The Bright Hour, A Memoir of Living and Dying by Nina Riggs: my review and contemplations

Sitting on my small canvas beach chair next to an identical one occupied by my husband under our shade umbrella in the warm sand while the ocean roars and foams in its usual fits of ecstatic delight may seem to be a odd time for me to be reading a woman's memoir about death--perhaps as strange as the way death intrudes on a perfectly good life at what will always be the wrong time.

The Bright Hour: A Memoir of Living and Dying by Nina Riggs came with me from our home in Greensboro, where Nina also used to live, to the southern part of the Outer Banks where we camp a few days every summer when we can. Now that we travel, just the two of us, I have more time to notice those with children around us: the French Canadian brothers talking quietly while I try to translate, the annoyed adolescent girls leaving a trail of pink plastic razors and the scent of fruity shampoo, and an exhausted couple guiding three small boys across what probably seems to them a very long boardwalk. As I begin to get to know Nina through her words, I think about her sons, as well. When I had gone to Scuppernong Books for the book reading, I happened to be sitting right next to them, saw her husband, and know a couple of her friends. Her life, with all of its leading characters, is right there before me in all of its brilliance as she tells her story.

In an attempt to convince my husband to camp at the beach instead of renting a cabin, I had ordered a tent we had not bothered to set up beforehand since we are seasoned campers and would make do with whatever difficulties presented themselves. The tent is extra roomy and a lovely yellow and red color. What we would not fully experience until the next morning is how light interacts with the mesh and rain fly creating a variety of changing colors inside the tent that in no way relate to the yellow and red of its outside. Purple, green, and orange of varying hues welcome us to the morning, as the dew sparkles like glitter, literally like silver glitter--a tent designed in Colorado by people with a sense of humor, I suggest, while my husband offers a scientific explanation about light refraction I only partially understand. I think about Nina's journey, remembering the part about the MRI as she and her friend, Tita, look for bright spots, hoping not to find them as they indicate more tumors, further metastases. For once, light was not the hoped for result but a preferred steady darkness leading out of a tunnel darker still.

Nina's vulnerable portrayal of a real marriage with its spontaneous intimacy of understanding, as well as chasms of differences too great to cross, made the idea of her having to depart from it almost unbearable. By the time she told her husband she had secretly purchased tickets for them to take a trip to France, a place where they had lived as a young couple years before, and only told him because she was beginning to realize he needed to know all of her secrets as she may not be there to tell him, I cheered her on when she then wrote that they got to take the trip. At last, here was a dream fulfilled. Even knowing the outcome of her story, I wanted Paris to last just a bit longer. I wanted there to be a round of treatments that would make a difference, a drug trial that would save the day and her life.

I did not know until reading her book that she was a direct descendant of Ralph Waldo Emerson. She quotes him in the preface:

"I am cheered with the moist, warm, glittering, budding and melodious hour that takes down the narrow walls of my soul and extends its pulsation and life to the very horizon. That is morning; to cease for a bright hour to be a prisoner of this sickly body and to become as large as the World."

Nina becomes larger than life as she cares for her dying mother, learning from hospice the clinical definition of what it looks like to lose one's life one step at a time. All the things no one ever tells you, Nina suddenly becomes competent in and does not lose her compassion or humor. She keeps on going in the midst of grieving her hair falling out and disfigurement from the surgery. She writes like a friend sharing a secret and holds nothing back. She does not seek pity and even goes out of her way to not shock a babysitter whom she had not seen in awhile with her new look, choosing not to say hello on the street. She just lives her life like everyone else, hoping she will get to keep doing the same things families do as they go through whatever awaits them in their day and tuck everyone in at night.

Looking out at the vast array of stars complete with the Milky Way Galaxy that we only get to see when we are camping at the beach, I see life in all of its glittery glory shining at me from horizon to horizon. I wonder about life on other planets, in other galaxies. I've seen so many science fiction stories of time travel, worm holes, and varying dimensions that these sorts of things no longer seem so far-fetched. I believe our souls go to a place when we die. And even though there has been much speculation about such a place and who is allowed to be there, none of us really knows--even those who say they have gone there and have returned to tell the tale. We do not know how we will be when we are set free from our earthly bodies and perhaps given new ones, or what the environmental conditions of the place will be like. I think I could spend eternity walking barefoot on the sand, letting the water wash over me while sea oats bend in the cool breeze and sea birds with long beaks find nourishment in the surf. To see the first rays of sunlight in the morning and the last in the evening while experiencing the ever-changing colors of life in-between, and finding those with whom to share such moments, is as good as it gets.

On her final page, before her husband finishes the memoir by saying she died in the early morning which was her favorite time of day, Nina writes, "We're making our way like this, though: We are breathless, but we love the days. They are promises. They are the only way to walk from one night to the other."

