trials and tribulations of the working life

It doesn't take much to damage someone's reputation. A few words spoken with a certain tone. A well-rehearsed look. All it really takes is an audience.

I once worked for a woman who decided to make an example of me for reasons I could not guess. At one of our regular meetings, just as she was in the middle of her presentation, she stopped, looked directly at me and said, "Are you ok?" in an alarmed sort of voice.

You can imagine what happened next.

Every single woman in that room turned to see my face turn red as I managed to stammer, "I'm fine." I had been fine, up until then.

Suddenly there was in the minds of everyone in the room a perception that something was wrong with me. Was I about to faint? Throw up? Did I need to go to the bathroom? Was I daydreaming? Writing a novel? Doodling to stay awake? Praying to be released from the hell of this meeting?

No. I was sitting in a normal way, listening to a presentation just like everyone else. Minding my own business. Not causing any trouble. But trouble has a way of finding me.

My husband has always said, "If they like you, you can burn down the restaurant and still have a job. If they don't, watch out." He may even have a story about someone who burned down a restaurant and still kept a job. I forget. He has a lot of stories.

The man who hired me for my very first job away from home, where I worked for my dad on the farm, did not like me and probably only hired me because my mother may have asked him as a favor while we were walking out of church together one Sunday. He may have decided he could put up with me since he was also getting my sister as an employee and he was far happier with her.

I knew from the start I could do nothing to please him. Everything I did was criticized. Because I kept trying, not giving into his rants, he would have to up his game.

One day he asked if I had a boyfriend. I was 16. Of course I had a boyfriend! I was so pleased he had taken an interest in my life. I was too naive to realize he had only asked so he could turn around and say that I should tell the boy to "go fly a kite!" Then because I truly was innocent, I excitedly shared with this employer my plan to go with my boyfriend to the beach to fly kites that very evening! This was not a tender moment. This was where my boss walked away, red in the face, angry that he had not yet defeated me.

On another day it was my turn to do the dishes. It was an ice cream shop and I'm not sure what all had to be washed by hand, but I knew the knives we used to cut the bananas for banana splits did.

With the boss out of the shop and probably only one or two others working the counter, I safely filled the large sink with hot water and soap and slipped the knives in to soak. Everything was going swimmingly until someone cried out, "LURCH" our nickname for our beloved boss, and we stopped eating our "mistakes" and got ready for inspection.

For reasons I will never know, Lurch immediately went over to the sink and as he was about to put his hands into the water, I ran over asking him to please stop while I tried to explain that I was in the process of . . . .  It was too late. There he was lifting a handful of knives up from out of the water. By the grace of God alone did he not cut himself on them.

You can imagine what happened next.

I was taken into the backroom and this very tall, ex-military man, would bend over as far as he could so he could look me directly in my never-been-fired-before 16-year-old-face. I would like to say I remember what he said but I am not even sure I even heard most of it. I have been blessed with somewhat of a dissociative "gift" that allows me to sometimes step outside of what is happening to me. It is built-in protection.

My reputation as a ice cream server was beyond repair. This one mistake that would have never even been a mistake if my boss had not shown up unexpectedly would now define me. If only he would have listened to me. If only he would not have put his hands in the sink. If only.

I do remember hearing that I had no potential and would probably never amount to more than a dishwasher. I'm not sure why he even would say that since my dishwashing skills nearly sent him to the hospital. It was also rather difficult for me to take him seriously since I was already one of the top students at my high school, I was second-chair flute in band, and I even had a boyfriend. In my 16-year-old mind I was doing just fine. My reputation at school would remain intact.

He threatened to fire me. In the end, he did. I was sad I wouldn't get to eat any more ice cream.

On the 4th of July weekend, the biggest weekend of the entire year for this small town ice cream shop, my sister decided to hang up her apron, leaving the shop short-staffed. It still ranks as one of the nicest things she has ever done for me!

prayer requests

There are unwritten rules about prayer requests.

1. It apparently is considered bad form to ask for prayer for yourself.

During a time of compromised health when I was not sleeping--at all--I asked for prayer to get a good night of sleep. It had seriously been like three days straight since I had slept and I had always heard hallucinations followed by death would happen next if I did not get any sleep soon. With eyes closed and heads bowed, someone in the room laughed shortly after I voiced my request. Though I took offense at the time, I prefer to pretend that the person was not paying attention to me and laughing at something else, which though offensive, is not nearly as bad.

