Yesterday I was sitting on a bench at a crowded Walmart, waiting for Boy to get out of the restroom, listening to a rambling message on my work cell phone, telling Girl “No” for the nth time for some reason or other. From the corner of my eye I could see a woman waving at me, trying to get my attention.

“Miss, are you going to be here for two minutes?” she asked. She was a young Hispanic woman holding a six-month old baby. I could tell in an instant what she wanted — she was asking me to look after her baby while she went to the restroom.

“No,” I said, standing up, phone still to my ear. Boy had just stepped out of the restroom, and I motioned him to come with an angry wave.

I could see the woman head into the bathroom holding the baby with one arm, and I felt bad for her. I remembered what that was like, holding a baby while peeing. Not fun, but I always chose it over the alternative — having a stranger look after my baby while I was in a vulnerable position.

It was a snap decision, made while I was in a foul mood in the middle of a stressful place. But I thought about it all day. Why did I so abruptly say no? Why didn’t I help the young mother?

I decided that it was because we were at Walmart on a Saturday. I had threatened both of my kids before we went into the store not to run away from me, giving them the stranger danger scare. I wanted to give that lecture to the woman with the baby. “Don’t you know better? This is Walmart! On a Saturday!” I wanted to tell her.

More than that: I didn’t want to be mistaken for a kidnapper. What if the woman never came back? Or what if she came out of the restroom screaming, “She took my baby!” I could picture the Walmart cops hauling me away in handcuffs.

So I don’t really have a punchline to this story, only that I wasn’t Christian enough to help a stranger, but just Christian enough to feel guilty about it all day.

I don’t believe in ghosts because I don’t want to. I hope the dead have better things to do than linger here like permanent spectators, never to be actors again.

How impotent to be a ghost — to see the hand reaching out for the scalding hot pan and not be able to scream, “Don’t touch that!” To see a loved one cry, broken hearted, and not be able to pat the shoulder. I hope the dead are not watching us.

I hope the dead are not listening to us, either. Catholics believe that the dead become our own personal saints, able to intercede with God on our behalf. I hope they aren’t relegated to that job.

It’d be like this — “Aunt Mary, I lost my car keys again. Can you just ask Jesus to give me a little help here? I’m late for work. Amen.”

After a while of toting and fetching for her yuppy nieces and nephews, Aunt Mary would want to say, “Find your own damn keys,” only she can’t because she’s in heaven and they don’t say four-letter words there.

I hope the dead have nothing to do with us. I hope they go on to fulfill their own hearts’ desires and that their dreams are born anew each day.

I hope the dead aren’t left to trod the same old ground but go on to discover new places, new friends, new loves.

I hope when they reach God, He says, “Well done, good and faithful servant. Now let’s set all that aside and move on, shall we?” And all the hurt, pain, fear, despair, loss is washed away and the soul becomes a new being — fresh and clean and alive.

Never a moldy old ghost.

I did yoga today after a two week hiatus. It was if an old person had high-jacked my body and replaced it with something stiff and awkward. Not that I was supple before — I’ve never been flexible or athletic, but I had reached a point where I wasn’t falling out of the poses all the time. Not so today.

As I went through the set — cobra, downward facing dog, warrior one, triangle — I realized that grief had settled into my bones. By the end of the class I was crying.

It was only after I started doing yoga that I began to write again, after an eight year hiatus. Yoga has opened me in a way that’s hard to describe. I need to remember that yoga is physical prayer.

The dryer is broken. The air conditioner in the white car only blows through half the vents. The sinks in both bathrooms are clogged, one by toothbrushes dropped down the drain. The upstairs cast iron tub won’t drain at all anymore. The dishwasher only cleans the bottom rack.

Three weeks ago Bob and I went to an art show by my friend and co-worker, and we bought the biggest, most beautiful painting in the gallery. We whipped out our credit card quickly and decisively, like a couple of art patrons who do this all the time.

Bob brought the painting home and hung it yesterday. When Girl saw it, she fell backward and screamed “I LOVE IT!” It’s in the dining room, the heart of our house. Bob and I stop and stare at it at different hours of the day and night, noticing how the light and shadows bring new meaning and context to the work.

Maybe it’s completely impractical to buy art when so many things need to be fixed. But I’m so tired of my money going to things I care so little about. Sometimes my days feel like one long, boring maintenance manual.

The beautiful piece in my dining room is called Heaven’s Gate, and I think it’s no accident it came to me the day after my dear aunt’s funeral.

It can be my reminder of the Divine in everyday life.