I hear you

Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if we would all take the time to listen to each other. I am not referring to what often passes for listening: the person talking trying to keep up with the listener who keeps on walking; the interrupted conversation that begins while watching television, and pauses for the commercial break so that it can continue; or the dreaded phone conversation in which each person is doing everything from checking email to using the bathroom.

We listen when it matters to us. I was recently introduced as a preschool teacher to a business woman who had no interest in anything I said . . . until I told her that I really was a writer, and then she could not stop talking to me. Though she works in a career that helps her to provide adequately for her family, she secretly longs to write. We were able to dispense with the mindless chatter of small talk and engage in a real conversation once she heard me say who I really am.

We listen out of politeness. The fixed, compassionate-like look; the continued silence at intervals when a response would be more appropriate, but is not forthcoming because the person has fallen mentally asleep; the sudden attempt at closure possibly before anything of note has even been discussed--all indicate one thing: communication is not happening.

My endocrinologist is pleasant enough and yet when I share with him my symptoms and he looks at the numbers on the lab report, he only hears the science speaking and not my voice. How poorly I am reacting to a new compounded medication I have been prescribed does not seem to carry the same importance as the recorded levels of thyroid stimulating hormone detected in my blood. The result is normal; therefore I am fine. In theory.

When I ask my husband if he is listening and he says that he hears me, I know for certain that he is not listening. I may employ old journalistic techniques of re-asking the same question in different ways, but until he repeats back to me pretty much what I have wanted to express to him, I may as well be talking to a wall. And even after all of that, misunderstandings are common.

I have witnessed others not communicating much better. The potential for ideas being understood falls flat on the proverbial pavement and people who had the chance to get along with each other instead make decisions not to, based on faulty information. In the meanwhile, we all get our exercise jumping to conclusions. But what if we took a couple more minutes to take a deep breath and intentionally listen to what the heart of another is speaking?

Finding a way to communicate requires more than words. It is an act of giving of ourselves that is time-consuming and sometimes impractical. It is dancing a dance that does not step on toes, and pausing long enough to consider a way of thinking that is not one's own. Though we may be speaking the same language, the voice of our hearts is as individual as we are.

We cannot assume to know what another is thinking. Appearances are deceiving, especially when we learn how to hide what we really want to say for fear of saying the wrong thing. But giving it another go may be just what is needed for the long awaited understanding. Perhaps we are closer to communicating than we think.

If we would just take the time to listen.

3 a.m.

As I become aware that I am in my bed and not on one of the adventures where my dreams often take me, I roll over squinting to read the lit numbers of my digital clock on my bedside table. It is 3 a.m. Again. This is happening more frequently than I would like to admit.

Lately, 3 a.m. is when an internal alarm goes off inside of me and I am transported from a perfectly peaceful night of sleep to an awakened state, as though I am late for an appointment and need to get up. I sometimes wonder if I have awakened to my own screaming, which sometimes does happen. If I ask my husband about it later, he does not ever seem to remember, and yet if I get up for any reason whatsoever he seems to wake up and wonder what is going on. So I choose to lie here, trying to focus on something in the darkness with my nearsighted eyes.

Not being able to see, I decide to entertain myself by contemplating why I may be awake. This question prompts an overflow of thoughts to come pouring out. And it isn't just one simple question after another, but an entire dialogue involving each subject.

"What should I wear to my class reunion?" turns into this: Ok, it is going to be a long night at a park. Jeans seem too casual; a party dress too dressy. A sundress may be cute, but which one? I wish I could have lost that 20 pounds I had intended to lose by now. It is going to be in Michigan which is much colder than North Carolina. I may have to wear a coat. Which shoes will I wear? Will sandals work or should I think about my boots? Maybe it will rain, which it does there quite frequently. Cold and rainy, do I really want to wear a dress? And yet, I haven't seen some of these people since graduation day. What will they expect me to look like? Have they noticed my pictures on Facebook? Do they think I look fat? I have had three kids, but I should exercise more. I have no excuses. I can't blame everything on my under active thyroid. And yet, it is the main reason I am overweight. I wonder how I will measure up. Well, I am in my 50s. Who is going to blame me for gaining a few pounds over all of these years? And on . . . and on . . . and on . . . .

