"Reality is built out of thought, and our every thought begins to create reality." - Edgar Cayce

When morning came, I stretched and sat up in the bed. I set my feet on the worn beige carpet, and faced my new reality. The vague chatter I'd struggled against for years had solidified into discernible speech.

He's moving!

Did you talk to him?

I'm so hungry.

What gives them the right?

The Keeper of The Knowledge!

So dark here now.

I stood, tip-toed to the bathroom, and headed downstairs. It had become my routine to get up earlier than anyone else in the family. I usually had an hour to sit in my favorite squashy chair on our enclosed back patio, sipping Fair Trade organic coffee from my reusable stainless steel cup with the silicone lid. I would switch on my tablet and check for messages and scroll through a few of my favorite sites. Maybe I would glance at the weather forecast or look up the Bible verse of the day.

It was a different world in those days. Something about starting the day out in such a quiet, unhurried way made me feel better equipped for dealing with whatever life tossed at me later.

I couldn't think of any reason why I shouldn't start this day as any other, so I headed to the porch. Just as I started to sit down, the old back gate opened with a squeak. The woman from the park approached with the biggest, brightest smile I ever remembered seeing that early in the morning. A quick comparison of her snug leather pants, form-fitting white tee shirt, and glossy golden braid, to my ratty sweatpants, ancient maternity tee, and straw-colored hair was not a good way to build self-esteem.

"Good morning!" She called out as soon as she saw me. "I brought breakfast!" She held up a sack which could have contained anything at all. "I'd like us to be friends." That feeling of warm peacefulness began to spiral out from my core once again. "May I come in?" she asked, producing a can of cinnamon roll dough from the bag.

"Sure," I said. I figured I'd already taken the leap into crazy yesterday. I may as well enjoy the swim today. Plus, I was hungry, and cinnamon rolls had long been a favorite guilty pleasure.

She made herself at home in my kitchen, going straight to the oven to get it started. Her demeanor wasn't at all the kind of thing I was used to, not even from my closest friends, but there was something about being in her presence that made it seem impossible to feel anything other than joyful and comfortable.

"Is everyone else still sleeping?" she asked. "I don't want to wake them."

I pulled out my favorite cast iron frying pan and set it on the stove for her. "They'll be fine. They all sleep like coma patients, and it's about time for the little one to wake up anyway."

"Great! I adore children! You sit there," she demanded, "and leave this to me. I don't get to do this kind of thing very often, and I do find it to be such a joy."

I plopped down where she directed, and tried to smother a jaw-cracking yawn.

"See? You're overworked and under-rested. You have to take better care of yourself, Simone. You've got important work to do."

"Yeah, about that," I said. "I don't really have any idea what the guy at the park was talking about. I'm not sure what he expects me to do. I'm no one special. I'm just a mom."

A frown crossed her lovely features. "What do you mean, 'just a mom?'" With deft hands she laid out several slices of bacon in the hot pan and tossed the package in the trash. She moved with the assurance of a professional chef.

It was like being a school child called out by the teacher for giving a cheeky answer. "It is what it is. I'm no one rich or powerful. I'm not especially clever or well-spoken. I don't have any kind of special knowledge. I'm just a mom. I'm ordinary."

"Ah, I see. So, creating two new lives, and spending your days nurturing those souls, ensuring that they grow to be well educated men of integrity, being a help-mate to your husband, these are things that anyone can do. They are not valuable. You are less valuable because you are 'just a mom.' If you were... say... one of those TV doctors or something, then you could understand being chosen for an important task. If you earned a paycheck from some other, more worthy, individual who had built a business and contributed to society by keeping the wheels of commerce spinning, well, even then you would be more than, 'just a mom', right? And I suppose, the converse must be true as well. If you'd never had children you'd barely be set apart from the livestock. Just like in the good old days." She cracked several eggs into a bowl.

"I was there, you know. I've seen women sold by their parents for sacks of grain, taken as spoils of war, and given away to the sons of soldiers like so many pretty baubles. I knew women who were forbidden to work, then scorned for their poverty, and left to starve. I had a friend who was executed for her failure to produce a male heir. The good old days were not so great."