Thank you, Nina, for writing it all down and allowing us to see you.

the night before the reunion

We drove from our home in North Carolina all the way to southern Ohio, navigating mountain turns and straight ahead through acres of farmland. It took us eight hours to get to where my husband's high school memories reside.

The bed and breakfast we had stayed at five years ago would be my reward for being a spouse at a class reunion, a marital obligation some endure, while others opt out and hope an old flame isn't waiting in the bleachers for some imaginary half-time. Of course that scenario only tends to happen to those who never found a mate along the way and keep coming back to the reunions, perhaps hoping to get lucky.

We walked to a well-known and loved restaurant where some of the classmates would gather for dinner. Arriving early, we ate before the group showed up which proved to be the wise decision since the hugging and talking that ensued kept even the hungriest from their food. Facebook had allowed me to be a familiar face to these total strangers hugging me and welcoming me to their town. I saw the glances the women eight years my senior gave me though I pretended not to notice. Yes, their classmate robbed the cradle. Almost 29 years later, and there is nothing that can be done about it.

Later, my husband and I would walk across the bridge to the new brew pub for the first official reunion event, the night before the reunion, housed in what used to be a fire station with the big doors left intact and not quite enough outdoor seating. A small caterer offered a dinner of pulled pork, slaw and other sides that sounded good although we had just eaten pizza. A food truck offering doughnuts was a temptation we managed to avoid.

My husband re-engaged with his long lost classmates as I sat talking to the wife of his friend who came to the event hoping I would be there--the wives' plan for survival. We enjoyed our "brews" while batting the small black flies that kept dive-bombing us on this warm Ohio evening near the river under a threatening sky. Before long the bottom fell out, pouring rain, and we ran inside. Since we had walked over from the bed and breakfast, we decided to try to wait out the storm.

A man walked up, introduced himself, and said, "I wonder if anyone here knows me." He explained that he had transferred to the high school his last two years from a Catholic school for which his father had decided to stop paying tuition, and according to this man, it was probably out of spite. He went on to say that he hated his father and his father hated him, the kind of declaration someone can make after several beers. Words, that after all of these years, poured out like the rain outside the door.

He had graduated a year before the class having the reunion but seemed to have shown up for the sole purpose of being known by someone. He said he beat up some guys in high school and was expelled for three days once, this man in his '60s still looking for absolution. His actions that day had given him the reputation of being a "bad boy" which he apparently had been trying to reverse as he has been running a successful business for many years since and has made a lot of money, he assured us. He had done his penance.

I wondered about the people we are in high school and the people we become. My husband was not a good student for a myriad of reasons, but eventually earned two master's degrees. That fact may surprise some of his classmates, or maybe they knew he was smart all along. My reputation, on the other hand, was of being one of the top students in my high school. It was when I walked into my class reunion holding a beer that one of my classmates was shocked. I had been one of the youngest members of my class, starting kindergarten about a week after I turned five, forcing me to imbibe illegally until I was nearly ready to graduate from college. The point is, when one returns to a reunion of people with whom he or she attended high school, expectations are not going to get one very far.

In the midst of being hugged long and hard by a woman I may never see again, and eventually asking someone for an umbrella so we could make our trip back to our "home" for the night reasonably dry, I lost track of the man in search of validation. Seems like he had his photo taken with some people who may have known him, or maybe they just wanted him to abandon his search so he could find peace and acceptance among a new group of people who would be his friends, at least for that night. Maybe when they will look at the photo at some future time they will see something in his face that will trigger a memory, a twinkle in his eye, the way his mouth curved as he smiled, his infectious laugh, and they will piece together a story of a boy filled with anger because he felt unloved--a boy who expressed himself one day at high school with fists instead of words. And they will see that in spite of all that was against this young man, he turned out ok.

The aftermath of honesty

The problem with honesty is . . . it is not allowed.

Before you jump to the conclusion that I was raised by wolves, I, like most of you, was raised by a mother whose motto was: If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all. So I remained silent for a great deal of my childhood. Whenever I slipped up and pointed out something real or something honest, someone was quick to throw a blanket over it, extinguishing the flame of my truth.

Same thing happens these days, except now I'm the mom, and I no longer have to remain silent.

That being said, I also do not wish to impugn anyone's character or cause an uproar. I share my stories as I experience them, hoping someone else can relate to the scenarios I describe.

When someone is not helpful when I am asking for help, or someone is rude when I am being polite, my first instinct is to laugh at them. That may sound callous, as if I am not living the way I have professed to live. It may help to know my second thought is to see if there is something I can do to help the person who is struggling, even though I am the one requesting assistance.

