what if

There are at least a dozen stoplights to either pass right through or stop at on the way. Once I get inside the parking lot, it is a matter of going around the outside to the row near the grass. I almost always park in the second spot from the right. This may seem peculiar but to me it makes perfect sense. Even when it is my turn for the special parking space, I prefer to park in my spot and walk. I like how the church's steeple looks with clouds behind it, aglow in the morning sun.

I often take the sidewalk, watching carefully for those who do not pick up after their dogs, as I pass the gigantic tree, the one where kids will try to play just a little bit longer while moms chat with each other to keep from losing their patience, past the small parking lot where the red doors come into view. Using the fob on my keychain, I walk into the school.

Checking my mailbox I exchange greetings, sign in, and immediately head to the kitchen to make the coffee. I had reached the point a long time ago in which bad coffee was no longer acceptable. I chose to buy my own as a way to serve the women with whom I work. I figured if I bought it, I may as well make it. It also gives me a chance to converse with those gathering snacks and getting bleach for their bottles. A quick glance at the bulletin board and I am on my way down the hall to my room.

Before I take off my shoes, I set down my purse and take my first bathroom break of the day. Returning to the room, I take off my shoes to enter, put my purse on the cubby, hang up my coat if I have one, get my cup near the sink, and head back out the door, sliding into my shoes as I go back down the hall.

By this time the coffee machine has beeped and the pot is full. Ever since whole milk replaced two percent as our milk of choice, I have not needed to buy cream. It works fine. I see cars lining up and parents with children standing outside the door. The welcome flag goes up. The children who were in the early birds group make their way to their classrooms. The last day of school begins.

The two teacher kids are first to arrive in the classroom. They have already adapted to spending extra time in classrooms where they will continue to spend more time than most for possibly years yet to come. Next comes a little brother of a 4-year-old who insists on kissing him just one more time. Both parents usually drop off the kids thanks to their flexible work schedules. Last are twins brought in by a mom who already had a household of children. Though they come in last, they seem to know they are loved. Loved by us, by their parents, by all who could not possibly miss the double stroller making its way down the hall or up the sidewalk with identical twin boys smiling and waving.

Bags are hung up, diapers and refrigerated food put away, and playing continues until snack time when bottles are warmed and high chairs are pulled out of the crib room. Soon following eating comes a diaper change for each one. Some will sleep; some will not. It all depends on timing and a certain amount of skill in calming everyone down.

Naps and/or stroller rides come next and then it is time for lunch. More bottles, more food, more diaper changes. The babies have learned independence in feeding themselves. Fewer need bottles and those who do can hold their own bottle. Watching them go from lying on the floor, to crawling, to standing, to walking never gets old. Each one of them is a living miracle. I feel of rush of gratitude having been in their presence each morning, holding them and helping them to be ok in a place not their home. I know they will never remember me and yet I somehow hope they will.

When parents come to retrieve their babies, they slip a card or small gift into our hands while we give them back the babies we have come to know and love. Starbucks gift cards are a good gift. Scuppernong Books gift certificates are my favorite. The cards tell me how much we are appreciated. Sometimes they are written in first-person as though the child is writing. There can be tears if the family has made other plans for the next year, though usually there is more emotion in the 5-year-old room when the child is leaving the school for kindergarten. Families who are on their last child are especially emotional. Leaving preschool is an important marker in a child's development. It will be the last time in the child's life that play is considered work, unless they love what they will do.

After the children have all gone home, we mop the mats and spray down the toys. We wipe those toys played with the most. We put away laundry and take down the IGP monthly pages that now form a book--that last page featuring the class picture and a short letter summarizing the year. Names are wiped from the calendar and all of the poster sheets covering bulletin boards and the door are wiped clean. It is not necessary to do extensive cleaning as it is a room used frequently for childcare.

The original used to make copies of the take-home sheet is replaced in its file folder. The sign-in sheet is kept as a record no one will ever need. One name predominates. The others rarely signed in. All is wiped down and the crock pot is turned off. The refrigerator will not be defrosted until it is time to do it all over again in the fall. Toys are taken back to the toy room. Everything is straightened.

