary those nights.

As the children leap over the path toward us, Zack's last words to me are, "It isn't going to happen. It just won't."

Poor Rhonda.

I, who was seething with jealousy yesterday, am now overcome with sorrow for Rhonda. At the same time, I feel like shouting while doing a handstand. But I haven't been able to do a decent handstand since second grade, and besides, my mother's warning about a woman not exposing her emotions keeps me from doing anything. I give the stew two good stirs.

When Rhonda approaches me, she looks sweaty from the game of kickball. I offer her a juice box and then a smile.

Humans are the most fickle of God's creations. Also the most hardhearted. Dogs are forgiving; they only know how to pump pureness through their arteries. Maybe I should rethink my opinion about dogs.

I cast a look toward Zack, who is on his way to the restrooms, Bubba and Dougy protesting behind him, "Why do we have to wash our hands again?"

Something about the way Zack is distraught over his relationship with Rhonda brushes against me like a soft sheet drying on the clothesline on a spring afternoon. He really cares about the feelings of others. He hates the uneasiness between Rhonda and him. Mom used to dry our clothes on a wire line strung between two cedar trees. Growing up, she told us that clothes hung on a line were the most sanitary, a claim I have since found to be odd. Probably because as the sheets and towels hung on warm afternoons, I would often come by and hold the ends of the cotton sheets in my hands and press my nose into the fabric, letting the aroma of sun and soap fill my lungs. My hands, after playing around the barn, were less than sanitary.

When I am asked to offer the blessing over our meal, I look at Robert as if he's made a mistake. "Me?" I want to say. "You want me to pray? Are you out of your mind? I am clearly the most selfish, jealous, angry person at this gathering, and you want me to talk to God? Aloud? In front of everyone?"

Then I look at Darren seated to my left and think of his burns. I glance at Charlotte and think of how she's been abandoned again and again. All of us here are just mere hopeless creatures-except that we are loved by God. His love is saturated with an equal amount of consistency for everyone.

They are all waiting for me. Zack gives an encouraging nod, lowers his head.

I take in a breath and wish the earth would open and swallow me right now. I have no idea what I'm going to say. When was the last time I prayed audibly in front of a group? Then the answer comes to me. I fold my hands and close my eyes. "Dear God, thank you for each person here. Help us to grow in the love, patience, joy, peace, and forgiveness that you freely give to us. Thank you for this food and this time together. Amen." As I say the word forgiveness, forgiveness, my heart feels a rapid tug. I blink back tears. my heart feels a rapid tug. I blink back tears.

"Amen!" says Bobby. "Let's eat!"

I stand to fill plastic bowls with stew, sniff a few times. No crying, not here, I tell myself.

As we eat, I realize that praying wasn't hard. I just put into practice what I've learned while living in these rugged Smoky Mountains. I opened my heart and let it out. As Chef B would say, "She write her heart onto the pages of her journal."

"Miss Livingston loves those fruits," says Bubba as he reaches for a roll.

I smile at him.

Rainy says, "Miss Livingston taught us to make some really good things this year, and we're eating soup from a can?"

"Dummy," says Bobby. "At least it's food. Pass me a roll. Or two. Please."

As Zack hangs a lantern on a pole so that we can eat with light, I am starting to feel like I am surrounded by family.

If this were a musical, here's where I would break into song. But I still can't carry a tune.

Zack and the kids take the heavy pot to a water faucet by the path to wash it. I enter my tent to put on my jacket. It is then that my mind turns to the kimono-clad woman in the drawing at Ernest's cabin. As many times as I have wondered what exactly she is covering with her ornate fan, now I think I know. The woman has lifted her fan to conceal a tear. She is not the crying type and doesn't want to blow her cover. But sometimes the heart overpowers the eyes, and tears somehow manage to escape. The dampness a tear produces is like the dew layering the earth of the mountain-moist and needed for cleansing, growth, and above all else, survival.

"Are you all right?" The familiar voice comes from behind me.

I know I'm supposed to say, "Of course, I'm fine." Mother has told me over and over that no one wants to hear your woes; it's best to smile, and the world smiles with you. Conceal; use that fan. Show no one who you really are, because then they might think less of you, assuming they ever thought highly of you at all.

Zack notes the tear that has made its way down my cheek. I see his eyes observing it like it's a rare gem-or a piece of trash. As he draws closer, he surprises me by moving a finger gently over its trail. "You aren't okay, are you?"

The desire to take his hand in mine overwhelms me. Stepping back, I simply admit, "The mountains don't give you room to hide, do they?"

He tilts his head and looks into my eyes. "We don't hide here in these parts, Miss Livingston. Every one of us is exposed."

"Are there professionally documented charts on all of us?"