About Trust

It was a large brick building sitting on the corner of Church and Green Streets.  By today's standards, it wasn't a large building, but to me it was huge.  The sanctuary had the beautiful oak worn pews, but the view inside was magnificent.  The raised choir loft was situated just under a large, round stained glass window which depicted Jesus kneeling in the garden.  Sitting out there in that large room was an awesome sight when the sun reflected just right through the beautiful glass.  At night, there would be a spotlight behind it.  As the congregation sang, Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus, it could give you cold chills but a warm peace.  The First Methodist Church of Swainsboro was my church. 

I can't remember the number of windows on the sides, but each one showed a different scene from the Bible and they must have reached the ceiling they were so high.   There was a circular alter rail with padded cushions and a little tray on the back of the beautiful worn wooden rail that held the tiny little glasses of "wine" for communion.   In time, cushions were added to the pews and a beautiful carpet of royal color.  A large piano (where Ms. Vann with the floppy hats) flanked  the right,  just in front of the door.   It led to the Sunday School rooms on that side which were located in the back of the structure.  Hanging on the wall on the left was a sign which posted the hymns for the day.  Little narrow stairs led to the level where the rooms were and I remember thinking it was like a cavern and sometimes felt spooky when I was alone.   

The Sunday School section had a large room filled with little chairs and tables, where we all gathered for singing , and then we would go to our separate rooms for our age group.   Teachers would record our presence in her little book with a check.   There was a collection plate passed around to collect our nickle.  Then those dedicated teachers  gave out little flyers with a Bible story and telling us the stories in her words.  Then we prayed and marched single file up to the sanctuary for an assembly of all classes to belt out some Onward Christian Soldiers as Ms. Mae banged out the marching cadence.   This process continued every Sunday morning all of my life.  I wouldn't take a million dollars for these memories.

 On the day I was Baptized at eight years old, I felt a great weight lifted,  and love move through my body.  I felt like everything I did from then on, was in God's hands, and all my life, I would be protected by Him,  because I had made that commitment.  Big Momma and Big Daddy, along with my Mother were gathered around me and I cried.  I'm not sure why I cried, but I remember sobbing. 

This morning, as the children led the service and the 3rd graders received their Bibles, my mind  recalled the anticipation of receiving my very first Bible.  Like clockwork, every year the children who were about 8 years old, received an engraved King James Version of the Bible, presented with great pomp and circumstance by our Preacher.  As he spoke, my mind wandered through my old church where I took my first communion, said my first Lord's Prayer, and made my commitment to follow the teachings of Jesus.  I wondered where my old Bible was probably with some childlike scrawling inside of various names or verses.  I hope my children will appreciate it.  I'm several Bibles down the road now. 

Today's sermon was from Matthew 14, basically where Jesus tells the Disciples to trust in Him.  It encouraged me to focus on what I trust and believe.   He didn't tell them to ignore the winds and waves, but to trust that He would save them.    He told them to turn away from uncertainty.   There is a bright message for me in this passage which, if I look carefully and open minded, I find that no matter what happens that makes me afraid of life's situations, whether personal or global, if I turn away from my faith, I'll sink.  

Lucy in the Sky with WHAT?

I feel like a child who has just learned that Santa Claus is not real!  My whole life has probably been filled with opportunities and drama which I didn’t have a clue was even possible.  For all I know, I could have been a trail blazer of sorts in something, but wasn’t, because I was too naïve, or chicken.   It’s possible that I could have lived a life oblivious to pain, disappointment, and a few insecurities if only I had the smarts to know I was being had.  It’s also highly probable I might have even “gotten” many a joke that I politely laughed at, as if I knew what the whole thing was about.

Recently I have adopted a new habit of getting into bed with my IPad and earbuds and listening to my new best friend, Pandora.  I have found myself drifting off to sleep to ocean waves, rain storms, ballads, and love songs which all seem to trigger nostalgia and sometimes tears.  With the help of my earbuds, I have been able to decipher the words to most of the songs.  Many are old songs to me, but for the first time in my life, I can literally hear clearly and understand the words of those tunes that heretofore have only been somebody mumbling, with a beat.

