Last week, I toyed with the idea of discontinuing, or significantly lessening, my medications. It's an idea I've been mulling over on and off for months actually. I've felt off, sad, purposeless and unmotivated to really do anything to change it. When someone attempted to joke with me - rare in my line of work - I felt hard-pressed to come up with a response. Hadn't I once been quick witted? Was I, perhaps, just getting old?

The vivacious me I know and love felt nowhere in sight, and I missed her.

Today, after four full days of socializing with friends and celebrating this thing called life, I saw her again in the mirror. Weary and worn, but definitely there.

I realized that it is not the pills, or lack thereof, that subdues the real me. It is working home alone, and even when working outside the house, seeing through projects for which I have little passion. I have known this for some time, but how I will change it is unclear. My boss just gave me a raise, a generous raise, well over the cost of living. The job is not difficult, or unpleasant. These things make the idea of leaving seem a fool's errand.

But my despondency came, even more so I think, from not reaching out to and seeing friends on a regular basis.

My son spent Thanksgiving with his father. I dreaded the long weekend without him. Beyond Thanksgiving Day, spent with my friend April in Colorado Springs, nothing was planned. What would I do with all that time? I put out a few tentative phone calls and e-mails to friends, but somehow, expected nothing. I'd finish some half-completed house projects, take Ally for long walks, do some Christmas shopping, hopefully meet a friend for lunch.

Then, the phone rang. And never stopped.

My friend Lane, wanting to meet Saturday for window shopping and lunch in Denver's swanky Cherry Creek North. Diane, saying she'd love to go dancing Saturday night. Pam, wanting to head out for appetizers and drinks Friday eve. And these things preceded by a Thanksgiving Day dinner and drinks out in downtown Colorado Springs with April and Pam. A pub crawl Wednesday eve with the members of one of the singles socials group with which I've pushed myself to re-engage.

Pam, who is between homes, is staying with me on and off until the first of the year. An arrangement I'd first thought would be tension filled has been anything but.

Friday eve, she and her boyfriend waited downstairs while I primped to go out with them. I realized I felt happy. Anticipatory, but also, happy right there in my house, at that moment. It was, I realized, because of the sound of people coming from below me. Friends, laughing and conversing comfortably in my living room.

The feeling overtook me again Thursday morning when, Pam and I, both a bit punchy from the previous evening's pub crawl,
hung companionably in the kitchen together. I stood at the counter, unwrapping cream cheese, pouring milk and mixing the ingredients for the caramel apple cheesecake that would top our later dinner in April's home. Pam read the paper. We both drank coffee. Neither of us wore makeup. We chatted and joked.

And I felt happy.

It returned Saturday, as Lane and I wandered the streets and expensive shops of Denver, discussing subjects sometimes painful, sometimes light. No matter the subject, I was content deep in my core because my company was the finest. Time with Lane, among my oldest and favorite of friends, is precious. Always soothing and good for the soul.

I drove home, thinking back on the afternoon and ahead to the evening. Thinking, this is a good life.

Diane and I danced until bar time last night. We danced more with one another than with anyone else. Once we began, we scarcely stopped. We danced until our feet ached. And danced some more.

And at some point, fairly early in the evening, what hadn't happened for me in perhaps a year or more did. The music filled me up and overtook me. I danced without thought, scarcely conscious of anyone else, of anything else, but the music. I danced, as the saying goes, like no one was looking. Indeed, I cared not a thing for who stood along the sidelines, or whether or not I had a partner.

It has been months since I bought a new CD, typically listening to the background noise of a Top 40 radio station rather than seeking out something interesting and unusual. I'd questioned, at times, whether my love of music had faded and it simply wasn't as important to me as it had once been.

But here it was. As powerful as ever.

And here, too, was I. Here I had been all weekend.

Overwhelmed with music. Surrounded all weekend by those I love. My house overflowing with laughter, my heart warm with happiness.

I missed my son, yes. But I'd missed myself, too. Getting her back, finding me and discovering I've been quelled but not extinguished, was invaluable. Now, the question is, how do I keep her?

In an effort to find another venue for Robby to meet kids who will be attending high school with him, I
tried the neighbors' church this last weekend. They said it was called Cherry Hills "community" church, which sounded nice and friendly, kind of country homey, to me.

And I love my neighbors. Their children are models of good behavior, and Robby's almost-constant weekend companions. They find me amusing -- whether laughing with me or at me, I can't be sure, but still, I'm flattered. Their parents have helped me with many a household chore since I moved into their midst, loaned me rakes and weed whackers, fixed plumbing problems on a moment's notice, watched my son and happily accepted my meager offerings of gratitude: beer and gin. So I figured it must be OK.

