"I want to be a scholar like that" had led to small groups of women meeting to discuss how that might happen.  One group was a mix of religion: Judeo-Christian, political persuasion, and generation.  This allowed for more than HELLO, I'M SO-and-so...these are my checkboxes...and you all know what my values are...conversations.

     Complaining of cramps was spoken of a young woman gone to lay down and nap.  

     "Why do we complain about something that happens over and over?" 

     "My husband calls that Squeaky Wheel Syndrome." 

     "Mine just gets me what I need." 

     "He does?" 

     "Yah." 

     "Everything?" 

     "Chocolate, wine, and pads." 

     "Why complain about the pain that brings the miracles?" 

     "Miracles?" 

     The woman was getting dark circles under her eyes from the physical and emotional stresses of war.  She poked at the air with a spatula of cake batter and warned, "Survival of the generations is a miracle." 

     Another woman looked up from a Bible.  "I found it.  I couldn't recall which Psalm it was so I've been re-reading the whole book." 

     "Will you look at it with us?" A Rabbi was asked. 

     "I can but I know everyone here is capable of reading and understanding God's Word." The vote of confidence settled everyone.  Some took out their own Bibles from various styles of bags, in various styles of covers.  "Yours matches your sweater," someone noted.  "Yeah, I'm pretty matchy-matchy." 

     "I can't afford all that designer stuff," one woman said of a hand-drawn, graffiti'd cardboard cover.  "That is so cool," one young person said as three went to sit down near her.  "Can I hold it?" 

     "Sure." 

     "It's been tense," the woman said. 

     "In the Psalms?" 

     "Yes.  In the Psalms.  But also as a multi-national mom and teacher.  And now with the spectre of even more war on the horizon..." 

     "I've been having the worst dreams." 

     "Do you think it's just spectre?" 

     "I'm not really sure." 

     "I don't think anyone is." 

     "Factors?" 

     "Lots of moving parts." 

     "And people at the mercy of others." 

     "And, and, and." 

     "You want we should avoid this topic?" 

     "The specifics yes." 

     "Someone actually criticized someone for having a warrior spirit the other day in a weekly planner review."  Eyes looked at, looked down, looked inward thinking on criticisms given the atmosphere.  "And I thought, well I thought a lot of things, but mostly I thought of young people." 

     "Not tough skins, not fully formed in their opinions, not confident in us..." 

     "Not true." 

     "Yes, true.  And why would they be with the world as unsettled as it is?" 

     "I hate settled," One said. 

     "You're an adventurer, that's to be expected." 

     "I just hate that settled means far away," another woman said. 

     "With our own lives.  That's not to hate."  

     "Give me the baby," said the woman baking the cake.  A woman with a baby on her lap got up and brought the little one towards the kitchen area.  She was waved away.  "Naw, not that one." 

     "Not this one?" She looked around for other babies. 

     "The baby Jesus.  We need to put him in the cake." 

     "Have you lost your mind?" 

     "Yes.  More than once.  It's a tradition.  It's for my friend." 

     "Not for us?  You're making a cake in my kitchen that we don't get to eat?" 

     "I didn't say that." 

     "What Psalm is it?  I'm going to have to get going.  I told you that." She had indeed left her coat on. 

     "I usually read the ones before it and after it too." 

     "Context." 

     "Yeah.  Better sense." 

     "137." 

     "One thirty seven?" 

     Some people wrote that down.  Some opened to it. No one recited it off the top of the head. 

     "Give me the Jesus." 

     "Do you think this will just cascade into total war?" 

     "Like going to hell in a handbasket?" 

     "Read the Book." 

     "By degrees.  All things happen by degrees." 

     "Like my cake if I can get Jesus into it." 

     "It's in that coat pocket," someone said at the pile of winterwear. 

     "Better a Jesus than a file," the answer to a quiet why?

     

     "How could this Psalm writer be so angry?" The question hung in the room like an arrow shot at an apple.