I was not even aware how much that is my way until I was nearly run into one morning by a woman who apparently had not noticed my vehicle was stopped, signaling to make a left turn. I saw her car in my rearview mirror approaching too fast, and I barely got out of her way in time as she nearly drove into the ditch. My first reaction was to inquire about her. Something must have gone wrong in her life for her to be driving so recklessly, though I had no way of knowing. Because there had not been a collision, we mouthed the words through our closed windows: Are you ok? I was fine.

One thing I try not to do is make assumptions. So when someone makes them about me, it takes me a minute to regain my footing.

I think there is a tendency to project oneself into a situation, interpreting it through a different lens, and not the thick lenses for extremely near-sighted eyes through which I view the world. When I am no longer permitted to be the main character of my own story and someone else is playing the lead role, the story can take a trip down a forlorn path into the dark and scary woods.

Someone with a take-charge attitude is going to be greeted differently than someone who looks like she is easy to control. But looks are deceiving and just because one is soft-spoken does not mean she is afraid to take a stand. It also doesn't make her rude, though according to this new narrative imposed upon her story, she has gone from victim to villain in five seconds flat. Perhaps neither is the truth.

There is a problem in ever truly knowing the heart of another. Our smiles can betray our sadness. Our words can either soothe or ignite an encounter with another who is also unknown. In the mind of a writer, no detail is missed. The smell of the room, the color of the papers on the desk, the girl sitting with her head down looking sick, the eyes averted, hesitant tone of voice, and the general feeling of this entire experience is lodged deep within the psyche of the writer. I read recently that people with my personality type remember impressions more than facts which is why many of us are writers. We are concerned more with how the experience made us feel than if each detail could hold up in a court of law.

There are verbal processors, people who have to hear themselves say what they are thinking to make it real, and internal processors, people who have way more going on in their heads than will ever make it into sound. I speak through my written words. It is my truest voice. I can lie to your face and tell you I am perfectly fine, but I cannot lie in what I write. It is there I express who I am for all to see, always hoping I will be understood, yet knowing it may not make any difference ultimately. We are each unique and for that reason, communication can be an insurmountable obstacle.

If we find even a handful of others who can interpret our coded messages, laugh with us at the absurdity of daily life, get our symbols, and know what we mean when we say what we do, we have found love.

No more teachers, no more books, no more office ladies' dirty looks

Driving to the high school with my son one last time, I pull into his parking spot. As our only son who ever had a parking spot, and only because he has been driving his brother's car while he is in the Peace Corps, it has made things a bit easier. But today I would be coming with him, one last time.

We knew his chances for receiving an award at the senior award ceremony were slim to none. Even the academic awards were few and far between. What seems to deserve valued recognition is community service. Student athletes and music students rarely can fit these extra hours into their schedules, and yet, I wondered about the value of providing entertainment in the way of sporting events and concerts. Do we really want a society of people who just show up or those who spend hours trying to get better and inspire others to do the same? (This is a rhetorical question.)

In the midst of my contemplation, a recording of Pomp and Circumstance played one too many times, screeches its way throughout the auditorium as the graduates enter wearing caps and gowns. I had prepared myself as best I could and even had a kleenex in my pocket, but when I saw my son whose cap made his curly hair stick out on the sides, he looked like my little boy playing dress-up with his father's cap and gown, and I could only laugh. My baby had grown up.

Sitting through an hour and a half of awards most students would never get, save the one girl who received about a dozen of them (there is always that one girl) I allowed myself to consider the only chance my son would have for an award could be athlete of the year, which never seemed attainable until his older brother won it three years ago. But his older brother had been part of an indoor track team that won the state title and that is what it takes apparently, as the award was given to a wrestler who had done the same. It had been a futile hope. They call when something like that is going to happen and we had not received a call.

Leaving the graduates in the auditorium, the parents waited in the hall. I decided I would take care of some business since the state track meet was already going on and my son would run in a few hours.

We had a pre-calculus textbook hanging around our house for a couple of years and even though no one had requested its return, I wanted to take care of it so there would be no last minute effort on the part of the school to get it back. I also did not want to pay a replacement cost, having already received a fine for a library book that had apparently never made it home and was now lost. The note we received stated that when the fine was paid and the senior survey completed, tickets to get into the graduation ceremony would be issued. Since we were about to send out graduation announcements, adding the tickets would be appropriate since the announcement is an invitation to the ceremony with the fine print at the bottom stating one needs a ticket to enter.

I always make the mistake of walking into that office thinking that I will be treated like a grown-up and forget momentarily it is a school, and therefore, I will be treated like a student.

I do not expect to be greeted with a smile, though it is obvious I have come to the school that morning to attend the awards ceremony because my child is graduating. I am instead greeted with a look of hesitation, the kind of look one gives when one is not sure what is going to happen next. I put the textbook on the counter and tell the ladies behind the counter that I found it in my house and am returning it. They don't want to receive it from me. They want me to find the teacher who taught that class whatever year it was that my son took it. There is a name of a teacher in the book. I have never met this teacher. This is a big school, this is my youngest child of three, and I apparently am not the most on-top-of-it mom when it comes to knowing the teachers. I have always left that up to my husband who is a teacher at another high school. I wish at that moment I had thrown the book in the dumpster instead.

