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.

not just another cover letter

Here's the cover letter I wish I could write.

Dear Future Employer,

There are some things you should know about me that my resume cannot begin to explain.

EDUCATION: My parents paid for one year toward my bachelor's degree. I paid for the rest through student loans that I would probably still be paying off were it not for the substantial inheritance we received from my husband's mother. I worked a work-study job every day that I could so I would have money to travel home and for other expenses. I went to graduate school in West Virginia even though I had never even visited there because that was the college I found that offered me a graduate assistantship, eliminating the cost of tuition. It meant, however, that I would work on-campus four hours a day. A loan allowed me to take an unpaid internship one summer. I worked hard for my education as I have worked hard since I was a child, working for my dad on the family farm.

WRITER: Most of my writing work has been unpaid. I have a portfolio filled with articles published while I was in school. I have written many articles, tributes, prayers, and a few short stories. I worked for about a year as a Features Reporter for an inner city newspaper in Denver, Colorado. I helped "typeset" the stories in proper format on my home computer, an early Macintosh Classic. I learned how to do this myself as everything prior to this time had been done on my Smith-Corona. I have always written. This means I have many years of experience, much more than a resume can adequately represent. I have tried to keep up with technology. I am always eager to learn.

Here is something harder to explain. I was hired to be a journalist at a newspaper in Gunnison, Colorado. The editor hired me over the phone after a couple of conversations! One of the major questions he said would be a deciding factor was whether or not I would be able to live in a mountain town comfortably, after the road connecting it to civilization would be closed for the winter. "Yes!," I cheerfully answered him, "I am from Michigan. I have been snowed in for weeks!" No sooner had I accepted his invitation did my friend who was going to drive me up there back out. Then there was a blizzard. I checked into bus transportation and only one bus ran up there a day. I had no money. I had nowhere to stay. I had no transportation . . . except this one guy I knew from church.

That guy got out his maps and we planned the trip. There was, however, something he wanted to do more than take me to the mountains so I could be a journalist. He wanted to marry me. I was 26 and already an old-maid by the standards of my very small hometown. If I took the job, would I one day marry a mountain man? Or would I be the spinster newswoman eventually editing the newspaper, driving a jeep home to my one-bedroom apartment where my dog, my only companion, awaited me.

Here's another thing. I knew if I married the guy I would have children with the guy. In my mind marriage and children were an inseparable reality. No marriage, no children. But put a ring on it and we may as well move to the 3-bedroom ranch and set up the nursery. I never thought I could do it all.

As soon as we returned from the honeymoon, life as I knew it changed forever. I could no longer apply for jobs in different places. I now lived in a house with a spouse who had a job that made more money than the vast assortment of dead-end jobs I would now have. I would doubt my abilities and wonder why I had worked so hard to get an education when I would walk into office after office filled with people who had no idea what I'm capable of accomplishing. Or what I had been through so far.

But then I turned 30 and decided I was ready to have a baby. By this time my husband was ready, too. The next thing I know I am wearing fashionable maternity clothing to the long-term temp job at the law firm where I was editing coded documents and actually enjoying it. I remember the day I closed up the office. I was probably the last one to leave since my co-workers had a baby shower for me and I was gathering up the baby booties, cards, and what was left of the huge chocolate chip cookie. I wondered if the trip down the elevator was my last one. I found out about a permanent job I had a great chance of being hired for but as a first time mom-to-be was nervous about daycare and thought it would be better if I stayed home, thus ending my career.

I would try to continue a typing service out of the home for seminary students primarily and soon discovered that trying to work around the schedule of a baby was not conducive to meeting deadlines. I would face unbelievable loneliness as I rocked my baby and took long walks with the dog. Work had become such a natural part of my life for so long it was awkward wearing sweats and not having anything pressing to do other than changing diapers and fixing bottles after breastfeeding failed.

One of the paralegals I had done research with called me one day inviting me to a near-by city to do similar work as before, and though I was absolutely wanting to go, could not make it work out with transportation and childcare. We would then move from Colorado to Michigan and then to North Carolina leaving behind every connection for work I ever had.

By the time we had two children and I was able to work again, there was an opportunity for me to take a paralegal's position at the law firm where I was then working, just up until I got what I thought was the flu. It turned out to be my third child. Another possible career had blown away like a puff of smoke. And I was convinced with three children that I would never work again.

TEACHER: It was because I had the third child I realized I needed to be the one who could leave work to take kids to the doctor, pick them up early for special practices, take time off to go to their assemblies, etc. that I needed a mom job. I became a preschool teacher. (Please refer to my blog, I AM NOT A TEACHER for more information if you require some.) Working as a teacher did not mean I stopped being a writer. It never meant that.

ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT: These are the type of jobs writers get so they can pay their bills. Journalists make great secretaries. We know how to type fast and accurately. We can construct sentences that convey information effectively. We are curious types who enjoy the challenge of a diverse workplace. We do not like to be treated as though we are failed writers. We are not. We just plain would like to eat some dinner. In order to do that, WE NEED TO GET PAID!

LEADER: I personally believe my leadership activity is far more impressive than most of my paid work. Being asked to serve on a Board of Directors and making it to every meeting over a period of three years is no small feat. It takes dedication and commitment. Taking on the responsibilities of church leadership requires a lot more time than one may think, especially if one becomes Clerk and must attend every meeting, take minutes, type out the minutes, submit them, and then make corrections as needed in order for approval by the church's governing body. The minutes must be as accurate as the documents I used to type for the attorney I worked for when I found out I was in a delicate condition. If there was an error, the document would have to be re-done as it would not be admissible in court. Though perfectionism is supposedly frowned upon as a character trait, in my experience it has been expected.

QUALIFICATIONS: When I say I am committed to accuracy, it is because of the leadership and administrative experiences mentioned previously. The self-motivation I refer to has been a part of my life since I was a student always striving to get the best grades possible. I am somewhat of a loner and can work alone happily. I can also get along with most people. Being creative and resourceful is what I have learned along the way. Creativity in financing a life with three children and a teacher husband has given me many opportunities to improve my communication skills as I have wheeled and dealed my way through payment plans and promises. Being resourceful is all I have ever known. As a result I am the kind of employee who will not waste your supplies or your time. I will endeavor to reduce, reuse and recycle. I will assume you want me to treat your resources like I do my own: with great care, stretching their usefulness as far as they will go. I will choose quality over quantity. It lasts.

My resume lists 15 years of teaching a preschool curriculum and a couple of one-year office jobs. The rest is unpaid writing and leadership roles. It has the appearance of a stay-at-home mom who will not necessarily show a whole lot of initiative because maybe she does not have enough professional experience, and yet, motherhood has taught me more about managing an organization than anything ever could. I have multi-tasked through soccer, track, and band concert scheduling always aware of what exists in the pantry and the various combinations of ingredients available in the refrigerator since dinner must happen in some form at some time. Endless pieces of uniforms that have to be ready for the next event, along with continual communication as to who will drive whom where became a masterpiece in choreography. Nothing has ever been able to get between me and the needs of my children and this focus, honed over years of cheering on a bunch of boys, has created in me a fierceness I never knew existed. I have seen the inside of an emergency room more than once. I have what it takes to endure anything, including what is required for me to handle in the workplace.

Maybe the people I have spent my time supporting can say who I am through their lives. I helped my husband obtain his teaching certification and two master's degrees. We have been married 28 years. My oldest son graduated from college with a degree in economics and months later landed a great job in his field. My middle son is half-way through a top-rated music program degree, already thinking about graduate school. My youngest son, though not particularly thrilled with high school, is smart and a great athlete. He has taught himself how to do some cooking and does not hesitate to help those in need. All of these guys know they are loved. They know buying stuff isn't as important as having experiences. They know they can bring any friend home at any time and there will always be more room at the table and enough food to share.

Considering all this, I seek employment. To improve your organization, I am your next best choice.

Sincerely yours,

Mary Ellen Shores

I am not a teacher

I am not a teacher.

Well-meaning people would hear me say this and politely correct me by saying, "Well, of course you are," as if to say, "Don't put yourself down. You can teach as well as anyone."

If I would have majored in education, I would have been able to join my elementary education roommate as she sat on her bed cutting out laminated pictures in primary colors, taking a swig of her Teacher's scotch, and tucking herself into bed just as I was getting off work to spend the rest of the night writing another paper on my trusty Smith-Corona electric typewriter. In the early morning hours she would get out her best teacher dress, put on her teacher smile, and go play with kids. We would pass in the hall as I returned to the room realizing it was indeed morning. Time for class.

By the time I had reached the end of my sophomore year in college, I needed to declare a major. Since I had taken four years of French in high school and continued on quarter after quarter in college, I had become semi-fluent. One of my professors said my pronunciation was similar to someone who lived in "the islands." I could have chosen to major in French. I would then have become a teacher traveling to France, watching French films, eating baguettes and drinking espresso. I could have instilled in young people my love for the language. I could have retired by now.

I didn't major in French. I also didn't major in English because I didn't want to become an English teacher. I majored in journalism because it sounded more employable. I just wanted to write.