I gently nudge my snoring husband to get him to roll over, and decide to check the clock. It reads 4:30 and I am beginning to wonder if I should give up the hope of sleeping and go read something. Knowing it will probably wake him and cause him to wonder if I am sick, I continue to lie here, trying not to think of how tired I will be in the morning. It is already morning. I try not to think of that either. More questions present themselves. Checklists form: grocery lists, college supply lists, imaginary calendars with to-do lists dance before me mockingly. I should not be this stressed. It is summer. I should be well-rested. I try not to focus on how disappointed I am that I am not getting the rest I need.

With nothing to do, I decide to pray. There is a never-ending list of need: a friend who grieves the loss of a loved one; a friend who grieves the loss of her friend while preparing to do her funeral; and a friend who seeks God for guidance in his calling, all come to mind. I think of my son who is at the beach with his girlfriend's family. I think about the future of my son who will graduate from college next spring. I think about what it will be like to have only our youngest son at home with us soon. I am grateful my husband is happy in his work. I wonder which direction my work will take me, as I head off on another series of questions and tangents; my very own rabbit trails leading me on.

I have read that 3 a.m. is when the "veil" between this world and the spirit world is thinnest and the spiritual realm is closest. Spiritual activity, whatever one defines that as, is at its height. This somehow comforts me. Maybe I am meant to be awake. Perhaps it is part of my calling and responsibility to awaken so that I can engage with God, interceding for all those I love.

I have also read that sleep deprivation can result in something that resembles temporary insanity which explains a lot about those early years of motherhood. Our oldest son did not sleep through the night until he was two years old. I felt like I needed psychological counseling. Maybe what I needed was a good night of sleep.

The clock now reads 5:11 and I am starting to count on my fingers how many hours of sleep I had before my middle-of-the-night interlude. Three and a half hours? Is that all? I know the time to wake up is approaching at breakneck speed. My husband will need to get the day started soon. I wonder if I'm going to feel this exhausted all day. I try not to panic since that will not help me get back to sleep. I try to stop the questions, the prayers, the random thoughts. I need to clear my mind of everything but the beautiful tranquility of slumber, like the waves rhythmically coming in, one . . . after . . . another.

Next thing I know it is 6:45. My husband has already been drinking coffee for at least half an hour and it is time for me to begin. I keep telling myself that with the very next cup I will feel revived, reinvigorated, ready to start the day. Three or four cups of coffee later, I consider making another pot.

ascribe worth

Finding myself the elder in charge of the team who will work on worship at my church has already given me many opportunities to pray. Starting with the most obvious question, I have asked with increasing frequency and expectancy, "What is worship?" The only words that keep coming to me are: it is to ascribe worth.

Ascribe worth. To what do I ascribe worth? Looking around my house, no one would ever put my efforts to clean at the top of the list. With laundry piled on the couch, in the baskets on the washer and dryer, and if I would only take the time to look, possibly some IN the washer and dryer, the whites may as well send up flags of surrender as the colors add new decor to the room. The dog hair matted to the carpet, the unwashed dishes in and near the sink, the random shoes pushed halfway under the kitchen table near abandoned sports bags, all attest to the negligence of the lady of the house.

And yet, I have been here for hours praying, reading, researching, and thinking. I am living out the Mary and Martha Bible story with me cast in the role of Mary who sits at the feet of Jesus, hanging onto his every word, while her frustrated sister, Martha, does the housework to prepare for the guests. My problem: I have no Martha and my housework is not getting done!

I ascribe worth to those who love me and whether or not I can always fully demonstrate it, there are relationships that I value. It is more than making time to have coffee with friends or picking up the phone to chat, which, by the way, I do not do unless I absolutely have to. Sometimes it is more of an understanding that people are there, not necessarily available at my every whim, but can show up if need be.