With reluctance they take the book, making me write on a sheet of paper my son's name along with the teacher's name. I would be surprised if they still use that textbook in that class, but here I am admitting my son did not return his textbook, so in a way, I am aiding and abetting. Mom and son in textbook stealing ring. Story at 11.

I then pull out the sheet mailed to us threatening to withhold our son's diploma until he returns a library book or pays a $5.00 fine. I have $5.00 in my purse. I know my son does not have the book or know where the book is. He said he never had the book and it was used for a group project at school. I know that if they do not accept the $5.00, my son may never graduate.

They let me know with the look on their faces they are not pleased with this transgression. It was bad enough about the textbook, but this is truly unforgivable. The lady starts to tell me that I will need to go to the media center, which is on the other side of the building through a hallway now filled with parents awaiting the end of the awards ceremony so they can take their students home. I am imagining me walking to the media center, showing another lady this sheet of paper and having her send me back to the front office. I'm also imagining my son exiting the auditorium any minute and needing to leave immediately. I ask the woman behind the counter if more money is required. I am not trying to pay her off. I am wanting to be released from this office. I am wanting my youngest child to graduate from high school and go off to college. I am wanting my nest to be empty because even though I have been warned that having an empty nest is a terribly sad time, I cannot for the life of me figure out how that could be so!

If this were the first time something like this happened, I would not be writing about it now. This situation, however, has in many ways been typical. It got so bad with the attendance office lady that when my sons said they could slip out the side door to meet me in the parking lot for an orthodontist or dental appointment, I agreed that it was the best and maybe even the only way to get to these appointments on time since going through the proper channels usually meant standing around an office waiting, and in at least one case being scoffed at. Yes, scoffed.

The $5.00 was eventually accepted. We were down to the very last thing: the graduation tickets. I slipped my son's senior survey into the box and asked if I may have the tickets, in as polite of way as I could muster, and the response was a resounding: no. The tickets have not been issued. I ask when they will be issued since my son is done with classes and testing. They tell me he should have listened to the announcements. They do not know my son. They may not have raised boys. I have no excuse, and yet, there is absolutely no way my son knows anything about graduation tickets. In the past two graduations we have attended for his older brothers, there was a big deal made about the tickets. At the door of the coliseum, however, the tickets did not matter.

These ladies know they have got me this time. They had reluctantly taken back a textbook and collected a fine for a library book, but there was no way they were going to work with me on this one. The looks on their faces, as they tried not to look me in the eyes--a tired mom whose 10-year high school career was soon coming to end--seemed to almost reflect a kind of victory. I could not understand why they were not congratulating me, why they did not seem to even know who I was, and why they would act this way. They may not be issuing the tickets, but they knew when they would be issued, especially since they insisted my son had heard all about it on the announcements. But they would keep their little secret, as I finally had to leave the office to meet my son.

We may someday get the tickets to go to graduation. If not, I know of a side entrance.

"This is Us" and why I watch it

With many people posting about "This is Us" and talking about it, I figured I would watch an episode after the fact, to determine whether it was worth my time. The intimacy between Jack and Rebecca as witnessed in her dance for her husband on his birthday, while he is in his "birthday suit" and she is in the ninth month of her pregnancy, was real in ways we may not want to admit. His eyes of love toward the woman he thinks is beautiful even though she thinks she is unattractive in her big, unfamiliar body, says a lot about their marriage. It says a lot about mine, too.

Watching a woman in labor will always remind those of us who were once in that condition the intensity of the experience, yet this storyline was even more familiar to me.

What many of you may not know is that I had a wonderful doctor in Colorado while pregnant with my first child, was comforted in knowing he had delivered something like 2,000 babies, and looked forward to seeing his long, gray pony-tail and his well-worn tanned face, always smiling at me, putting me at ease with his stories about drinking vodka and taking trips to the nude beaches of Bali.

Though my pregnancy had gone well, the baby had not turned when he ought to have. "Ignats," as the doctor nick-named him, was showing himself to be strong-willed. His head lodged itself into my rib cage and it was determined he was a footling breach, one leg down, and would have to be delivered by a scheduled cesarian section. My doctor kept me calm, telling me that I was lovely, and reassuring me that when the time came, he would be with me and all would be well.

In "This is Us," Rebecca is carrying triplets, which is far more risky than trying to birth just one. She is fine . . . until she is introduced to the doctor who will now be guiding her through some of the most important hours of her life. Her panic was relatable, as my experience was somewhat similar.