Some of my favorite music of the 70’s and 80’s tended to be the ballads and folk songs made popular by John Denver, James Taylor, and Peter, Paul and Mary, along with others.  As I would drive into Atlanta every morning, I would set my dial to WSB 750 to catch the traffic report and then find a station that had some good music.  I always liked the “elevator music” of WSB FM and some of the country stations whose call letters I have forgotten.   As usual, I could hum along with the music, but didn’t have a clue what the words were that were being sung before God and everybody.  

Now, I’ve learned a thing or two since the 80’s.  One of them being that the entertainment industry is rife with not only subliminal messages but downright obvious proclamations about a culture that, shall we say, isn’t one I was very hip about.  I’m here to tell you that my very favorite folk singer, John Denver, was accused of promoting some nefarious activities with his “Rocky Mountain High” which he vehemently denied, so I believe him. Some have even said that “Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds” wasn’t what I suspected and “The Candy Man” was all about some kind of candy making the sunrise, not the Candy Man!

Therefore, now when I plug up myself at night, I lay awake devouring every word of my favorites, listening for something that probably isn’t there, but because I know that SOME of my favorite little ditties were tainted, I’m paranoid.   Sometimes, it takes me two hours to finally decide to give it up and turn on the rain sounds so I can get some rest.  I can hear my children snickering now!

SUMMER FROM HELL

It all began with a wonderful mini vacation to Myrtle Beach.  I was really pumped about getting a free trip to the beach and couldn’t have picked a better spot if I had tried.  Joining me were dear friends with whom I’ve enjoyed many special trips through the last twenty-five years or so.  We always spend a lot of time reminiscing and talking about all the good times we have had through the years.  It’s always a relaxing time, no matter where we are since we know the drill about who gets up early to walk on the beach and who sleeps in and who likes what to eat for breakfast.  

After a couple of days of relaxing, dining out, and enjoying the beautiful weather I began to have some pain in a place that nobody wants to have pain when you must do a lot of sitting.  I knew it was a long drive, but I had divided my time to make the trip in two days, so I wouldn’t have to do so much sitting in one day.  I was uncomfortable but didn’t think too much about it at first.   A couple of times I basked in the warm water of the hot tub, relaxing and feeling my sore body relax the moment I got in.  We enjoyed the week together, said our goodbyes and on the long drive home, I was miserable.  I managed to get through the week-end and on Monday morning, I called my primary physician for an appointment.  

Now, this young man who sees me is a licensed nurse practitioner.  He’s is a sweet guy, but he’s kind of young and I was in a pretty awkward situation telling him my problem.  He said, “can I look at it”?  After three days of misery, I didn’t care who looked at it, I just wanted it fixed.  I rolled over on the table and he and the nurse peeked.  He calmly said, “you’ve got shingles”!  Oh, My Lord!  Please tell me this isn’t happening.  He said I was contagious as long as there were blisters and he mumbled something about some cream and antiviral meds and that it may take six to eight weeks or even more before it was well.  YIKES!  The nurse said she would call the drug store and I stopped by and picked up the ointment on the way home.   A week later, I’m itching like crazy and hurting at the same time and feeling miserable.  Typical in my life, somebody messed up somewhere and come to find out, I was supposed to be on a drug that I didn’t get for the Shingles virus.  So, I get the pills a week late and, in the meantime, the Shingles had spread to an unmentionable place.  Trust me on this, nobody, but nobody should ever have to go through shingles on the sitting down area for six weeks.  So, the summer from hell begins.

I had not even gotten over that misery before my "Mother" services were needed.  My beautiful baby daughter was in trouble with heart problems.  Arrangements had to be made quickly to get to the hospital in Atlanta which started the wheels turning for a whole series of hospital stays.  Guest quarters at hospitals are a God sent gift for out of town family who need to stay nearby their loved one.  I was able to stay one night at the hospital’s quarters and the next night was arranged in another motel for me to have the same rate as theirs since they only had one night available.  Fortunately, the hospital stay was only a two-day stint.  I pulled up my big girl britches, drove into Atlanta and out with my daughter in tow.  One ablation down and another one to go.  I called out for my prayer warriors and they didn’t disappoint.  My girl was prayed over by people even I didn’t know just because I asked for prayers from my wide circle of friends as well as hers.   

The second ablation took place a couple of weeks later in Athens Piedmont Hospital, and seemed to be uneventful in terms of complications and we were able to go home the same day.  I stayed in Madison for a couple of days and felt comfortable that things were OK enough for me to return home.  Less than a week later, she’s back at the hospital in ER with difficulty breathing.  So back to Athens I go.  