One of my favorite visions of Jesus is the one in which he happens to be standing on the path of a familiar wooded park I frequent, taking me by the hand and walking by my side. What comforts me the most about this is not that I finally have him all to myself to ask him question after question, whatever my heart desires, but that I have no need to ask him anything because he already knows my heart, my desires, and my needs. I ascribe worth to a God who quietly walks with me when I need him to.

When I contemplate the communal worship of church there is a great deal to consider. It begins in the parking lot. What happens when one exits a vehicle and heads toward a sanctuary? Has any contact with a Creator been made yet? When does "church" begin? Walking into a narthex, a word not ever spoken out loud by anyone except for church people who need to deal with it, does the person feel more loved if he or she is greeted or does the thought of being greeted cause one to find another way into the pew? There is freedom in anonymity, regardless of what those extroverted greeters think.

As the music begins, to bring order to those who have found friends with whom to converse, the music leaders, be it a choir director, worship leader, or any combination thereof, invite the congregation to join in the singing. Songs may be taught, appear on screens or handouts, or in hymnals. Musical preference will often outweigh the reason for the singing. It is supposed to be about ascribing worth to God and not to ourselves which is an easy enough thing to forget when the praise song is going into its eighth repetition of the chorus or the hymn only serves to remind one of a relative who went on to glory a very long time ago.

Sermon messages, liturgical readings, dramatic portrayals, poems, prayers and promises--are all intended with one idea in mind: to ascribe worth. Entertainment is not the goal though quality is. Inclusion of all is in theory a wonderful idea as long as preparation is part of the plan. Giving our best to God is at the top of the list.

Worship is a uniquely personal expression, not something I even feel comfortable talking about with most people. I love Jesus. That makes me sound like a freak. It could even lend itself to a psychiatric evaluation of which I would not pass because I believe in a God who communicates with me and not just the other way around. And what God speaks to me is a message that only I can hear in ways that only I can hear it. The Tower of Babel account in the Bible does not seem so strange when I consider that we communicate with God in ways unique to each and every one of us. We have been given individual personalities, gifts and callings. No two of us are alike, have ever been or ever will be.

Given our vast differences, we are commanded in the Bible to not forsake the assembling together, but are to exhort one another to love and good works. As the people of God, our purpose is to meet in unity to ascribe worth to him while loving our neighbors as ourselves. We are to invite all. Challenged to communicate and meet a diversity of needs, we struggle to understand the call of God on our lives. It sounds so grand and glorious. But the pencil in the pew still needs sharpening and the bulb under the baptismal bowl is burnt out.

And once the final song is sung, candle is perhaps lit, and prayer spoken, what then? Do we all abandon the beautiful carriage that has carried us into the heavenly realms of worship just to watch it turn back into a pumpkin? Are we challenged in our thinking to attempt one small act of kindness in the course of the following week? One kind word spoken to someone who needs grace?

Ascribing worth is the beginning of worship--an act that flows out into the streets. If everything we experience at church is thrown into the recycling bin along with the bulletin on our way out the door, our worship is in vain. It is supposed to matter that we worship. It is to effect a change in our hearts and minds to the extent that we cannot go back to living how we did before.

Needing to transition from waiting at the feet of Jesus to evaluating the tasks of the day, my life beckons me to reenter its rhythm. Sadly, that Martha never did show up.

living near water

When I am asked where I'm from, I usually give the name of the town: Hart, Michigan, population around 2,000, six miles from the family farm in Elbridge Township. But when I let my mind wander to memories of home, I always seem to end up fifteen miles west, at a Lake Michigan beach, in the village of Pentwater.