Lights are turned off and the door closed, as I make my way back down the hall, wishing others well as I walk by their rooms. I stop to hug those who will show up only one more time before taking their leave permanently. I go into the 5-year-old room where I've always felt comfortable and look around at all of the color and art on the walls. With extended time, they have yet to completely dismantle the room. The door to the playground is open and inviting. The laughter of children playing in the sand blends with the music. It feels like it will be a long time before we are together again. We know better.

I sign out and open the red doors to the warm, summer air which beckons me to take a deep breath. Another year of spending time with small children has ended. Summer vacation begins.

(In an On Being interview with Kevin Kling, Krista Tippett asks him how he dealt with the trauma following his motorcycle accident that nearly ended his life and caused him to lose the use of his only good arm. He said his therapist told him to re-tell the story with a different outcome. By giving an alternative ending to his story--in his case, not crashing his motorcycle--his mind was able to move beyond it instead of reliving it and allowing it to repeatedly terrorize him.

"We need to rewrite our stories sometimes just so we can sleep at night," he said.)

for Carl

In the cool of an early Saturday morning, she breezed through the farmers' market, stopping only long enough to make a couple of necessary purchases. Seeing her out of the corner of my eye while I stood talking to a fellow vendor, I had the momentary urge to call out her name if only to wave, but thought better of it. She looked like she was in a hurry and I had no way of knowing how many items she had left to check off her to-do list. Next time. I would speak with her next time.

The first time I ever spoke to her was after her pastor husband did a study at our church on a Sunday evening. As a line of those eager to speak to him began to form, she stood off to the side, as pastor's wives learn to do over time. I decided it was more important to share my story than wait in line to share it with him, so I introduced myself to her. When I asked if we could talk since the line to her husband was so long, she welcomed me to sit with her on the first pew.

I told her of a time I needed prayer and had met with her husband and my pastor. I had been in a bad way, trying to shrug off a feeling that would creep back in when I least expected it, leaving me in the dark, unable to find my way back to the light. After talking and praying, I could sense the pastors were attempting to bring some closure to our session so we could all go home. Panicking, I said I would not leave until I was doing better. I knew right then I had become a pastor's worst nightmare, but could not stop myself. I needed something tangible to happen. I had no idea what I was expecting.

After all was said and done, I told the pastor's wife that her husband asked if he could anoint my hand with oil. I agreed, having given up by that point, when I unexplainably started to feel a peace coming over me, restoring a healthy sense of well-being and a sound mind. Though I could not understand it, something supernatural had taken place. Grateful, I went home and slept peacefully.

Checking my emails later in the day, my closest friend--who was aware of my need for prayer--wrote that she had forgotten to tell me she had awakened the night before with a persistent thought that anointing oil should be used, along with the prayer. She had no idea why prayer would not be enough. That pastor may not have known why either. Yet this meeting needed to happen in just the way it did. We had all done what we were supposed to do, even though none of it made any sense.

What I wanted the pastor's wife to go home and tell her pastor husband was when he agreed to assist my pastor at my time of need, God used the faithfulness of both of these leaders to continue a healing in me that would inspire me to write prayers and eventually empower me to enter into leadership.

This pastor and his wife who now knew me, would stop by to visit me at the farmers' market and in time would ask me to make them a garland. I would see one or both of them from time to time as they enjoyed shopping there. He would eventually become my counselor during a time of transition.

Last December the pastor's wife bought my advent garland with its 24 pieces resembling houses that are either tied or clothes-pinned to a cord, numbering the days leading up to Christmas. When a number is turned over, a letter is revealed. By the time Christmas arrives the garland spells: LET PEACE BEGIN WITH ME which can be left up year-round as it is a sentiment that bears repeating.