My water had broken during the night and as I waited for the labor pains to begin, fell asleep. In the morning I realized nothing was happening but figured we had better get to the hospital, just in case. As soon as I was ready, a doctor I had never seen before came to introduce himself to me as panic was the only thing I could feel. I needed my doctor. He knew me. He would know what I would need to get through this. But his friend had a heart-attack and I would not see my doctor until the next day when he would run into my room, pony-tail flying, apologizing profusely.

As I am being monitored, I suddenly see the faces of those attending to me change from expressions of kindness to horror. The next thing I know, I am being placed hastily on a cart as those assisting are running me down the hall toward the operating room. I see the lights flash by quickly overhead like I'm on a train and all I can think is, "This cannot be happening--dear God, no."

In my case, though my baby was in distress with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck, he was not oxygen deprived and was delivered in minutes. Though numbed from the waist down, an experience I hope to never have again, I eventually recovered and would only have to endure one more difficult birth until my third one, in which it took no drugs and exactly six pushes.

Rebecca, however, goes into distress and one of the three babies dies. Though I never lost a baby that had come nearly full-term, I did lose one early on in my second pregnancy. There is no loss more difficult for a mother, I am convinced.

Jack, trying to cope with the loss of the third child, decides they need to adopt a child who was abandoned and brought to the hospital. Love is color-blind and they willingly raise a black child as though he is a biological offspring. Themes of adoption, racism, sibling rivalry, bullying, and a family trying to make it through each day are handled with hope and a subtle humor. It is difficult for me to become engaged with shows or movies in which I do not like the characters. In "This is Us" I am hard-pressed to identify a character for which I am not ultimately rooting. I love these people.

The way the show goes from present day with the "triplets" grown with their own lives to flashbacks of their growing up years is a seamless transition and gives one so much insight into their characters. Kevin, feeling like a failure, even with some success at acting but not so much with relationships, figures out that family needs to come before work. Randall, who seems to succeed at pretty much everything, also realizes family needs to come before work. Kate, dealing with her body image, comes to the same conclusion and allows herself to trust someone enough to believe she can have a relationship. Growing up in the same family, their issues are different, yet somehow the same.

The way the last episode ended this first season is heart-breaking as we have known from early in the season that at some point Jack's life ends. The brief funeral scene has the children as teenagers and with the track we seemed to be on, it was imminent. And yet there was still time for a huge fight between Jack and Rebecca, the kind no married person ever wants to have because the truth is spoken and yet not the whole truth.

The truth is though there is nothing more fulfilling in life than a good marriage and raising children, if one does that and only that, the contributions to the family and to the marriage will be limited. We all need to nurture our creative gifts whether they are music, writing, accomplishing goals in sports or even making things and finding new ways to put them together. We need to develop ourselves in all of the ways we can.

I can relate to Rebecca's need to use her gift and yet I can also appreciate Jack's anger that he has not become her all in all. No one person can become everything for any other person. We need the village to raise our children and need to remain in that community to grow and flourish ourselves. We need to have times of rest and times of work. Times when we can do nothing but shut ourselves up in a room because the words need to find a way out to breathe and times when all we want to do is watch a silly movie with our family.

Though I thankfully cannot relate to needing a separation due to unresolved issues, the part that got to me the most was when Jack told Rebecca on his way out the door that she was still the most beautiful woman in any room, as my husband has shared that sentiment with me.

It makes me sad that this profound moment may be the last this couple shares in this show that has gotten my attention and touched my heart in deeper ways than most television shows ever go. But this in many ways is "reality" tv. We do not know how many days we have to live, to love, to share our hearts with those around us. We can only do the best we can with what we are given. I look forward to "This is Us" giving us all just a little bit more.

it's who you know

"It's not what you know, but who you know that matters," is a phrase that has been proven true more often than not. If I had chosen to live near my hometown and marry a farmer, I could now be re-living my mother's life, wondering if the cherry crop would bring in enough profit to afford some more livestock and new clothes for the family, or if a last minute hail storm would keep everyone in the same pair of boots for another year.

What it meant, owning land, was that we had jobs at an early age right outside our door, or at least down the road. We didn't have to go searching for work with resumes and lists of references. My dad was the boss and if he needed a substitute asparagus picker or someone to help cool the tanks of cherries, he would ask one of us, my sisters and me, to do it. He also had us "fill baggies" and tie the foul-smelling things to the slender trunks of cherry trees to give them a defense against the deer. Milk-testing was another chore done by taking samples of milk as the cows were led into the milking parlor to do their job while we wrote down the necessary information.

For jobs that required strength and size like baling hay, the neighborhood boys would be called upon to become employees. All they had to do was show up, do the work in the way it was supposed to be done, and then show up the next day to do it all again. Proximity and whether one had a reputation for hard work was all that was required. If one wanted a job, there usually was one.