My happiest days were spent having picnics with my family or friends before splashing in the waves or riding on a floating device out to where the buoys marked out the swimming area. Running back under the shade of a small tree to apply more Coppertone 8, the highest strength sunscreen at the time, I would usually go home sunburned anyway. After spreading the therapeutic baking soda paste all over my red skin, letting it dry, and eventually washing it off, I would peel in a day or two before going back outside for more sun. And yet, going to the Lake was always worth it. The body of water embraced me, as the sun baked my skin, and I would find comfort for all that was wrong in my world.

On my saddest days I would sit alone in the bluffs reading or writing in my journal. Walking barefoot on the fine-grained sand up and down the shoreline gave focus to my thinking; the rhythm of water and wind calmed my spirit. I would sometimes find a piece of driftwood to lean against as I poured out my heart to the water, the sand, the birds, the sky, . . . to God. Cradled by the warm sand, I could fall sound asleep.

The Lake, in all of its life-giving beauty also takes lives, as one living near water is well aware. As we breathe in the fresh air we are reminded that we cannot breathe underwater. I would often bring a raft with me when I went out over my head since the water was so cold my legs would cramp and the raft would help me make it back to shore. The water was somewhat warm enough for swimming by the end of August and too cold right after Labor Day. When one's lips turned blue, it was time to get out.

There was more to do than just to swim, as boats on the Lake were abundant. The summer I worked at the yacht club I was invited to take a ride on a sailboat named the Northern Light. Sailing on the cool, smooth water of the Lake while the sun was setting is a once in a lifetime experience for someone who will most likely never become a member of the boating crowd. It was different from the experience of riding on the car ferry that carried my family across the Lake on family trips, or the smaller ferry used to transport us to Mackinac Island on our family vacations. Being on a large, luxurious sailboat allowed me to be someone else for a couple of hours; someone like those who lived in this northern resort village in their summer homes, while local girls like me served them their steak and seafood, and brought them their drinks.

One summer I worked across from the dock at a restaurant called the Dry Dock, a restaurant so small it only took two waitresses to work the dining room on any given night. Groups of men from the boats with big appetites would fill the place up and as long as we kept the food coming, they would reward us with even bigger tips. Though waiting tables was not something I enjoyed or was any good at, the homemade soups, freshly baked breads, combined with local produce, meat, and fresh fish made for some of the best restaurant food around at the time. I did not mind the work when it included getting a taste of the good life.

The seafood I would buy for myself would be every bit as delicious though far less expensive as I would obtain it from a local fish shop: Lake Michigan perch, lightly breaded and fried. When I could not get to the fish shop, I could always stop at the soft serve ice cream shop for deep-fried breaded mushrooms to take down to the beach for a tasty snack. And of course the soft serve vanilla cone dipped in the kind of chocolate that would instantly harden providing a satisfying crunch was another one of my favorite beach treats.

Soon I will be traveling Up North with my husband to attend a class reunion. I haven't dipped my toes in Lake Michigan in four summers. I read that the last of the ice melted on the Great Lakes at the beginning of June so I am not foolish enough to think that swimming will be much of a possibility. Of course, swimming has never really been a great possibility unless one has a wet suit. But if we can bear to step into the cold water, on the hard-packed sand, and allow the brisk air to send us grabbing for our jackets, we can walk together along the shoreline, talk about the stops I will want to make and the people I will want to see. Looking toward the West at the setting sun, we will pause to remember how our lives together began, turn toward the East, then travel back to our home in the South.

inherited

The antique silver tea service has found a place in our dining room, upon a vintage table cloth covering the credenza that is filled with glassware, serving bowls, and small figurines of angels and old-fashioned Christmas carolers. On the wall above it is a mirror with a large leaf and vine border. Hanging over the table is a rather spectacular crystal chandelier; near the window, an antique wooden plant stand. Though each of these fine quality pieces are different, they all have one thing in common: they are inherited.

The dining room table and hutch were wedding gifts as are the china, silver platters and almost all of the rest of its contents. I did get to be the one who picked out the dining room set, along with the china, over a couple of decades ago, and yet the individual style of these items somehow gets overshadowed by my mother-in-law's many other items reflecting her unique personal taste which was quite different from my own.