Packing is unbelievably hard when you don’t know how long you’re going to be gone and what the weather will be.  I managed to throw some of my easy care, travelling clothes, shoes, and cosmetics together, haul them down the hall, in the elevator, and out to my car.  It’s a two-hour drive to Athens at best.  I was going to my daughter no matter how far it was and had no idea how long I would be there, what her condition was, and how I could possibly hold it together to be there for her.  Once again, I was lucky enough to get guest quarters from the hospital and had a place to rest and sleep when I needed to.  The facility has no frills, but I sure was happy to have it.  It was about two blocks of walking, however to get to the Cardiology wing where she was taken.  

Unfortunately, the two ablations caused too much trauma to the heart wall and the pericardium filled with blood.  She was seriously ill and after a couple of days trying to resolve the problem, it was decided that she would need a Pericardial Window procedure to remove the blood from the lining of the heart.  By now, the impact of what had happened and what was about to take place was beginning to set it.  I was terrified!  I begged God to save my girl.  Once again, I circled the prayer wagons and warriors and begged for prayers for her safety and healing.  This complication is extremely rare and is life threatening and comes with its own set of possible side effects.  We were just beginning.

After several days, the doctors were anxious to release her from the hospital.  We asked if she could go to a rehab facility until she was able to manage at home.  The day before she was to be released, she developed a staph infection in the surgical site which was three to four inches long.   Antibiotics were started intravenously right away, and the wound was packed.  There was a hole through the surgical wound to the pericardium after the surgeon removed several of the staples to treat the infection.  She was on complete bed rest and very weak.  I spent several hours a day watching the color drain from her face and anxiety take over her mind.   She was very worried about her children, her job, and her Momma.   Fortunately, the job part was taken care of immediately as she was placed on 90-day short term disability and she was able to remove that worry.  The others, not so much.  Momma’s always worry about their children.

Hospitalists are the attending physicians and there was one for every single issue.  In one day, she saw fourteen doctors who prodded and poked and changed meds from one thing to another.  One wanted a wound vac.  One didn’t want the wound vac.  One wanted to do wet and dry dressings.  One wanted to do something else.  In the meantime, my daughter could not even walk to the bathroom unassisted.  

Ultimately, after almost two weeks, she was released to St. Mary’s Rehab center.  The days were endless for her and I was so exhausted when I returned to my room I slept like a baby.  Of course, there was no coffee maker.  Only a microwave and small refrigerator.   I made a run to the nearest grocery store for necessities like instant coffee, milk and cereal.  Somehow a bottle of Chardonnay jumped in my basket along with a cork screw.   I bought a cup of ice and I swiped some plastic utensils and napkins from the cafeteria.  In addition, I managed to keep my record of dropping something every morning and spilled a whole glass of milk which ran down the cabinets and the floor.  No mop.  No paper towels.  No dish soap.  I made a mental note to pick up those type of emergency items at the store.

St. Mary’s Rehab was not expecting to receive a patient with a staph infection, wound vac, and unable to walk.  The discharge papers were all incomplete or just plain wrong as far as her needs and medications.   More confusion about doctors and more conflicting orders regarding the wound care. The rehab was not a setting for a critically ill patient, but hospitals don’t like to keep patients until they are well.  The sooner they can get you out, the better.  After two weeks she was sent home with a wound vac, pic line for self-medicating, a wheel chair, rollator, and enough medication to sink a battleship.  Home health care nurse would be coming three times a week and PT would be coming twice a week.  The pain was severe, and the anxiety was overwhelming, so the medication had her sedated enough that she was a fall risk and slept most all the time.  The house looks like an infirmary and everywhere you looked was a box of gauze pads, needles, antibiotic fluids, water bottles, pill containers and on and on.  She was very sick.  

Of course, the very first night, we had our first crisis when her wound vac stopped pumping.  I panicked while she got on the phone with somebody who instructed her to get something and cut it into strips, and on and on while I’m almost having a heart attack trying to help but not knowing what strips to cut and where to put them.  We finally managed to remake the bandage on the wound and all was well.   By then we are both totally toast.