2. A prayer request must be for someone dying or the family of the one at death's doorway.

I do not mean to sound insensitive, but I wonder what it is exactly we are praying for sometimes. Are we asking for a miraculous healing? What if the person is elderly and has been deteriorating for a long time? Is it even kind to ask that his or her life be prolonged in the midst of suffering? It makes more sense to pray for the family who is adjusting to the inevitable processes played out in front of them. But aren't we actually praying that all will find peace? Isn't the peace in question here the peace one can obtain from a relationship with the Almighty? Don't we just want everyone to be ok with whatever it is they are up against today?

3. Once the prayer request is offered, it is then your duty to give regular updates.

Well, it all depends . . . on whether or not anyone remembers what you said in the first place. Maybe they are still making jokes and not paying attention. You never know.

Updates are difficult to make if you have absolutely no medical training. I went to graduate school. I am an intelligent and educated person. And yet, when I have to attempt to explain medical procedures using actual medical terminology and sound more advanced than a preschooler, it is challenging. Once biological systems are explored, faith enters in. The patient's body is falling apart in such-and-such a way but God is the Great Physician. Healing is possible but . . . . It is not based on how much faith we have. It is based on God's plan, as He is in control and not us.

4. Prayer requests are subject to all sorts of commentary.

One of the reasons I generally do not share prayer requests of a personal nature, (because I have learned my lesson from that person who is still laughing) or about something serious is because the whole scenario can turn into something I never saw coming. My words can evoke strong emotion in someone who then feels the need to project how she would have handled it. The idea of it can cause another to remember how she felt when going through it with a loved one. It can be shocking for some. It can bring unwanted grief to an otherwise lovely sunny day.

But there is a bigger reason I often do not share my stuff and that is because there is history, stories that would explain a thing or two about life--my life. Stories that would not make sense to someone who has never walked a mile in my Birkenstocks. Stories that may be misinterpreted by someone who cannot receive the truth of some of these tales of woe because they are too hard. Stories I cannot give an adequate telling for because I will be sued and will instead need to turn them into fiction stories for children with symbolic endings that could be taken in a number of different ways. Or maybe I could team up with an independent film maker and create a movie that could become a cult classic for those who enjoy dark twisted tales of intrigue in which the main character is pitied yet loved, misunderstood but in the end everyone is holding hands having a good cathartic cry.

I cannot be responsible for any of this. If I ask you to pray--pray. Don't ask--unless you want to, and then, only if you promise to let me tell you the truth. Or at least as much truth as I think you can take.

I like the Quaker idea of "holding someone in the Light." If we can gently and compassionately do that, we will have done a beautiful thing.

a blessed day

Yesterday, before I headed to the Farmers' Curb Market where I spend most of my Saturday mornings, I prayed for God to bless my day. I then sat, waiting, next to a large hand-sewn pillow and an antique crib full of bed bunnies, expecting something wonderful to happen.

A long-time customer who has become a friend, stopped by to donate a sweater for my art. We talked about our lives, every turn of our conversation leading us to people we knew in common. Just before she left the Market, she circled back by my table to introduce me to another friend, another connection with whom I also know someone in common. Community.

A customer I did not know well stopped by for the second week in a row to inquire as to whether or not I had seen the mention of me in a beautifully-produced local magazine and I was happy to tell her I had. Though I had looked for the magazine without success, I happened to see the article posted when randomly picking up my phone. I thought about how much time I spend looking for things when sometimes all I have to do is wait for them to come to me. Serendipity.

Since we were having a rather slow day at the Market, this customer started to tell me the stories of her life and the next thing I knew she was telling me about her time as a Peace Corps volunteer in South America. I shared the stories about my sister's time in Tanzania. Returning to my table after making her rounds at the Market, she came to stand with me behind my table. Friendship.

While speaking with this new friend, another friend--a fellow artist--stopped by to cheer me on as we try to do for one another when we are out in the public marketing our wares. I never tire of those who sincerely wish for my success. I noticed the comments online as well as friends took the time to "stop by" my posts and express their joy for what I make and who I am. Encouragement.

No sooner had this new friend moved along, then did another friend show up to brighten my day and share her life with me. As she seemed to have an abundance of joy, she decided to pray with me right then and there among the plants, the baked goods, and the pillows. Hallelujah!