Out in the world, finding work has been much more difficult, and yet, most of the jobs I've had have been given to me by those who know me.

I became a media coordinator for a ministry through a pastor friend who not only got me the job but also gave me a car that had been donated to his ministry, and then helped find a church to provide child care for my two young children, so I could go to an office each morning. Later, when the ministry job had ended and I was sitting in the car picking up my children from the same preschool, the director said I would not need to keep looking for work if I came and worked for her. No resume, no interview, just an open red door that I would continue to walk through for many years.

There is, however, a downside to this system of obtaining employment and it has to do with a change in management. When I returned to the preschool after working at another position I received through someone I knew, I needed to be re-hired, this time by someone who did not know me. All she knew was that there were two groups of women at that school: those whom she considered teachers and those who were not. I was the latter, and once placed there could in no way lift myself up. Didn't matter how much education I had or how much I loved children. Didn't matter that parents and children alike were happy to see me there year after year, handing me their children in love and with respect. I would never be able to be known by that director.

This problem of not being known has always plagued me. Perhaps it is why people never leave their small communities and go out into a world filled with those who will not understand a person even if that person's life experiences are explained in a myriad of ways. When someone recommends one to another, the person doing the hiring does not always see what the person recommending sees. When expectations are not met, the employee becomes vulnerable to criticism not necessarily any fault of his or her own. We all have an idea of who we are looking for and we cannot always communicate to someone else exactly who that is.

After searching diligently for about eight months and probably less diligently for years before that, a friend messaged me with a job for which I could be considered if I would just call her daughter. A couple of days later I was called by the daughter's director and asked why someone as overqualified for an administrative assistant role as I am would want so humble a job considering the degrees I hold and the low rate of pay offered. I explained I needed to make a change, so she invited me in to talk.

The job interview was unlike any job interview I have ever had. We were relaxed with each other from the start, talking like old friends. We shared our hearts about how we were raised Catholic and how those instilled values caused us to believe it was our duty and privilege to reach out to our communities and provide assistance in whatever way we could. We were both drawn to non-profit organizations and loved the idea of helping children who were in need of adoption, and offering hope and healing to couples looking for ways to bring children into their hearts and homes. Our conversation winded its way through the woods to camping and she shared her excited anticipation of a rafting trip. We seemed to have a lot in common, a rare experience for me.

The connection I made with this woman was profound. As I was settling into the idea of working for someone who seemed to actually know me, not the me I show most people but the real neurotic, creative, nerdy, lover of coffee and day-old popcorn me, she mentioned she had finally been offered her dream job and she would be leaving the organization. Momentarily, my heart sunk and I considered a thank-you-but-no-thank-you exit, but then I wondered if this agency really did work as a team, and all got along wonderfully, as she had said. I kept myself from walking out by thinking: How different from this incredible woman could the next director be?

Accepting the position, I went on our planned beach trip feeling ever more anxious that no one had contacted me about my new, grand and glorious position. When I was finally emailed by the interim director, who not only knew nothing about me but did not even know there was a new hire, I thought I would be looking for work as soon as we returned home. Instead I was invited to begin a job a week late which on day one, during my brief orientation, I regretted. The woman sitting across from me could not see me, not the real me anyway. She saw an insecure, middle-aged woman who never managed to have a real career, whom had been let in the backdoor like a stray dog that no one has been heartless enough to put back out on the street. She wanted documented proof that I could do exactly what I had no idea I would be asked to do. When the laptop computer I was given kept dying along with more and more pieces of my heart each day, I realized this director categorized people into two groups: extroverts and those with personalities opposite to hers whom she considered losers. She told me during the worst 90-day job review of my life, 40 days in, that I did not have the "skill-set" (oh, how I loathe that word) for the position and she would recommend my termination to the next director. I would realize later that by giving me a negative review she was denying me the raise promised by the woman who hired me, the woman who trusted the next director to do the right thing. Though her trust was misplaced, mine was not.

Every day for the past six months, I have walked from the parking deck up to my office to sit down at my desk, and wonder if that day would be my last day at this job. Every. Single. Day.

Two months ago, a permanent director was hired by the board and I was given another chance to introduce myself. But it was short-lived as the bogus job review still stands as my only "professional" representation. Doesn't matter that I'm in a position of leadership at my church and have presented liturgical prayers I have written to the congregation. Makes no difference I run my own arts and crafts business in which I sell my artwork to those who find what I create charming and beautiful. It doesn't matter that I have writing, editing, and proofreading skills that could enhance the reports and documentation of any organization, plus the kind of work ethic one develops growing up on a farm and beginning work as a child, working my way through college and graduate school, nearly starving and almost homeless all the while finding ways to survive! No. It is not based on anything real. It is based on the assessment of someone who cannot know me. Whether I will ever be known by the new leadership remains to be seen. Strangely, peace comes in knowing there is nothing left to lose.