While picking up my children from preschool one day, the director asked if I had yet found a job since she knew I had been looking. When I told her I had not, she said I wouldn't have to keep looking for a job if I came and worked for her. She asked me if I had ever thought about that. I said I had and when would she like to talk. She set a time and I showed up to sign a W-2 form. No resume, no interview. She knew what she needed to know about me, which left me confused. The first year my 4-year-old and 1-year-old came to the preschool, I drove a '62 Chevy Nova that had been given to me, and later would show up with our Irish Wolfhound who would stick his head out the window inches from her face as she helped the boys out of the car without the correct stuff in their lunches and a lot of other missed details. I was the mom teachers talk about. That mom.

But then came that magical day when I would find myself in a room with 5-year-olds, listening to them making sense of life. I loved watching them discover that red paint mixed with blue paint swirls together on a big white piece of paper to transform into a whole different color. I loved reading children's books as I wrote a few in my head. At the lunch table one day one kid asked another, "What do you think is hotter, lava or the fires of hell?" The teacher I was working with that first year told me he should know because he was the devil. I thought he was wonderful.

As the years went by, I grew accustomed to the part-time seasonal schedule. It worked great for a mom and doubly great as the wife of a real teacher. When I began the job, the boys were 3, 6, and 9. After 5 years of teaching, I decided it was time to get back on-track with my job search. Five months later a woman I was working out with at Curves asked if I wanted to teach. No, has always been my answer. But she said the community college would hire me as long as I had a college degree. I would be "teaching" adults with severe and profound developmental disabilities. I told them upfront I had no experience doing that sort of thing. They said my preschool curriculum would work just fine.

So I conducted three one-hour classes a day at a group home that was a central location for other group home residents. I would have up to six students who would come in their wheelchairs or walkers and sit around a large table waiting to sing, "Jesus Loves Me." They were more interested in talking about angels and heaven than learning their alphabet, especially since their friends were dying. They somehow knew they would never become independent but would live out their days in group homes having others assist them with all of their needs. Someone told one of them that he would be able to walk in heaven. My first thought was, "He will be able to think!"

The day would come for an observation and a report to my supervisor that would have her telling me to shut the door to her office and have a seat. Not prepared for a negative report, she told me two things: 1) the correct answer was NEVER "I don't know," and 2) why was I not employing the literacy-enhancing technology?!

1. Sometimes the answer is "I don't know." Educated, intelligent people know this.

2. Employing the literacy-enhancing technology. I would need to break down this sentence. Employ must mean "use" and literacy means having to do with reading. The only technology I was aware of in my classroom was the old computer in the corner with a bowling game in which Christmas elves made rude sounds for a student able to hit the necessary keys. Ok, they got me. I had no idea what they were talking about. I DON'T KNOW was my official answer.

Turns out, the literacy-enhancing technology was a pencil grip. A PENCIL GRIP! This supervisor who would neither look at me nor speak to me went to my supervisor to say that I was not allowing my students to enhance their literacy by putting pencil grips on their pencils. There were perhaps three students who could hold pencils out of the 18 or so under my care and out of those, none were literate. They were pre-literate, thus the use of a preschool curriculum. They did not know the alphabet nor could write it or their names. There were pencil grips in the file cabinet drawer that they did use on occasion. The students could not tell the supervisor this information because some of them were non-verbal. But they would smile at me on rare occasions, and do everything they could to sit as close to me as possible, and sing Jesus Loves Me with a pure heart.

I would eventually tell my supervisor I did not want to be a teacher.

My preschool director asked me to substitute at the preschool as soon as she found out that I no longer held classes at the center. Once back in the door it felt natural and I would take another position, this time with toddlers only two days a week the first year and three the next. I spent so much time working on my arts and crafts business that the part-time teaching fit in well with the rest of my life.

Contributing to the household income became more of a need. When I was asked to work a five-day work week with a teacher who wanted me to be her assistant in the infant room, I was pleased to accept. New director, new teachers, new families and an opportunity to spend time with the youngest students at the preschool was something I looked forward to doing.

A room that was generally bursting at the seams with bouncing babies only had two or three my first year giving the teacher and I a great chance to get to know each other. She would bring her left-overs in small pyrex bowls and we would enjoy lunch and one good story after another. Though I did not look forward to the diaper part, having vowed to never change diapers again after my ten years of diaper duty at home, baby diapers were not that bad.

Maybe because we had similar views on mothering and on life, we seemed to care for these babies in similar ways. Our room was well-managed and we did our work while continuing a conversation that lasted three years. A job change for her husband signaled an end to our fun and a promotion for me.

Over coffee and lunch several times, plans were shared with my new assistant. Hopes were high. But life got tough. And then it got tougher. Words were spoken. And then they weren't. Then they were spoken to others. Words believed. Words not believed. My health failed and I lost my voice, perhaps, as my close friend pointed out, because I was not being heard.