The pastor's wife may have already left the farmers' market by the time I settled in to do some sewing, while greeting those stopping by my table to browse. I had spent hours in the days before cutting out the 24 parts to the advent garland, along with the numbers and letters, as this garland had already been ordered by a woman who showed up to buy it a couple of hours after the pastor's wife had purchased the one I made for last year's holiday season. Saturday marked my beginning of this year's holiday season, as I stitched this new advent garland while thinking of the pastor and his wife.

Hours later . . . in her heavenly home, the pastor's wife now has no need for an advent garland to mark off the days until Christmas. Every day is like Christmas, only better.

for free

She handed me a warm biscuit and a jar of plum jam.
Sustenance

She surprised me with antique lace to use on my next pillow.
Joy

She appeared before me as though I had summoned her, ready to listen.
Peace

She waved and smiled, eyes twinkling.
Kindness

She brought me a small vase of flowers from her garden mixed with rosemary.
Beauty

She did what a mother does, wrapping me in her arms.
Love

She brought someone she wanted me to meet who had gone through "seasons."
Empathy

He introduced me to his daughter and grandson with great pride.
Family

She stopped by just to say hi and see how I was.
Friendship

She gave me a big onion, laughing.
Happiness

She came to tell me good news and show her friend the bed bunnies.
Hope

All for free.


It was a beautiful morning.

pumps and pearls

Dress is business professional, the email inviting me to an interview stated, and even though it would no longer fit, I was suddenly wishing I still had my interviewing suit.

It was a light brown, wool suit that perfectly coordinated with the brown pumps I gave away when my third pregnancy flattened out my feet further, causing all of my shoes to be too small. I would wear this suit with one of the few silk blouses I ever owned, this one an emerald green. I felt invincible in this suit although it never really did for me what it was supposed to do.

I had walked into the offices where Mademoiselle Magazine is published in the Conde Nast building on Fifth Avenue in New York City wearing that suit many years ago. It was my one claim-to-fame interview, an interview that could have changed my life.

Clutching my portfolio and trying to keep a smile on my face, I chatted with an editor who was quite advanced in her pregnancy, perhaps so far along that she had not gotten the memo that retracted my invitation. But somehow I was invited to interview even though I would be told later there was never a position and it was all a misunderstanding. Maybe that is how rejection letters are written in NYC.

Before I knew there was no chance that I could be granted one of the copy editor positions, sitting across the desk from that editor made me feel like I was someone important. I sat wearing that beautiful suit, wondering if I got the job what I would wear the next day since she was already seeing my best, well, my only. She would tell me about ten minutes into the interview that she normally did not talk to prospective employees that long, before continuing on for another ten minutes. She seemed to want to instill hope in me. Maybe she saw herself as me, a small-town girl longing for an opportunity in the big city. I have no idea where she was from. Maybe she was not thinking clearly. Pregnancy does that.

Back to the matter of the suit. I settled for a dress, black with white polka-dots and even though it was a hot day in the South, I absolutely needed to wear a jacket to fulfill the professional requirement. Another problem. I still have the black jacket I have worn to many interviews in the more recent past. I call it my journalism jacket and wear it once in awhile, even though it no longer can be buttoned. It did not go with the dress. So I thought I would take a risk and wear something that expresses my sense of style and go with the vintage black jacket that I love. Pumps, pearls, red lipstick, and I was ready to take on the world.

Arriving 15 minutes early, I thought I would show that I was a serious contender. Walking into a nondescript office along a row of other nondescript offices in no way excited me. A rug and a wall painted a bright shade of green adorned the room. KLOVE permeated the airwaves. I heard one member of the staff say to her coworker that she takes everything back to the Bible. An antique-looking bottle of water was set out with small plastic cups. A Keurig coffee machine with styrofoam coffee cups, next to it. A version of Chicken Soup for the Soul is available on a corner table.

Having never been part of a group interview, I imagined four, maybe five, candidates sitting around a circle with the employer and maybe his staff joining in with questions. I thought maybe we would do an ice breaker exercise as though we were at a retreat or book study. I was the second interviewee to arrive, followed by eleven others. After we had taken all of the chairs in the waiting room, late-comers were ushered into a bigger, more open room where we would all eventually go.