After one week, she developed a severe problem breathing.  Back to the hospital.   Congestive heart failure this time.  So now we’ve got another whole new problem.  She was immediately put on diuretics to remove the fluid from her body.  They removed two liters the first night.  Then things started going crazy with her kidney function and so fluid and sodium were restricted.   Another week of hospital inpatient.  Another week of guest quarters and walking up the hill and down and hauling luggage, snacks, water, and meals from one place to another.   By this time, we both were pretty much bummed out.  One day as I was giving her a bath in her room, we just could not believe what was happening.  We were testy with each other over the least thing, and then we were hysterically laughing at the whole situation.  It was one of those “you had to be there” moments where everything just crashed in on us and we let loose some tension by laughing until we cried.  Finally, after another week, I loaded up my stuff, loaded up her and her stuff, and we arrived back in Madison just about dinner time.  A total of 40 days in one hospital or another since June 13.  

Two more weeks with her at home as driver for doctor appointments, kitchen police, nurse, cook, shopper, and then I was able to feel good enough about her, so I could go come home.  I am thankful that I was able to be able to cry and laugh with her.  We got up close and personal as only Momma’s and daughters can do.  She continues to recuperate, regroup, reanalyze her life style, and is finally free of the wound vac, pic line and the wound is healing.  Her kidneys are damaged, and it will take a couple of months to determine the extent of the damage. The original heart conditions, A fib and A flutter will more than likely need to be addressed again but for the moment, she’s stable and no longer needs pain medication.      Her entire lifestyle must change, and she is on a mission to make herself well and as healthy as possible.  It won’t happen overnight.  It won’t be easy.  But, with the determination and encouragement she has received, she’ll make it.  She’ll be returning to work in a few days.  God is always good, and we are forever grateful for the prayers, calls, cards, texts, flowers, and genuine and generous love we been given by so many. 

JOURNALING

I wrote my first Journal entry on Sept. 28, 1997.  Today, I got out my Journals and started reading almost 21 years of memories.  Good memories, bad memories, weddings,  divorces, deaths, travels, private thoughts, hopes and dreams.   

The entries usually began describing the weather, where I had been that particular day, and what had recently impacted my life – both good and bad.  I didn't necessarily write daily.  Sometimes there would be daily entries and then again, sometimes it would be weeks or even months before I would take my pen again.  Journaling is not intended to be perfect in script, phrasing and grammar and as I read mine, I saw every misspelled or crossed out words and recognized how harsh some of the things I wrote may sound to the average reader.   

But in the big scheme of things, it doesn't matter how, what or why things are written, but what's important is that at the time it was written, it was heavy or happy on my heart, depending on the circumstances surrounding the words I needed to share with myself.  Sacred thoughts, private moments, memories, heartaches, sadness's, and especially joyful or proud moments in my life that for whatever reason needed to be written for someone, someday to read.  Perhaps it will give a true picture of one who, try as she may, could never seem to get it right, but struggled daily.   

One particular sweet time during my years of journaling reminded me of the humble experience of "feet washing."  If you've never experienced a time in your life when you felt so completely unworthy, then you've never had your feet washed by friends with whom you have opened your heart for love freely given.  It came without prejudice, without judgement, and with the selfless and unconditional love of friends.   I have tucked away in my journal, the little index cards that were given to me that day by my friends in our prayer group with their expressions of what reflected in me.  What a treasure and blessing to read!   I'm not saying they were right in their assumption, but what I am saying is that I have never experienced such humble gratitude as I did on that day as we gathered with the brilliance of sunshine through stained glass windows.  I hope I haven't let them down.   Life isn't easy.  It isn't fair and it's a rocky, uphill path every day, but my journals remind me to be thankful for all the good things in my life.   I would encourage anyone to start a practice of journaling.  It doesn't have to be a fancy book with polished grammar and spell checked words.  Just let it be you, In Your Own Words.  Someday it will be priceless!

MY #1 SON - HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

It was blistering hot on June 18, 1957 as I waddled around the house of my parents.  I was so ready to have the baby!    Since this was our first child, I had come home to Momma and Daddy’s to deliver as we had moved to Savannah in the middle of my pregnancy and I didn’t want to go to a strange doctor and hospital for this blessed event!  Besides, Momma had made this gorgeous baby bassinet for our new bundle of joy.   Back then, part of the fun of being pregnant, if there is any, is not knowing what the baby’s gender would be, so Momma made a white, fluffy, tulle net gathered skirt all the way to the floor with little pink and blue satin bows lovingly stitched by hand onto the skirt of the wicker basket.  That way, we’d be pretty safe with color.   The inside, she had lined with supple white satin, sewed a sweet little mattress and covered with brand new sheeting, and placed all the appropriate pads and receiving blankets in this sweet little bed for our newborn.  It kind of reminded me of a casket with all the fru fru inside, but I didn’t say a word about that since my Momma had worked her little hands off,  setting us up with a fashionable bed for their first grandchild. 