As I was calling it a day and packing up my art, a woman pushing a stroller stopped in front of me, picked up a bed bunny and danced it in front of her baby who smiled with delight, as the lady accompanying her made the transaction. Success.

In expectation I waited for something wonderful to happen. Yes.

A Responsorial Psalm for the Resurrection, An angel's words to Mary Magdalene

Before light dances on the dew, she has gathered her spices and fragrant oils for the journey.

Wrapping her arms around the jars, she steps carefully to avoid wayward roots in the dark.

To see him once more keeps tears from spilling out of eyes that have seen so much of life.

ALL:  Why do you seek the living among the dead?

Stopping abruptly, she has no answer nor can comprehend the one sitting in the burial place.

The cold hewn stones will offer no warmth; a faint scent of myrrh is almost a memory.

Brokenness hangs heavy in this room, offering only unspoken promises and unseen hope.

ALL:  Why do you seek the living among the dead?

It is to your credit you have wanted to fulfill your duty by anointing the body of your friend.

Here you will find only strips of linen, grave clothes without purpose that have come undone.

Your friend is not here, yet you are not abandoned. He has risen from the dead, his divine plan!

ALL:  Why do you seek the living among the dead?

This tomb holds nothing for you; it will neither sprout vegetables nor flowers for a window sill.

Take one last look at the rock, unchanged by natural rhythms of life. Let go of the burial spices.

The stone has been rolled away. The freshness of new life rushes in. Love overcomes all!

ALL:  Why do you seek the living among the dead?

Turn and walk into the garden where birds sing their early morning songs to welcome the day.

Buds burst forth in a flourish of color and the air is made sweet with their perfume.

There waits the Gardener. He knows your name. He has tended your heart from the beginning.

Go out into the garden and celebrate life! Amen.

a little bit of chocolate

Every year I try to come up with something new, something challenging to give up for Lent.

After I eliminate the idea of giving up coffee and Guinness, my coping mechanisms extraordinaire, I move on toward carbs and realize I have already greatly reduced them for health reasons. The main thing left is sugar.

I tell people that I give up chocolate, but sometimes I would pass up the chocolate pie and choose the lemon instead. Not this year. I gave up all "intentional" sugar. I say intentional because there is sugar in pretty much everything except for my coffee. And I will come clean and admit to a little maple syrup on pancakes at least once, some barbecue sauce that obviously contains high fructose corn syrup and finally, some apples and raisins cooked in sugar and butter because I could not bear to let them go to waste. I do what I can.

The funny e-cards circulating with the message: "I believe I'm getting closer to God by spending a few weeks not eating M&M's" miss the point, though they did make me remember my favorite catechism teacher, a man who was about to enter the priesthood when one day he fell in love with a woman who so captured his heart he ended up marrying her. Instead of entering the house of God, he would come home to a household full of children.

This catechism teacher would give up M&M's for Lent because he loved chocolate and those were among his favorites. Maybe because he had been taught to deny himself in a strict sense of the word, he would take the challenge one step further and place candy bowls of M&M's throughout his home, allowing himself to be reminded of the temptation each time he passed one of the bowls of brightly colored candies, there for the taking. He would then pause and thank Jesus for sacrificing himself.

I like to get rid of the temptation before Ash Wednesday if I can, but sometimes Valentine's Day, characterized by gifts of chocolate, can mess up my plans. In the back of the freezer are my stashed chocolates, if they are still there, with my sons, who did not give up chocolate, always on the lookout for something sweet since Mama is not making dessert during Lent. I also keep a large bag of chocolate chips in the freezer because they taste so much better frozen and whenever I need a little pick-me-up I can just reach into the bag for a handful of wonderfulness. During Lent I try not to open the freezer, which is difficult since that is where we keep the coffee beans, even though my husband makes the coffee most of the time; the frozen fruit with which I make my smoothies, without added sugar; and flour for baking. And yes, I did put the recommended tablespoons of sugar into the scones I made the other day, breaking both the sugar and carbs rule.

It is not about the food. The Scriptures even talk about what is considered clean and unclean, as dietary laws tend to be strict. But there is freedom in following the way, the truth, and the life. When we humble ourselves and make our pact with God for the forty plus days we are trying to give something up, he meets us where we are and strengthens our resolve. He knows me better than I know myself. I know that he knows that when I say I'm going to do something, that means I will try. He knows that most of the time I will fail. And at those times I will look up to heaven and be still and know that it is ok.