All of this seemed a bit much to take in thirty minutes after waking. I opened my mouth to respond, but at that moment Ike came stumbling out of his room. The boy had a gift for making me smile in the mornings. He would throw his bedroom door open like an invading marauder, and burst into my day moving full speed, wearing only one sock, his crazy hair sticking up every which way. He would still be rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his chubby fists, wearing the biggest grin that ever met the morning sun. "Mama! It's today!" He would tell me. I would sweep him into my arms, and he would happily snuggle against my chest, just for a minute or two, before dashing off to embrace the day with that special energy that only little boys of a certain age ever seem to have. When he was born, the limitations of my ability to love were completely shattered.

On this day, he charged into the kitchen and, seeing a stranger, skidded to a stop and corked two fingers into his mouth.

"Hey, Buddy!" I greeted him. "This is Freyja. She came to have breakfast with us this morning."

She unleashed the radiance of her smile on him. "Good morning! What's your name?"

He unplugged long enough to say, "My name's Ike!" The two fingers went right back in. By the fast and furious movement of his jaw, I knew he was very focused this newcomer.

"It's very nice to meet you, Ike. Your mommy and I were just discussing something and I wonder what your thoughts are. Who is the most important person you know in the whole world?" Freyja asked.

Without ever looking away from her, my son wandered over to me and climbed up onto my lap.

She beamed with satisfaction, "I rest my case."

I had no idea what to say to that, so I changed the subject, after handing my tablet to Ike to distract him. Beeping electronics were always a sure-fire way to completely divert his attention. "I don't mean to be rude or anything. I'm not sure about the protocol for this sort of thing. I was wondering... I mean... you're not human, right?"

"That's right," she said.

"So exactly what are you? Are you an angel?"

She moved the bacon onto a plate, and poured the eggs into the pan. The combined scents of food and coffee had my stomach growling in impatient expectation. "No. Many have mistakenly labeled me as such over the years, but I'm no angel. The other one who came to you is. I'm a creature of the realms. I'm a child of That Which Is. I'm a wife and mother."

OK. Well. That didn't explain anything at all, I thought. "You say the other one is an angel."

"Yes, that's right. Look! Breakfast is ready, and the timing is perfect." Her gaze moved past me. "Good morning!"

Michael stood in the door in red plaid pajama pants and old navy blue bathrobe staring at Freyja with a dazed expression. I guessed she had that effect on pretty much every male she encountered. After a few blinks of the eye, he came over to kiss Ike and me on the tops of our heads.

"Good morning," he said.

"I thought your wife would enjoy a break this morning," Freya said.

"I'm sure that's true. She works too hard, taking care of a house full of grubby guys," he answered. She glanced at me with a twinkle in her eye, but said nothing further about our earlier conversation.

Instead, she wiped her hands on a towel and extended a hand to him. "My name is Freyja."

"Michael." He shook her hand, looking bemused. The glassy-eyed daze on his face caused me to assume her power must affect him, too. The questions that had been apparent in his eyes a moment ago melted away under her magical touch.

"I've seen your art. It's wondrous. Everything you paint is so full of hope. There is always joy, even in the darkest pieces."

I knew she'd found the perfect way to his heart. "Thank you!" and then, to me, "I like your new friend. She seems smart and discerning."

I rolled my eyes at him.

"Can I have that?" Ike asked, pointing to the cinnamon rolls that were now on a plate on the counter.

Freyja deferred to me. "Are we waiting for one more?"

"Nah. Donovan is a lump in the morning. Most days I have to pull the blankets off and expose him to the sun before he even starts to stir, and it's another hour after that before he's in a fit state to converse. He was born a night owl," I said.

"Mmmm."

Maybe it's just my memory, playing tricks on me now. So much has happened since then, and memories have a way of being more malleable than we like to admit, but she fidgeted as though uncomfortable at that comment. The moment was gone as fast as it came.