Sol was at National Guard camp in Hinesville for two weeks and everybody felt I would be safe in their care if by some chance I went into labor during that time.   Have I mentioned how I have always loved watermelon?  My Daddy came in at lunch with a prize sample of South Georgia watermelon which we chilled and cut later on in the afternoon.  I ate a good-sized portion of that watermelon.

Along about five o’clock or so that afternoon, I began to have a serious stomach ache.  I walked and sat.  Walked and sat.  Lay down, got up.  Walked and sat.  Time ticked by very slowly.  One minute I was ok.  Nah, this can’t be anything but eating too much watermelon.  Then, oh Lordy!  Why did I eat so much!  After much huffing and puffing, we all decided we might better call Sol and tell him we think I may be in labor and he might want to come home if he could.   More walking and sitting.  Huffing and puffing.  Hot as a pepper sprout! 

Sol sails in a couple of hours later in our red 1950 Ford coupe and here we all sit still trying to decide if I’m having a baby or not.  After two or three hours, we all decide I had eaten too much watermelon and Sol heads back to camp around midnight.  Now, this was before the days of cell phones, mind you, so he was off and running trying to get back before he got into trouble with the US National Guard and he probably hadn’t gotten twenty miles down the road before all hell broke loose.  There was no doubt that was not watermelon pains.  I was in labor!  Daddy called the Headquarters and told them to tell Sol when he got there that I had gone to the hospital. Two lanes and back roads through the piney woods to Hinesville is no short distance.  About a two-hour drive under normal circumstances I imagine, but Sol made it back to the hospital in the nick of time.  He always told about racing back driving 100 mph which I don’t doubt one bit.  He always did have a heavy foot.  He arrived in time to peep through the window of the delivery room and get the news we had a beautiful, blue-eyed, blond-haired baby boy, weighing in at 8 ½ lbs!

To say we were proud is an understatement.  What an awesome event to be given a child with ten fingers and toes in pink perfect condition! 

There are many stories between the morning of June 19, 1957 and present day.  Jim, as we called him, was the typical, Norman Rockwell little boy and went through his school years like most typical little boys in those days.  There were peaks and there were valleys, days of diamonds and days of stones.   Parenting isn’t for the faint of heart and I know we made our share of mistakes.  There would be two more beautiful babies to come after Jim.  After he graduated high school, he fooled around a year or so and worked with his Dad before deciding to go off to college.   I finally sent my #1 son off to meet the world with my blessings or he was going without them.  It was a tough time for our family.  A business venture had gone bad and we were struggling to make ends meet and I worked full time but I sat down one day and decided to write my thoughts and hopes for Jim’s future and give to him.  Hopefully, someday he would understand.  Life isn’t always fair and it isn’t always fun.

To Jim

8/10/77

As you start out my son to make your own way,

God bless you and keep you is the first thing I’d say.

There’s so much of life that you need to know

I wish I could spare you the heartaches and woe.

But Mothers can’t suffer all the bruises and falls

Of young men in their struggle to answer their call.

You must go your own route down the highway of life

And make some mistakes, have trouble and strife.

Temptations will plague you and draw you it’s way

You’ll have to be strong and fight it each day.

It takes courage and faith to walk straight and tall

But I know you can make it – though sometimes you’ll fall.

But remember my child, as you slip and slide

That those who love you are still on your side.

You’re in God’s hands now, and He loves you dear

Ask Him for guidance when you have doubts or fear.

Love, 

Mom

DADDY'S BABY GIRL

Growing up, I was known as “Daddy’s baby.”  My father made no bones about it.  I was his “baby” until the day he died.  He was my go-to person as is usually the case with little girls and their daddy.  Don’t get me wrong, my Momma was everything a Momma is supposed to be, and more.  But, you know.  It’s a “woman thing” with Mommas and little girls.  Sometimes, they just flat out don’t like each other.  Especially when it comes to prissy clothes, hairdo’s, makeup, and being perfect.  I wasn’t into any of those things like she wanted me to be.  I marched to my own drum being slouchy, tacky, stringy headed, etc.  But Daddy was my hero.  Only once did he ever punish me with a spanking after I jumped up and grabbed a sturdy looking limb on the small pecan tree which was just perfect to swing on, between our house and Big Momma’s.  Although I’d been warned about it, I just couldn’t resist.  The limb cracked and broke smack off the tree trunk.  Uncle Aubrey wasn’t pleased.  Neither was Daddy.