A popular idea is to do something during Lent instead of give something up, like chocolate. All good-natured teasing aside, giving up chocolate is not as easy as it may seem, especially for someone as in love with it as I am. My heart longs to do something for Lent, like provide funding for so many charitable pursuits, while my overdue bills, stacked neatly in a pile, await the next payday. I already give of myself to the youngest among us at my workplace, volunteer in several capacities at my church, and try to make the world a better place by apologizing for my wrongdoings, reaching toward mercy in the midst of judgment, and hope in the midst of despair. I seek to post pictures and quotes that will help those reading to experience a moment of peace, joy, or sense of knowing that I too have walked a rather rugged path and willingly place myself beside those who suffer and mourn.

Giving up a little bit of chocolate for about a month and a half does not get me closer to God. Seeking him everyday . . . does.

the right words

Words are everything to me and at 5 o'clock this morning I realized: I may have used the wrong ones.

This may explain the unrest and uneasiness following a recent conflict in which I became embroiled. Until I have communicated, I will keep trying--editing the conversation in my head, searching for the right words and the correct order in which to arrange them. It does not matter how poetic one is if the message shared falls among the rocks instead of penetrating the heart of the listener.

I wondered if the conversation could have been different if I had said "unteachable" instead of "will not take direction." Unteachable implies a state of not being able to be taught, perhaps by anyone, while not taking direction could be a failure on my part to give clear expectations.

If I had said "uncooperative" instead of "unwilling to communicate," a similar scenario is formed. An uncooperative person chooses not to get along with anyone whereas someone unwilling to communicate may not feel safe sharing her thoughts and ideas with me.

Or maybe the whole thing was doomed to failure from the beginning. For what purpose? I may never know.

Failure can be a heavy burden until I find the appropriate wire cutters to release myself from the ball and chain of regret that wants now to be my best friend. I cannot be too hasty since it is in moments of deepest pain that character is forged. I need to allow myself to feel deeply the angst, the anger--even if it is provoked--before giving it all a heave-ho into the abyss of forgetfulness. I will never forget certain affronts. I can only hope to forget how much they hurt.

Forgiveness comes to me from a source greater than me, producing in my heart something I cannot create on my own. I call him God. He knows my heart better than I know it myself and he has spent a great deal of my development healing it so he knows every wound. He forgives me. I then work at forgiving myself, which for me is far more difficult than forgiving someone else.

Conflict can be filled with irony. The action I may desire to take on another, causing her to fall apart emotionally, may be the exact thing she has already done to me. During the heat of the battle the tactics one uses can speak volumes. Emotional expression can be genuine or manipulative. Lack of emotional expression can indicate a hardness of heart or just plain weariness. Judgements are made in split-second intervals and before anyone can breathe, what has been said has been said. It cannot be taken back. Ever.

Apologizing is not the same as forgiving. I am often confused by an apology--especially the quick ones. Are you sorry for what you have done to hurt me or are you sorry it happened and you got caught?

The first words out of my mouth when I was in a car accident were "I'm sorry" which I would regret as the guy who totaled my mini-van fought back insisting that we were both at fault. What I had said became an admission of guilt. I was sorry it happened--that a guy had not taken the time to look in my direction even though I had the right of way. I am often sorry when someone chooses to do something to hurt me even though it is not deserved. I do not enjoy the conflict or the fallout afterward, as it forces me to expend my time and energy sweeping up the broken pieces of my heart and praying they can be put together. Again.

But if there is anything at all I have learned from conflict it is this: It will happen again. I will not harden my heart thinking I will protect myself next time. It will hurt. Lessons learned from old mistakes will fall by the wayside as new mistakes are made. We are human. We do the best we can and then we move on.

We can become teachable.

We can learn to cooperate.

my choice

"It's your choice."

The words clanged against the cold tile floor like a tin cup falling from unsuspecting hands.

My choice. Mine.

It has been difficult for me to make choices since I was a young child standing in the dime store with Mama who would be getting impatient as I wanted to maximize what little money I had been given. She would always give me the option of saving the money and going home which I would ignore as I weighed the pros and cons of each possible selection.

Once the purchase was made I would hesitate to eat it if it was candy, or play with it if it was a toy. I did not want the experience to end. I wanted to hold onto the choice as if it held more for me than the use for which it was intended. Subconsciously I must have been aware of how little control I had.

