I was granted many blessings and abilities (though I don’t always see or appreciate them) in my life. I was not granted patience. I hate waiting. Microwave popcorn takes too damn long. Stoplights are maddening. And Wisconsin’s usually procrastinating spring is just plain torture.

As I’ve stated earlier, we just lived through one of the coldest winters in 75 years, the coldest for many of us in our entire lives. And spring is whimpering in like a beaten dog. We’re so despirate up here for spring, that we are looking at highs in the low fifties (twenty degrees below where we should be right now) and saying, “Well, it could certainly be worse. We had snow this time last year.”

For gardeners it’s an added aggravation. You know those pretty pictures you always see of crocuses blooming with a ring of snow around them? Yeah, we had that; more enjoyable in the picture than real life.

Finally the snow is gone. The carcases hiding in the snowbanks have been exposed and finished off by starving eagles. Emaciated deer are chewing whatever they can find. The robins are finally able to indulge in fresh worms.

And the many leaves that blew in from other yards after mulching was done last fall are covering my garden beds, mocking me. I see little green shoots peeking out underneath them. I lift up the leaves in a few spots. And the rationalizing begins. “Theses are perennials, right? They’re suppose to be cold hardy. They wouldn’t be leafing out right now if they weren’t suppose to be uncovered. They need the sun.” I swear I can actually hear the rake in the garage calling me, “Come and get me. I promise to be gentle. You know you want to…”

But past experience has taught me otherwise. It’s too soon. So I put at least some of the leaves carefully back, and then I sigh despondently, and I walk away. The old adage up here is, you never uncover the garden beds until after Mother’s day. You don’t plant annuals until Memorial weekend. One little dip in the fickle jet stream, and the damage is done.

I always laugh bitterly when I watch the news in Washington DC and they are showing off the cherry blossoms around the Capitol in April. This year it was more painful than funny. This year it was just mean.

Stupid patience.

I wonder what it’s like to be present and aware all the time. I honestly wouldn’t know. My mind has a ridiculously short attention span. It wanders off at a moment’s notice with little encouragement. It just goes, and the rest of me must stay on task in the mean time. I could be driving, or cooking, or working at a job, or showering, any number of things while I’m conscious of a completely different place and time, and I’m speaking and thinking for fictitious people who are not me.

The constant multitasking can be irritating to the people who have to interact with me. I try to be present for others to the best of my abilities, especially when I’m getting paid to do so, but I don’t always succeed. My husband bears the brunt of it, but he likes my writing, so his understanding has increased. After a decade of marriage, I assume he’s gotten used to it by now and has lowered his expectations about my undivided attention accordingly.

The problem is that I like being someplace else. There’s so much going on, and I’m in control of it, unlike reality. I don’t feel in control of my own life most of the time. In reality I’m usually just hanging on and trying to appreciate what I’ve been given in the time I have. In the other place (or places) that occupy my mind, I have a better feel of direction and purpose. There, I get to make sense of the senseless. I get to expose hidden motives to the insanity going on in whatever drama I have chosen to occupy my time with.

In a nutshell, reality is overwhelming. An overactive imagination is liberating.

I’m still close enough to my product (vis-à-vis my books) that I actually pay attention to what reviewers write in their comments. I’ve gotten a thick skin over the obvious things: the explicit sex scenes, the complaints about the curse words, the ick factor with some of the murders, even the editing. But I was thrown for a loop recently when someone pointed out that Bernice’s morals were in contradiction to her going to church.

This is not an apology, by the way. This is an explanation.

From my experience these past few decades of attending church, I’ve made some interesting observations concerning people’s reasons for attending.

I’ve made note of those steadfast followers who attend very regularly, but they never look happy about it. It’s like church is simply a way to reenforce their own self-righteousness. They are the “right kind of people” because they go to church faithfully every Sunday. It gives them carte blanche to pass judgement on others who don’t follow their strict moral code. I even recall as a child, watching these same people put money in the offering plate, and when they went to leave, look up at the ceiling like they were telling God: “There ya go….You’re welcome.”

I’ve also made note of the churchgoers who look rather desperate in their pew. These are the parishioners who are experiencing pain, and they are going to church to find hope. They are looking for solace in the words, for some sign that if they just hold on, just keep trusting that their faith will carry them through, that life will straighten itself out. That feels like a good reason to go to church to me, but I don’t always see these folks stay consistent in their attendance after the crisis has passed.

Then there are the “traditionalists.” Going to church is a custom, and it is usually done in conjunction with other social gatherings: weddings, funerals, baptisms, and the holidays: Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, Memorial Day, etc.

Now, how does this translates to the characters in my books?

Well, Darlene is the self-righteous one. She goes to church like her parents went to church. Bernice went to church while she was on the farm to placate Darlene, and to see other people from time to time. Bernice’s feelings about God and organized religion in general have not really been touched on in the books. Neither have Agent Wyatt’s. Cameron comes from a Baptist background, but it’s obvious in his behavior that he doesn’t live by a strict moral code either.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, people attend worship services for reasons that have virtually nothing to do with their level of faith. If you choose to be outraged by that, so be it. I tend to believe a person’s behavior toward others should be the measure of their moral stature, not their personal vices. The last time I checked, we’re all sinners.