What became immediately noticeable was that no one had dressed in business professional, but me. Several of the women had worn pants, but not really the kind that would go with a jacket. Some looked like they had put forth an effort; others not so much. I wondered if these girls even had pearls and pumps. They appeared to be young, single, and uneducated. With the exception of the woman who said she had an 18-year-old grandchild, I am pretty sure I reigned supreme as the elder woman, which was in no way an advantage.

After a brief introduction by the employer looking to hire one of us, we were each given two minutes to say who we were, where we were from, what was one unique thing about us, and how we inspired others. This is not what I was expecting. The first woman was called up front, as my mind swirled with possible answers. Suddenly, my name was called and I had to stand before the group. I had no idea what I was going to say. It was as though I had been transported back to Mrs. B.'s speech class on impromptu speech day when we had to draw a slip of paper out of a bag on our way to the podium to expound upon a topic. There is no slower, more painful death for me than that.

I wanted to connect with this potential employer and made a point of saying that I came from his home state though I had relocated here long ago. I was the only one in the room who could say that. I do not think it helped.

Trying to pick out a unique thing about me is the wrong question. Maybe I should try to choose one normal thing about me because there may only be one or two. To qualify myself by Myers-Briggs personality types, I am an INFJ and there is less than one percent of people like me. I need to associate meaning with everything I do. I am considered mystical and hard to get to know. I am always writing something in my head. I have to work hard to pretend to fit these job descriptions. I am a people person. HA! If you count the people I spend time with in books and movies, I am a very popular girl. Outgoing. That is completely a matter of perspective. I can be friendly. Really. Unique, on the other hand, is how I have been described from the beginning. I am usually the only redhead in the room. I have unique issues that plague me. I have many untold stories because I have yet to find someone who can relate to them. Uniquely qualified. Why didn't I say that?

Having no idea what the appropriate answer should be, I said the unique thing about me is that I used to live in Colorado, ride a bicycle, camp, and hike. I have no idea what bearing that had on anything or anyone. No one in the room seemed to register with the concept of living in the West or doing anything quite so athletic. It seemed to suggest that I was once in shape and healthy. Once.

On to how I inspire others. I am a writer. It is what I do best. It is how I inspire. It had nothing to do with this job. Having not formulated an answer to that one either, I heard myself telling the group that each morning on Facebook I post a quote with accompanying picture that is thought-provoking and hopefully uplifting to help those suffering with loss, illness, and the troubles of life so they can find a little something to get their day started right. I saw a glimmer of connection on the faces of these young women when I mentioned social media. The inspiration stopped there.

I would then listen to the rest of the interviewees, one by one, standing before the group telling us their unique qualities and how they inspire. I wondered how many of these girls had gone to college. I wondered what their grades were in high school. I wondered how I had ended up in this room among them. I felt punished, the butt of a cosmic joke. I tried not to let my mind wander as one of them said the most unique quality she possessed was that she had been in marching band in high school, which may have been last year by the looks of things.

Of course I was attributing living somewhere else as setting me apart. I am sure no one in that room lived in any of the states I have resided, but it does not make for a unique quality. The unique part is how I got in a car with virtual strangers and 24 hours later made a home for myself on my friend's couch when we weren't touring with her band. The unique experience was of finding a job in a strange city and living alone, making my way without money or resources. What continues to be unique is how I keep on surviving--still without money, resources, or a career.

There were a couple of women I thought were appropriate for the job--young women who would blend in and warmly welcome those coming into the office for their appointments. Women who could restock the plastic cups and turn on the radio at the beginning of the day. They could chat about their faith while scheduling and filing. When asked to stay late, they will smile and willingly agree because going back to their empty apartments leaves little to be desired. They will try to imagine a day when they can spend their afternoon hours taking their imaginary children to the park before going home to a real house and fixing dinner for their imaginary husbands. I hope they know how to cook.