So Sunday a.m., Robby and I set off on yet another in a series of religious experiments -- which, by the way, he hates with a polite, mostly unspoken passion. We pulled in with minutes to spare, but enough, I thought, to make the service. Then I saw Douglas County Sheriff's cruisers, parked near the entry, lights flashing. At first, I thought some horrible accident had occurred right at the church entrance. Then I realized they were directing traffic.

"Lot FULL," a sign before us read.

The deputy waved us into another lot, some distance from the church entrance - which appeared to be less a church than an institution, a massive brick expanse larger than most urban office buildings.

We found a spot and began our journey to the doors. It was a walk of at least three football fields.

But my neighbor and her son was waiting outside the entrance, and she waved away my apologies. We led Robby and her son to a mysterious room in which they would receive their own form of religious instruction.

I walked in like a lamb to slaughter, with a completely open mind and optimistic hope that I had finally found something -- less loosey-goosey than Unitarianism but not quite so heavy as Catholicism feels to me -- that would click with me.

I noticed the area most would call the nave was large. Too large for the word, I thought. But it had a breezy, open feel I liked.

Besides, music was playing, a woman was singing and it was awesome. The church had an amazing sound system and a full
band. Even screens up above that broadcast close-ups of the singer. A good idea since I later realized there were 3,500 people in the room, more of an auditorium with a second layer in the form of a full balcony than a chapel.

So, I was still impressed.

Then the preaching began. And very soon into it, the pastor - whose mike was set so loud that his voice boomed in my chest - said he believes that people who don't tithe will "go to hell!" And within five minutes of that, he said the words "evangelism" and "Billy Graham."

I realized I was in deep doo-doo and had naively walked into the very kind of church I rail agains. These types of churches were among the reasons I wanted out of Colorado Springs. The-Bible-is-rule, we're-right-and-you're-wrong kind of churches.

I suddenly felt like a traitor in their midst. And completely out of place. And I also thought, how amused my friends would be if they could see me now. Darn near front and center at an evangelical mega-church.

As his words sank in, many of them feeling almost like a physical slap to my face, I also felt a sinking sensation in my heart. I truly want to find a religious sanctuary, a place that resonates with me such that I can share it with my son in deepest sincerity, and a place brimming with children for Robby to befriend for years to come. But even for Robby, and even though I'm yoga-flexible, this was farther than I could bend.

I talked briefly with my neighbor later that day. She inquired about the service and when I expressed some doubts, her response showed me she was a true believer. She stressed that tithing was in the Bible, and that the Bible was written by God. Her voice held such a tone of insistence that I felt myself shrinking, as I always did from this type of discussion. She said she felt it was a bad first sermon for me to hear, but that not all sermons can be inspiring. This pastor, she said, with sermons such as this, teaches us how to find our own salvation.

"But isn't that," I wanted to say, "a bit selfish?"

I envisioned these Biblical orders as pennies dropping into a penny jar. Tithing amounted to a penny here and a penny there -- more money donated, more pennies in the jar. And eventually, when they had done enough of these Bible-ordered deeds, the full penny jar became Willy Wonka's Golden Ticket. Offer it up to the God you believe in, and the gates of heaven swing open. You have been saved!!

"And just how," I also wanted to ask, "do you know the Bible was written by God? How can you be so sure of any of these things? How can your faith be so unflinchingly strong when all I have are more and more questions?"

But I offered no further quarrel.

Religion and politics. What do they say? Don't talk about 'em. Just love your neighbor. Period.

Later that evening, I took a long walk with my friend Diane, who is of the middle-of-the-road, tolerant, sometimes admittedly uncertain Christian variety I like. She gasped when I told her where I'd been. "Oh God, Jane! If you'd told me where you were going, I could have warned you. That's one of THOSE churches! I can't believe you went there!" She proceeded to laugh uproariously.

This gave rise to a rousing theological discussion, which we both thoroughly enjoyed, and which ended, naturally, over beers and a cheese-drenched plate of nachos at Old Chicago.

Needless to say, Robby and I won't be going back. I will find a gentle way to tell my neighbors. Perhaps, I've thought, by saying that "it just didn't hit home for us," and hope that it won't hurt our friendship. Because they are loving people, I know we'll be just fine.

And as for me and Robby? The search may continue, or it may not. I may just have to simply accept that I will never have a sense of religious certainty, and go back to doing what feels right to me: Living the best life I can, helping to brighten the way for others through acts both big and small. Trying, always trying -- with remarkable - hopefully even amusing - imperfection.