Walking into the front room, one's eyes are drawn to the variety of candlesticks gracing the top of an antique piano. The candlesticks, heavy and sharp enough to ward off an intruder, were inherited; the piano, which happens to be a rare antique that would be valuable if refurbished, was given by a man who bought a house with a piano left behind in it. Above the piano is a large mirror with an ornate border that looks like it goes with the piano. On one side of our couch, one of the few pieces of furniture we actually went into a store and purchased for ourselves, is a beautiful wooden end table with a brass lamp on top. The coordinating piece holds our stereo. A couple of trunks, one we got at an auction holds collectibles, many that are also inherited--from my mother; the other is a trunk I've had since childhood that continues to hold bits and pieces of my life. The last time it was opened my moldy wedding bouquet that I never throw away was right next to my high school portrait that my mother insists I hang up. I never do.

There is a framed print above the couch that we saw in a black and white photo of my husband and his mother when he was her only child. That was how he knew he had seen it first when it came time to divide up her belongings. That and the rose chair that used to set in the corner of her bedroom he decided he would like to have; both of which were sent to us by his sister sometime after the estate was settled. We will never know if the chair was broken before it was shipped or if it got broken along the way. There had been so much breakage . . . along the way.

An appraisal was done to assess the value of my mother-in-law's most prized possessions. The plan was to divide them evenly among the three siblings. The problem was one of the siblings wanted to use the appraisal as a guide, the other wanted to choose according to what she desired to have, and the third was not able to use any of the items since he lived alone in a group home setting for those with mental illness. As the daughter-in-law and sister-in-law, my voice was eventually silenced and I had to stand by while my husband's hope was crushed as two men and a truck disappeared some of his inheritance into a storage unit the day before the distribution of goods was to occur. We would then be threatened with a lawsuit to turn over the family jewels, though in the end I got to keep the diamond wedding ring given to me by my husband since his mother had given it to him explaining that she received it from her husband who had received it from his mother. The lucky recipient of the third-generation diamond, I have often wondered how it could have more meaning to someone other than the bride who received it at the time.

In the midst of the family turmoil as attempts were made to divide up a household of memories, I wrote a letter and suggested we sit down as a family to have a discussion before the communication that was already tenuous at best had completely ceased. My letter was ignored and I was figuratively shown the door. Five years later an email to cover over everything that had occurred, without doing the work of reconciliation, was not the restorative balm it may have been intended to be. Other packages would arrive randomly through the years, containing what was left of a woman's life that had been reduced to stuff to be divided between people who no longer called themselves a family.

Forgiveness had become a reality for me when I struggled to fight back in the midst of the intense battle and I had heard the still, small voice in my heart tell me that what I needed to do was to admit that the money was not mine. Barely providing for our family at that point, I was not eager to receive this news. But God is faithful. He did not hesitate to remind me that the money did not belong to the other family member either. The money had always belonged to God, as everything ultimately does. It was at that moment I unclenched my fists and with upturned hands gave thanks to a God who provides. Soon after that, the settlement was finalized without a lawsuit. Each of the two households would be allotted a certain amount of family heirlooms. And reconciliation would continue to elude us all.

Recently my husband was contacted by his sister to alert him to the fact that she was again moving, had no more need of the silver tea service and wondered if he wanted it. He has wanted it for the past nine years. It arrived in two separate shipments; one large box containing the set itself along with pieces of china that match one of the sets we were given, and one containing only the very large, heavy silver tray. Unwrapping it was like taking the bandage off a wound. After this amount of time a wound should have completely healed. But it never really has.