In the midst of this, I knew I was not a teacher. I never wanted to be a teacher. Perhaps I was never meant to be a teacher. And yet, in both situations, the children and the special needs adults loved me. Regardless of any so-called complaints, either real or imagined, no one has ever said I was in any way unkind or uncaring toward the needs of the most vulnerable among us. I loved them well.

On my last day at the center I noticed some of my students looking distracted. I watched them closely as many of them were on medication for seizure disorders and seeing a student seizing and not being able to do anything to help is not a good feeling. I did not expect more than a handshake. But just before I was scheduled to leave, an employee of the center walked in with a cake. It may have even had my name on it. All I remember is one of my students sitting so close to me he was almost on my lap. He looked me in the eyes with his innocent face and slowly inched his fingers toward my hand until he daringly held it in his and cried out, "I hold Ms. Shore hand! I hold it!" The others got their wheelchairs as close to me as they could while I watched my feet to keep them from being run over.

And even though I had finally attended the workshop in which I was told I was never to allow a student to hug or kiss me, it was far too late to keep them from behaving that way now. Hugging and kissing ensued. One man had wanted to know if we could go to heaven together. I said I wanted to go with him to heaven but if it was ok, not that day. One of my students had already gone to heaven. Maybe because life was so immediate for them--so fleeting, and often so lonely, we talked about death as being together forever.

When we had eaten the cake and said our good-byes, class was over. A real teacher would have employed some literacy-enhancing technology. All I could do was run to the car so they wouldn't see me crying--because then they would be scared, and I would never want to frighten them. My special friends.

I am not a teacher.

questions that need to be asked

Is it true?
Is it necessary?
Is it kind?

These questions remind me of, "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all," and limit an exchange of thoughts and ideas. In an environment of information control, the potential for the dissemination of untruthful, unnecessary and unkind messages is real.

What is truth becomes a philosophical impasse beyond which it is not possible to go. The question becomes: Which version of the truth will be accepted, and by whom?

It is encouraged in our society to talk for hours about nothing, and if the truth cannot be known, prattling on about nothing of importance is at least thought to be polite. It is, however, completely unnecessary. Ideas of substance, requiring a higher level of discourse, should not have to ask for permission to prove their worth.

Asking whether or not something is kind is purely subjective. I think of the hapless souls who end up on talent shows getting negative feedback on their lack of musical ability because of all the wonderful people in their lives who decided it would be unkind to tell them the truth about their lack of talent. Kindness is being gentle with the truth, not avoiding it altogether.

What has helped me far more than those three questions have been the Four Questions asked by Byron Katie, an author who teaches a method of self-inquiry called The Work. It starts with writing down judgments or stressful thoughts toward other people and then putting these judgments, one-by-one, up against each of the questions.

Her first question is the same: Is it true? Depending on varying points of view, it is almost always up for debate.

The second question opens up the idea of truth further: Can you absolutely know it's true?

Knowing whether or not something is true takes me back to Journalism 101: Consider the Source. Is the source trustworthy? Does the source have an ulterior motive in saying something untrue about the person in question or the situation that is being questioned? Do I have any verifiable proof that what is being considered is true? How sure am I? Is it worth the leap of faith in believing it?

Third, How do you react--what happens--when you believe that thought?

If I think someone has judged me unfairly, believing it before it has been tested for accuracy will cause me to judge unfairly right back. Our belief systems are powerful, intricately formed over years of trial and error. When someone hurts me, how I will react may be a learned behavior based on being hurt in a similar way the last time. Trip the trigger in my brain and a reaction is at the ready to be played out accordingly. Deciding to believe something that is not true can be held onto as fiercely as something that took time to prove. It is up to each one of us to choose what we will do.

And finally: Who would you be without the thought?

Without the thought of having to ask whether or not something is true but instead giving that person the benefit of the doubt, would make me feel like a more compassionate person. I would tap into the empathy I am naturally gifted with as I would also consider how it makes another feel that I would want to question that person's integrity. I would let go of the question as it no longer had purpose.

Not having to consider whether or not something is absolutely true gives me a sense of peace. There is much that is unknowable. If I put my trust in God, I do not have to be in charge of knowing all the answers. I can stop the inquiry and direct my energy onto something more productive.

If I am not reacting because I am choosing not to believe the judgment against me, I will not harbor a bitter root of anger that eventually seeks its will by leading all astray toward paths of evil. I would have the opportunity to be proactive instead of reactive, choosing the way of peace instead of the devastation that results from withholding love. Though I would have no control over what someone would choose to say or not to say, I would have control over my response.

Who would I be without the thought--the stressful, painful, brokenness-that-threatens-to-cast-me-into-outer-darkness-thought--that someone has judgment against me?

I would be free.

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.