An unrecognizable phone number flashed on my cell screen Sunday night. I let it go to voicemail, then, immediately checked the message. (This is how we all do it, right? Pretend not to care, then rush to hear who's trying to reach us!)

The voice was familiar from the first syllable. Male, southern, polite, older.

He introduced himself as a blast from the past. His name was Ron. He was the father of a young man whose trial I'd covered in Summit County a decade ago. Andrew, who could not have been much older than 20 then, had hit a man in the head with a rock during what allegedly was a drug deal gone bad. Andrew reportedly was shocked to read two days later in the paper that the man had died; he fled home, to his father's house in North Carolina, where police found him.

"Andrew's been incarcerated for 12 and a-half years," his father said. "He was locked up that day they came to the house and he's never been out since."

Ron and I had become friends during the course of the trial, which lasted 17 months. I know this because Robby was not yet born the day the victim, John, died in a vacant lot on a cold March night in 1995. My son was a year and two weeks old when the gavel sealed the jury's decision and Andrew's future in late September 1996.

There was never any doubt that Andrew was responsible for John's death. The debate was over intent. Andrew maintained he had acted in self defense, and knew he had hurt the man but did had no idea he'd struck him with enough force to kill.

I believed this was true. I had sympathy for Andrew, as well as for John's family, few of whom attended any of the court proceedings. But this was the way for me with all three murder trials I covered during those years. Horrid as the crimes were and much as I believed a sentence was in order, I always believed the accused's account. As a juror in all three cases, I would have found for second-degree murder. The juries always blind-sided me, each time coming back with a first-degree murder verdict and life sentences.

Some might say I am just a wee bit of a bleeding heart. It is, I believe, what made me a good reporter. I could always see both sides.

But anyone could have seen his father's heartbreak. He was a kind, gentle man, nearly broken by the chain of events. We sat in the same courtroom for hours at a time, with breaks between court appearances that sometimes lasted months.

Ocassionally, near the end, he took me to dinner. He talked little of his son. I think he was unable.

Closer to his son's age than Ron's, I never had a romantic thought toward Ron. He was married, though I only once saw his wife in the courtroom with him - on the day of sentencing. He is also a good 20 years older than me. I suspected he might have felt some small something for me, but I never encouraged it or acknowledged that I even had an inkling of such a thing.

We had exchanged Christmas cards for a couple of years after the trial ended, then those had trailed off, too.

Now, he was calling to say hello. He was going home Monday after spending a few days in Colorado, visiting Andrew in a state facility. Ron had gotten my number from Brad, in an e-mail Brad had sent him some time ago.

Some time ago indeed. Brad has been dead for more than 13 months now.

We talked briefly about Brad's accident. Brad had correponded for a time with Andrew; I knew he had hoped to write about those exchanges someday. Regardless, Ron said Andrew and he had "kind of hit it off." His other two sons were doing well, he said.

"I know it sounds cold, but life does go on," he said. "I have two other sons to care for. You do your best by them, and you do your best for the one that went astray."

Ron he came to Colorado from his home in North Carolina three or four times a year, he said. "May I take you to dinner next time I'm here?"

I marveled at the polite, southern style with which he posed that question.

I said certainly and look forward to that time.

After we said goodbye, my mind filled with memories of the trial. The most significant for me happened the day the jury reached its decision.

I was but a month from leaving Zach, yet in my memory, I was already single. For some reason, I had no care for Robby that day and had brought him with me to the Summit County Justice Center. My reporter friend Jane held him while I sat in the courtroom, listening to the verdict.

As the judge read the unanimous decision, Andrew's shoulders sagged and his head fell to the defense attorney's table. I saw his back shaking with soundless sobs.

Just outside the doors, Robby began to cry, a distinct sound audible to all in the courtroom. It faded abruptly as Jane walked down the hallway with him, away from the courtroom.

It was an absurb thought, I knew, but I wondered if he could feel the boiling emotions from behind the doors.

The horrible irony of that moment stays with me today. One son lost forever, another lost to a lifetime of imprisonment and hopeless regret, and another whose life was just beginning.

As parents, we resolve to protect and even save our children from life's worst experiences. Yet at some point, we all have to open the door, hope we've taught them how to fly straight and true, and let them go.

That time approaches for Robby and me, I know. He's flapping his almost teen-aged wings, moving toward the door. But I've got a few more years. Enough time still, I hope, to teach him well.