I stare at the silver tea service while I drink my coffee, remembering what it looked like when we used to have dinner at my mother-in-law's home. We were never served tea from it and I was always nervous to have the boys, who were very young at the time, go anywhere near it or the rest of her precious belongings. Now that many of those items are in our home and our boys have grown into men, it is a different feeling. I cannot really put my finger on it, but it feels like more than just loss. It is the loss of what we had hoped would happen in that family while my mother-in-law and brother-in-law were still on this side of heaven. It is the hope anyone from a dysfunctional family has--the hope for more. More communication. More time to work out problems in a less intense way. More consideration for the personalities of all involved. More love.

The antique silver tea service has found a place in our dining room. Its cold beauty remains untarnished, unlike its family of origin. I do not know whether to put it back into a box or begin serving tea.

baby you can drive my car

Driving began for me when I almost drove Daddy's tractor into a tree. Though it marked my first and last time to drive a tractor, it was only the beginning of my life as a driver.

I would be granted a driver's license at the tender age of 16, much to Daddy's relief since he probably felt personally responsible for being the one who gave me lessons in the drive-way. Out on those country roads only traveled by those we knew who lived near-by, with deer springing out onto the path of drivers, especially at dawn and at dusk, driving was an adventure every time.

Needing transportation for my summer jobs, I would drive the family Buick. One summer Daddy bought a creamy yellow Mercury Marquis for me to drive up and down the road. It was a boat of a car that would carry me appropriately enough to my job as a waitress at the local yacht club. This car really sailed as I often would let it go, having to brake to slow it down. It also had a great radio that I could listen to the Beach Boys turned up loudly on my way to the Lake, which refers to Lake Michigan--to those who did not grow up near it.

In college most students were discouraged from having a car since the lots to park them in were miles away and there was no real need since I lived on-campus and could walk to class and to work in my dorm. I walked everywhere I went whether it was raining or not. I didn't miss having a car until it was time to come home and I would have to haul my stuff down to the bus station and ride for hours on the way back to the farm.

When I graduated from MSU and headed West, I did so in a car driven by a girl named Ardith. Her mother and I were the only passengers. Because of insurance I was not allowed to take a turn driving on the 26-hour trip straight through from East Lansing, Michigan to Denver, Colorado. I placed my life in the hands of a girl who was a friend of a friend and was happy she wasn't placing hers into mine.

Life in the suburbs of Denver was difficult without a car and though the inner-city neighborhood where I eventually moved was not considered a desirable location for most, I was happy to be able to be on foot again. Sometimes I would take the bus to Boulder to treat myself and would walk up and down the Pearl Street Mall always stopping at the Boulder Arts & Crafts Cooperative. As a bus rider I would have to be mindful of the time so as not to miss the bus back to my apartment. There would be other times when I would be running to catch a bus for work or running to catch the last bus of the evening or be stranded. It was a way of life much like it would be for someone taking the subway I imagine.

With marriage came a house and a car. But even though the Volkswagen Golf was a fine little car that we enjoyed for many years for camping and daily life, I never really got the hang of driving a stick shift and after a harrowing near-collision with a truck on a highway with me at the wheel, I decided not to drive again. And I didn't . . . for years. Living in a downtown neighborhood with bus stops everywhere allowed me to be transported without having to negotiate deer, trucks, or any other hazard of the road. I did not miss driving. At all.

By the time we had relocated to Greensboro, North Carolina, we already had one child and would soon have another. I was not working outside the home at the time and though there was a grocery store within walking distance, it was a long walk. With one baby in the stroller and the other strapped to my back, I became very THIN! I would get rides to the Mothers of Preschoolers group at the church and learned to be patient as passengers do not get to make the same decisions as those who are driving. I had to wait for others to help me and though help was often readily given, I knew the days of being without a car would come to an end.

In need of extra income, a pastor friend found a temporary job for me with a ministry. I told him I needed a car and childcare and both were forthcoming. The car, a tan 1962 Chevy Nova, had been owned by a little old lady who had kept it in excellent working condition. Because my friend is a pastor, this lady decided to donate her car to his ministry. He decided by giving me the car it was doing the Lord's work as much as anything else. The interior was in far worse shape than the rest of the car. Being on the lower end of the economic scale, I got some black and white "cow" contact paper, along with some duct tape and safety pins, and went to work on designing the inside of my beautiful car. Having the truly desirable car meant getting stopped at lights, usually by men who wanted to ask questions about my fine ride. I named her Gert after my Grandma Tate whose name was Gertha. Gert; my first car.