She slid a plate onto the counter in front of Ike. "In that case, your sticky bun, good sir."

He giggled and went, quite predictably, straight for the icing.

We all dug into the food, and then sat back with full bellies to sip at the fragrant coffee.

"Can you tell us what's going on? What's being asked of my wife?" Michael asked. He had always been open-minded, but his instant, complete acceptance of a supernatural creature in our kitchen confirmed my suspicion that she exerted an influence on him greater than just a pretty face.

She held her cup between her palms, and answered with obvious sincerity. "I wish I could. The truth is, I don't really know myself. I'm a being of the Realms. I know that you don't exactly understand what that means yet but, suffice it to say that I'm as omniscient as you are. I see from a different perspective, perhaps, but I don't know what's coming. Like you, Simone, I sense the restlessness of the beings. Something is happening and all seem aware of it on some level."

There was a gasp from behind me. Donovan stood in the doorway in his Incredible Hulk pajamas, saucer-wide eyes locked on Freyja. All the color drained from his face, before a bright red hue appeared, creating fever spots on his cheeks.

She smiled widely at him, "Good morning!"

He dragged his fingers through his wild hair, looked down at his fuzzy jammies, and ran back into his bedroom, slamming the door shut.

"Donovan?" She asked, laughter in her eyes again.

"That's my boy. He'll either hide in there now, until you leave, or else he'll come out dressed in a three piece suit."

She laughed the unselfconscious laugh of one who has always been beautiful, and knows the effect she has on men, and is neither conceited nor falsely humble. "Anyway," she continued, "I think it is best if I let him explain things. His knowledge is much more vast than mine; the comparison is absurd. His power is remarkable, Simone, and he begs help from no one without excellent reason." She stood up and pushed her chair in. "I'm glad to know this family. I hope I'm welcome back."

Michael rubbed his full belly. "Lunch is in a few hours."

Again, the musical laughter rang out. "I need to attend to a few things with my own family, but I'll be near if you need me."

"How would I get in touch with you?" I asked.

"I'll hear you if you call to me, and I will always come as fast as I can."

The thought comforted me. "Thank you for coming this morning. It was..." I searched for the right word, couldn't exactly find it, and settled for, "very pleasant."

"I agree. It was very pleasant, indeed. Thank you for having me," Freyja said.

Donovan emerged in black dress pants and a collared shirt with dripping wet hair slicked back from his face. To her credit, she never even snickered, but extended a hand. "You must be Donovan."

He took her hand, but didn't say a word. He stared at her, enraptured.

"It's very nice to meet you," she said. "Unfortunately, I was just on my way out, and I won't have the pleasure of getting to know you this morning, but I hope that we can speak sometime in the very near future."

He managed a strange little animal grunt in response.

Freyja's departure left us with more questions than answers. But, somehow, in the morning light, with full bellies, those questions didn't seem as frightening and urgent as they had the night before.

Our day went on, and that day slipped into another, which folded into the next and not a thing out of the ordinary happened. Unless you count hearing voices as out of the ordinary. On Thursday, there was T-ball practice. Friday, we went grocery shopping. Saturday, we all went together on a road trip to the Tulip Festival where we ate practically our own body weight in fresh-roasted nuts coated with cinnamon and sugar. Sunday morning we went to church, just like always and afterward, out to lunch at the little diner in the old downtown area. Ike fell asleep on the couch. Donovan plugged into his dad's laptop to play computer games. Michael decided to paint in his studio, so I pulled on my grubbiest jeans and headed into the backyard to see what kind of order I could make of the flower beds.

I had filled a five gallon bucket with weeds, and coated every inch of my hands with mud before the angel appeared. Once again, I neither saw nor heard him approach, but I knew he was there as surely as I knew anything at all. I looked up at him, a shadow, silhouetted by the blinding radiance of the mid-afternoon sun.

"Simone," he said, his voice seeping right into the marrow of my bones. I trembled with something that wasn't exactly fear, but was so close as to be indistinguishable.