As I was growing up, my mother would often choose my clothes. She could only buy what was on sale. She managed a farm household according to the weather. If a hail storm hit the day before the cherries were shaken from the trees, that meant we would wear last year's coats and boots. If there was no hail storm, we could go shopping for coats at a mall forty miles away, stopping by our favorite shoe store along the way. I say our favorite because we were a family with long, flat feet and could not find shoes to fit us at most stores. As children we needed special inlays to compensate. The orthopedic shoes recommended were not in any way fashionable. They were never my choice.

We ate what we grew and raised on the farm. I did not know how expensive food was until I left college and was out on my own. I spent years as a vegetarian in part because I could not afford to buy meat. We never had to wonder if Mama would choose beef, chicken or pork for dinner. It would be beef, as that is what was mooing out in the barn. A large vegetable garden made up the rest of the meals. Our other crops: asparagus and cherries, were abundant in season. We drank milk that came from the dairy where our milk was sent to be pasteurized. We received Florida oranges and grapefruit in the winter from a truck driver who used the fruit to pay Daddy for plowing his driveway. Bartering with other farmers procured for us other fruit and vegetables we did not grow, and even a Christmas tree every year from a nearby tree farm.

The choice for higher education was a simple one. Though I was accepted by two other colleges, Michigan State University was the only place I ever wanted to go. Of course, I did not anticipate how difficult it would be to grow up six miles from a town of 2,000, and suddenly find myself sitting in the bay window of a dorm on a campus with a student body of 44,000. Years later I would wonder if it would have been wisdom to be a big fish in a small pond instead of a struggling student who always had to work and never slept. A farm girl, who often wanted to go sit in the woods somewhere or go to the Lake to sit in the bluffs by herself.

I would choose to study journalism because I figured if I majored in English the expectation would be for me to become a teacher. If I had wanted to become a teacher, I would have majored in education. I chose to go to Denver the day after I finished my studies because I did not want to go home. That choice had life-changing ramifications. I wanted out of the real world in just two years. The only school I could find that would give me a graduate assistantship was in West Virginia. I would choose to go there. I would then make all kinds of choices that would get me into interesting situations.

Choosing between a job offered to me at a newspaper in the mountains of Colorado or pursuing a relationship that could lead to marriage was one of the most difficult choices I have ever made. Would I ever work for a newspaper if I got married? Would I ever get married if I chose to work for that newspaper? I wanted both so much.

I chose motherhood long before we brought home our first child. The desire came over me in a surprising way since right before then I never really cared. I did not want to give up everything in order to care for a baby. And yet, time and again, I would choose what I thought was best for the child even if it meant staying home and then working part-time jobs I would have never chosen.

If it were up to me, I probably would not have chosen to have a fair complexion and red hair. Too much sunburn; too many nicknames (carrot-top, fire-head, rooster, red, ginger, freckle-face). I would not have chosen to be so near-sighted I can barely walk across the room without my glasses that I have worn since age 12, inheriting my vision from Daddy who has worn his glasses since age 4. I would not have chosen to have teeth like chalk that have all been filled, one crowned, and several root canals, inheriting teeth from Mama whose teeth are as bad off as mine. And I would never have chosen a chronic disease, hypothyroidism, inherited from both of my parents, which has been the bane of my existence over the past decade or so.

I would have chosen to be blonde and popular with my in-style clothing and flat tummy. I would have been able to be out in the sun at the beach tanning and with no glasses to worry about would dive into the water without a care and . . . a giant sea monster would swallow me whole! There is no perfect life! It is an illusion to think so. We cannot choose whatever we want. We are not in charge.

I gave up my so-called right to be in charge of my choices when I chose to follow a Supreme Being. Thank goodness! I recognize only too well that I do not always make good choices. I cannot predict the outcome of any of them. I am shortsighted every single time. I want to choose wisely so I choose to go to the One who has wisdom. I want to accept what I did not choose and turn to the One who has accepted me without qualification, loving me exactly as I have turned out to be.

It's my choice? No. It is the path I am following. A path on which I cannot see much beyond the next turn. I have no idea where it leads. I do not know what condition I will be in when I get there. I do not know where "there" is. I choose to trust that I am being guided. I choose to let the words that sounded like clanging become the background music for my next journey. That is my choice.