If you know me, you know I write this smiling, and shaking my head. You know after I write this, edit it, re-edit it, and perhaps give it one more edit--at least, I may make a pillow, watch a movie, and later have a Guinness to call it a day. I will get up tomorrow morning, try to make it to the gym to work out with a friend who works out early, shower, and drive to work singing. I will walk from the parking deck to my desk, check my emails, get a cup of coffee and welcome whatever it is that will become my day. I will then come home to my faithful dog, get the mail, kiss my husband, feed my son, and wonder briefly about this path I'm on, led by the One who knows me best.

the tale of the red leather handbag and other life lessons

There aren't many things in life I need to be happy, except for maybe a quality red leather handbag. It all started when I was given a little white purse when I was 6 in which to carry my child-sized Bible on First Communion Sunday. I have carried a purse, a backpack, a tote bag, or a satchel ever since.

As a girl, or perhaps more as a girl scout, I always wanted to be prepared. I was the one who could be counted on to produce the tiny plastic box with the variety of thread, tiny patch, straight pin and needle, along with the spare button. I would have a band-aid at the ready, chap stick as a defense against the coldest of winds, and lip gloss appropriate to the season. Perhaps it was my love for miniatures that kept me interested in tiny folding scissors, travel-size toothbrush, and other accoutrements. 

College transformed my need for a purse into a backpack with front pockets to carry the essentials. I could get by with the sweats and hair in a pony-tail, but bare lips--never. We were students, not barbarians.  

Working my first job out of college, I converted to a shoulder bag which was the practical choice for someone who walked to work most of the time. I also remember a clutch purse with a built-in mirror for which I had a particular fondness, until it was stolen out of my desk drawer on payday to be later recovered in a near-by dumpster by the police. Not real appealing after that.

For many years thereafter, diaper bags took over where handbags left off. When I finally transitioned back into a purse I was expected to have provisions for the "village" who followed me around getting injured, hungry, and needing to have their little faces and fingers cleaned off. I had to have a deck of cards, army men, matchbox cars, wet wipes, a variety of snacks, and books to keep them occupied--just in case. One never knows how long the line will be at any given location, or how badly those traveling with you will want to hide under clothing racks, try to climb shelves, or run out the door into a parking lot filled with people just waiting for the chance to blame their mother. My shoulder would ache as my bag got bigger and bigger. The style: early American homeless, or everybody's mother. In any case, I was relieved when I could start strapping backpacks onto my young as they went out of the house carrying their own stuff.

I learned a long time ago it is better to buy quality than quantity, which is a different way of saying that I'm usually only able to afford one. I used to compare styles and prices in mail-order catalogs, taking notes and considering the pros and cons of each potential purchase. The curse of online shopping is the temptation to keep the comparisons going and never making a purchase. Or, maybe this is the blessing.

Several years ago, my husband bought me a red leather handbag. I was amazed at his sense of style and how well-suited for me the bag was. After all of the years we had been together, it was one of the best gifts he had ever given me. A little nervous to have such a bright and shiny object, I cautiously went out in the world, hoping not to draw attention to myself--well, not too much. I started wearing more red and declared it as my favorite color, after years of insisting a pale green was closer to revealing my true nature. But I had changed. As I sought a depth of purpose and a longing for living life to the full, a more expressive color was needed. Then came the red lipstick, red shoes, earrings, belt, and sweaters. Red became my signature color. It makes me feel more like me than anything else.

What may sound trivial was actually healing for me. Having grown up with whatever-was-on-sale and proceeding with that mode of shopping into my adult life, I did not often choose what I wanted but accepted what it was I could have. In small group discussions when we were encouraged to demonstrate aspects of our personalities by our choices, mine would always be in question, even to me. I simply didn't know what I liked since what I liked had never been part of the equation.

Discovering that I am deeply attracted to red leather handbags was an epiphany!

As that purse began to show signs of wear over the years, I started to look for a replacement. Red, I decided, was also the more practical choice because it goes with either black or brown. There was a time when I had a black bag and a brown one, switching contents based on shoe color, but I lost interest in constantly having to move from one bag into another, like a one-night stand. I needed to commit myself to one bag, a bag worthy of the life I hoped to lead.

About a year or so before my mother-in-law died, she gave me her collection of purses: a vintage black evening bag with an attached change purse and mirror; a beaded white clutch, perfect for carrying lipstick and tissue to a wedding; a smooth white leather bag with chain handle, shoulder bags, everyday bags, a green and blue velour with retro appeal and more. So many purses, so many places to take each and every one of them. I was already heading down the vintage trail and these fashion accessories launched me further than I thought possible.

Unfortunately, none of them were the color for which I longed, disqualifying any one of them from becoming my main bag.