Gert did great until one outing on the highway when some road trash in the way of shredded truck tire pieces flew up under her causing engine failure. Fortunately I was soon met by a police officer who escorted me to my pastor friend's home so he could help me pick up my kids from preschool. I would eventually sell the car for parts much to the sadness of those who admired its retro beauty.

An early 70's Toyota Tercel in a lovely mustard gold color I named Golda became my next car as it was being sold by my mother-in-law's neighbor for a price we could almost afford, with a little help from my mother-in-law. It was easier to transport the children in and since we had by that point moved to a rental house further from downtown, it was important to have a reliable vehicle. I remember one morning putting baby Joel in the car and going back in the house to take care of one last detail. The next thing I know four-year-old Ariel is standing before me looking extremely scared. I look out to the drive-way and do not see the car! I then see it near a stand of trees at the end of the drive-way, near the railroad tracks. Ariel had wondered what that lever did. Baby Joel was none the wiser for his brief wild ride.

After borrowing a friend's minivan for a camping trip to the beach one summer, we knew with three kids and a dog it was the best practical solution for our transportation needs. One night after happily dropping our kids off at what was known at that church as Parents Night Out, we decided to skip dinner and head directly to the car dealership. There awaited a dark blue 1995 Plymouth Voyager. Again with the help of my mother-in-law, we walked out of there the proud owners of our very own minivan. It was Cinco de Mayo so we named the minivan Maya.

Maya took us everywhere for many years. She was never reliable in ice or snow but gave me a very real reason to stay home when the weather was less than sunny or cloudy. Once the paint started chipping off and the crack on the windshield continued to worsen, we began to wonder how much life she had left. When the power locks started to lock and unlock every time we turned left, we knew she was nearing her end. When the locks locked and unlocked randomly with increasing frequency, we knew she was in her death throes.

Still in need of room to cart camping gear, soccer balls and as many kids as we could find to travel with us, we would find yet another minivan. This time it would be a pale blue 2003 Dodge Caravan I would name Flo because she is the color of water, in a poetic sort of way. Her pristine windshield was soon scratched in an effort to clean the ice from it and little by little time and use are beginning to wear her down. Many days the only person taking her for a drive is me and though Flo and I go way back, I find myself thinking of other options. Minivans do not get the best gas mileage. Sorry Flo.

As my minivan days draw to a close in the next few years with the boys growing up and moving out, I think about having a vehicle to haul my art displays around in, as well as having the towing capacity for the Air Stream trailer I someday hope to purchase to be a summer home while at the Outer Banks, or for a trip up to that Lake Up North. Cars hold very little interest for me. Maybe you can't take the country out of the girl, for what I really want is a truck.

linked in, linked out

Fourteen emails from Linkedin, ranging from people I kind of know to those I know slightly better, all stating that they accept my invitation, gave me a bit of a start this morning as I sat at my computer with my first cup of coffee. The invitation in question was news to me. Did I click the wrong button? Was this avalanche of responses somehow my doing? Do all of these people now think I am actively looking for employment? Am I?

When I think about how difficult it used to be to find a suitable position, I marvel at what technology now offers. What used to take me hours on my Smith-Corona typewriter as I methodically typed out cover letters, had my resume copied at Kinko's to send out into the world with hope, a prayer and far less postage, has now been replaced by a few clicks here and a few clicks there.

I was originally invited to be on Linkedin as a reference for a friend. Hesitant to open up my life to the wider world, I cried when I finally pushed the button, completing my profile. Not sure why I felt so emotional, I tried to think my way through it. Wasn't being KNOWN one of the goals any writer has? Hadn't I worked hard to gain a higher level of education? What was I afraid of? Ashamed of? Ah . . . there it was. My failed writing career.