Mustering up all of the bravery in my wimpy, chubby, nearly middle-aged form, I rose to my feet. "So, you've finally come to explain what it is you want from me?"

"I have," he replied. No attempts at niceties from this one. I doubted he'd ever come up the back walk with an offering of bacon and cinnamon rolls.

"Let me wash up," I said. "Have a seat on the porch." Did angels eat and drink? Seems like, maybe, in the Bible they did. "Can I bring you some tea or something?"

"No, thank you. I will wait." And he went up and sat in one of the wicker chairs with an attitude that made "waiting" seem to be every bit as active a verb as "running."

I went inside and washed my hands with a slow thoroughness intended to buy myself some time. I wondered what he would tell me; really wanted to know; if it was too late to back out.

He goes!

Who is she?

He knows!

The Keeper knows!

Of course he knows.

He's taking action.

It's been granted.

It's too late.

Does it matter?

I didn't understand what they were talking about, but I was wise enough to understand that knowing would be small comfort. They didn't sound like they were cheering for my success. When it seemed ridiculous to linger any longer, I returned to the porch and sat in the chair opposite him. "I've given a great deal of thought to our encounter at the park but I can't make much sense of it."

"That is to be expected. I will tell you more, and your understanding will grow," he said.

"You'll explain what you want me to do? And why you feel it's so important? "

"Yes."

"And you'll explain who you are, and why you've chosen me, of all people, to help you with this?"

"I will."

"And you won't lie to me, or deceive me in any way?"

"That is my promise."

I chewed on the corner of my thumbnail. "Freyja says you're an angel, but that she's not. She says your power and knowledge are much greater than hers."

"It is so," he said.

"If you're so great, why do you need me? I'm just a... human," I finished, stumbling over my awkward words.

He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. "This world, the world of man, is one of countless many. The worlds, the realms, the universes... they are all woven together in a great tapestry. Each is a unique place, separated from the others and they are all knitted together in an inextricable connection. Do you understand?"

"Um, no. I'm sorry, but I don't understand at all."

"See for yourself," he said, offering a hand. I stared at him, uncertain. He was patient while I battled with myself. Unable to resist the temptation of knowledge, I slipped my hand into his and, like a blurry picture coming into focus, the world took on a new focus and dimension that I had never before perceived. I saw Freyja nearby. She sat on a golden throne with a cat in her lap, and another on the arm of her chair. A necklace, incredible in detail and impossible not to notice, hung around her neck, complimenting her full length cloak of feathers. Her long braid shone like gold. On the floor near her feet rested a young woman humming to herself while polishing a piece of armor. The entire scene was laid over my backyard like two transparencies on top of one another. They were different pictures, yet they meshed together in flawless unison, with nothing in either being in the way of anything in the other. Beyond that scene, yet within it, was a courtyard with a fountain flowing with what appeared to be molten silver. Beings who looked to be no more than shapes of light moved around the fountain talking to one another and laughing with a sound not unlike the clinking of crystal wine glasses. I understood that they were young for their kind, and that they were visiting just the way a group of human college kids would socialize in a park. In every direction, above, below, in front and behind, were layers upon layers of images. Scenes of bustling cities, vast spaces and ancient-looking palaces. Beings of every sort moved through the various settings.

He motioned to a very tall man in a room of blue and green. The room held every kind of musical instrument I'd seen and hundreds I hadn't. There were leather bound books and scrolls and loose pieces of paper and parchment, each covered with music. The man reclined on cushions tacked against a wall and played idly with a stringed instrument, humming in a voice so immeasurably beautiful that tears of joy sprang to my eyes. A woman sat near him reading from a thick tome. Without interrupting his melody, he looked up, clearly aware of our presence, and smiled at us. For a moment all I wanted, with all my heart, was to sit at the feet of this gentle giant, and listen to his music for every remaining minute of my life.

"Do not be deceived, Simone," my guide cautioned. "He is kind and good, but not at all gentle. Both are powerful allies of mine, named Sandalphon and Neith. They are cunning warriors, ruthless in their justice."