I found a red leather bag on sale at a local department store, which carried me forward for a few more years. It was not as cute as the first one, but held more, which led me to consider: how much does one really need to carry around? And, where was I going that I needed such a stylish handbag? To church? To the preschool? To soccer games and track meets? Who did I think I was--a high-society lady trying to impress her friends at the country club?

A year or so ago I found the bag I had been dreaming of in a catalog. It was a red leather tote bag that converted into a satchel. Two bags for the price of one! And still too expensive.

While I was going from website to website on my journey to find the perfect bag, watching youtube videos to enhance the shopping pleasure, I found myself not only attracted to a featured bag on one site, a lovely Italian leather, but was soothed by the voice on the commercial, who, I would find out later, was the voice of my close friend who does voice-over commercial work! My very own friend was selling me a high-quality leather handbag. How could I not buy it?!

Reality comes to call in times such as these. I had a price limit and the bag that I wanted, even when it went on sale, never made it into my buying zone. There was no way I could justify paying that much for it. I was reminded of a friend who broke up with a woman he was dating when she paid what he thought was too much for a designer handbag. He simply could not marry a woman who had that kind of expectation. 

At Christmas, my parents always give me a check so I can buy whatever I want for myself for a gift. There have been years in which the check was deposited into our account to pay the bills or allow for special treats for the boys, but this year I decided to spend it. Having spent an inordinate amount of time shopping online, comparing prices, discounts, quality, and considering every other factor I could possibly come up with, I suggested we go to a near-by shopping outlet a couple of days before Christmas. Though my family may have thought we were going to passively seek out the sales and see what we could find, I had one plan in mind: to purchase a red leather handbag.

It was easy to narrow down the selection: red--maybe; not red--no.

Somehow it was always the most expensive bag in the store that would call out to me the loudest. There were so many aspects to the purchase I was considering by this point. It would have to be a true shade of red, not burgundy or too pink. It needed to be within a certain size range, preferably lined with built in pockets for a cell phone and debit card. Another zippered section would be nice, but not necessary. I needed it to be a satchel since I no longer want a purse or anything else strapped to me.

I found a red leather satchel on the bottom shelf in the corner of a leather store. It was almost half-price! My Christmas money would be more than enough.

Walking out of the store I felt a rush of excitement, but by Christmas morning, I wondered if I had made a mistake. Sure, this bag had the right features, but the leather was not soft as I had imagined and maybe the hardware was just a little too gold and glaring. I wasn't sure I even had the nerve to take it with me, and for the first outing after its purchase, I left it home, like an embarrassing relative with whom I didn't want to be seen.

I couldn't understand it. I had gotten what I had wanted at a fantastic price. The color could not be more perfect. The shape, the handles, it had it all. It was so big and beautiful it may have even made my backside look smaller!

But when I took it with me, I felt self-conscious. What was I doing with something that looked like it could never belong to me? Why did I want something so showy, so screaming, so look-at-me!

Trying to bury these feelings, I took my new bag to work, hoping to shove it under my desk before anyone saw it. A woman I work with immediately noticed it and commented. She carries an expensive-looking bag effortlessly, with style. I immediately wanted to be more like her and all of the other women I've noticed with bags that cost hundreds of dollars more than mine, who do not blink at the thought of having one. But I am not them. I suddenly didn't know how to walk or carry myself with this new accessory. Instead of defining my personality, this bag was threatening to erase my identity and take over my life!

It was then and there I decided maybe my search had not yet ended. There are those websites that sell used clothing and designer handbags. I figured if I sold my bag for less than its original price but more than what I paid for it, I would be able to justify the whole thing. I would somehow make my way back to the one I had picked out, the one this season that never went on sale enough for me to seriously consider it. There had to be a deal . . . somewhere.

Then, during one of my endless searches, I found the bag I had hoped to purchase this season, selling for a little over fifty dollars on eBay. It was "pre-owned," a department store return that featured a broken shoulder strap and pen marks on the interior leather. Its style was more appealing--Ralph seemed to know more about my sense of style than Calvin--and though I could not be sure, it looked as though the leather may be just a bit softer. I decided I would buy it with my next paycheck, sell the new one, and either spend or save the remainder of the money. This was the financially prudent thing to do. This would represent the way I live, my values, my truest self.

Walking into my office building the next day, a thought pierced the silence before I got into the elevator, "Why don't you think you deserve the new purse?"



(Upon further investigation, I discovered the reason my red leather handbag is not soft is due to a process in which the calf hide is pressed by a machine, giving it a cross-hatch design and finishing it with a wax coating to create what is called saffiano leather. It was invented by Mario Prada. It is the kind of highly sought-after leather that can retain a bright, vibrant color and shape, and is more resilient to whatever life throws at it.)