My claim to fame interview, as I like to refer to it as, happened while I was in graduate school at Marshall University in Huntington, West Virginia. By some miracle, an editor from Glamour magazine responded to my letter seeking employment and set up a time for me to come to New York City to interview.

As a student with no transportation or much money I was able to take the train up and found accommodations at a youth hostel. It was 1987. I would wear my best wool suit, my only silk blouse, and my brown leather pumps that I hoped I wouldn't have to wear often since I wasn't exactly a high heel kind of girl. My portfolio at the time contained the articles published in the student magazine for which I was a staff writer and those featured in the student newspaper during my undergraduate days at Michigan State University. I had added to it the articles published in the student newspaper at Marshall. As a journalism student who began as the assistant editor for my 8th grade newspaper, then becoming the co-editor of our high school newspaper, I had been writing and editing for years. And though I was not a reader of Glamour magazine as anyone who has ever known me could plainly surmise, I knew I could become one of its copy editors.

Walking into the Conde Nast building on 5th Avenue was one of the most exciting moments of my life. The woman at the reception desk pointed to the elevator where I had precious few moments to work at breathing normally before emerging to greet a woman at the desk in front of the Mademoiselle offices. I would soon be shaking the hand of an editor as she ushered me through hallways with editors discussing stories and ad placement, features and photo shoots, back into her office. We sat and talked as I was aware of every word I spoke and every nuanced gesture I made, longing to make the best first impression I could possibly make. About to go on maternity leave, this editor was eager to get someone in place as soon as possible. Copy editors were paid less than teachers which meant I would probably have to share an apartment in the boroughs somewhere and take the subway into the city each day. Hours would be long and I would at times feel like I lived at the magazine. In a few years, if I had adequately proven my abilities, I would begin the long climb up the editorial ladder, like in the movie, The Devil Wears Prada, or at least that is how I picture it. Journalist girl with little fashion sense becoming glamourous in her own right. Well, she does comes to her senses by the end of the film, but let's not digress.

So back to the interview. I felt comfortable as the editor's genuinely friendly demeanor put me at ease. Toward the end of our time together she told me that she usually can pick out a potential copy editor in about ten minutes and I should be encouraged that she was willing to spend twice as long with me. With a promise to get in touch I was sent back out onto the streets of New York to contemplate my fate. I wondered what it would be like to live this kind of life. I already had two years of living in an inner city neighborhood of Denver, Colorado before heading to graduate school and had acclimated nicely. I enjoyed taking the bus or walking downtown to my favorite coffee shop. College had prepared me for living in close quarters with a variety of people and I had even gotten used to noise levels I never thought possible growing up on a farm, six miles from a town of 2,000. I knew I could adjust.

By the time I received word from Glamour I was back home on the farm wondering where my future would take me. The letter, obviously not written by the woman I had interviewed with, indicated that a mistake had been made. I should never have been invited to interview, according to the letter. Not that my skills were lacking, but more because the departments were being changed. Apparently the editor who had been in contact with me had not received the memo. At least that is what the letter stated. In other words, the answer was no. I would not be working on my novel during the long subway rides to and from the city, meeting a guy, getting married, having children and then setting up a permanent household out in the boroughs and perhaps giving up what began as such a promising career.

Instead I would take a position with a ministry that did not work out for me or the people who hired me, head to California to have a short stay with a friend who lived with people who had something to do with the creation of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and then find my way back to Denver, to the same neighborhood where I had lived before ever going to graduate school. And just as I was about to accept a reporter position on a newspaper in the mountain town of Gunnison, I would decide to marry, eventually have children and years later wonder if I would ever write again.

So maybe it is not terribly strange that coming up with a profile for an employment website would bring about some pretty strong emotions. My life is good. Even with my failed writing career. But maybe it is not too late.