Daddy and I connected.  He didn’t scold me.  He didn’t judge me.  He loved me unconditionally and I knew it.  Through the years, he and I would take road trips together to visit Aunt Mattie Mae in Wrightsville every time they had a family reunion or homecoming, at the little country church near her house. We’d have “dinner on the ground” with fried chicken, potato salad, cakes, pies, and of course home cooked fresh vegetables and jugs of tea.  Sweet, of course.  There was no such thing as unsweetened tea when I grew up.

About once a month, we’d travel to Atlanta to visit Granny Elkins who had moved there after Granddaddy passed away.  Daddy loved his Mother and made a point to visit her as often as possible.  Momma seldom went with us.  Just Daddy and me.  I looked forward to that time with him.  He stopped in Eatonton once and showed me the Uncle Remus House and we talked about Brer Rabbit and the briar patch stories.  We walked around the square and found a café to have lunch.

Most every time, we would have lunch upstairs in Ding Ho’s restaurant in downtown Atlanta. It was Daddy’s favorite Chinese place and I felt so grown up as we dined in the dark atmosphere and oriental décor with white tablecloths and napkins.  I remember how I loved the Blue Willow plates!  The bowls would be brought to the table full of rice and our favorite dish, Chop Suey. And the silver teapots with steaming tea was quite a novelty for a country girl.  But Daddy knew just how to fit in.  He ordered like it was an everyday occasion to dine there with his “baby” girl. The trip home wouldn’t be complete without stopping in Jackson for some of the delicious barbeque and Brunswick Stew.   I treasured those special outings with my Daddy.

Daddy loved to tease me about my sweetheart when I was a little girl.  Yes, that sweetheart was the one who became my husband of 60 years.  But the truth was, that Daddy didn’t want to lose his “baby girl.”  Many years later, he wrote the sweetest poem which is part of a large collection of treasured poems of his, Granny Elkins, Momma, and even my own.  I guess we were just all able to express our thoughts better in writing than in person.  Especially Daddy.  He was a man of few words, but some of his writings were hauntingly beautiful.  He didn’t talk about himself much and they gave insight into a man most people didn’t know.  

My Little Baby Girl

By Herbert Elkins

Quite a long time ago, back in ‘38

Something wonderful was about to happen

And I could hardly wait.

Then an angel came down from another world,

And brought to our home a precious little baby girl.

I strutted around and bragged with joy.

To tell the truth, I was glad it wasn’t a boy.

I remember the cute things she would do and say,

Winding herself around your heart, growing tighter every day.

But all too soon time flew by,

Then one day I noticed a twinkle in her eye.

“Not my Baby!” I said, “Good heavens above”

When she said, “Daddy, I need your blessings –

I’m deeply in love!”

“Leave our home?  Get married?  Change your name?

True, you never caused us any worry or brought us any shame.

But if you’re really in love and your lover is true, go with my blessings my Baby, and good luck to you!”

It must have been right for there is happiness in her home. 

She has a wonderful little family and little babies of her own.

I hope you’ll always be happy and have the best things in the world.

But don’t forget, your Daddy loves his little baby girl!

…………………………………

The Daddy I knew and loved is the only one I remember.  Time and events have a way of changing us as we grow older and the Daddy I remember became a different person later in his life.  His life ended too soon.  I can only hope that he made peace with himself before his death. 

LEARNING TO WAIT

As a child, emotions of anticipation, daydreams, waiting and expectations were part of growing up.   I can remember how exciting it was between Thanksgiving and Christmas when I would be so full of anticipation and dreams of the gifts that Santa Claus would bring.  Usually, there was one “big” item that I focused on and hoped that Santa would find a way to deliver under our modest slash pine Christmas tree.  In my wildest imagination, I didn’t allow myself to foresee anything beyond that one item.  Anything beyond that was pure “gravy.” 

As time moved forward into my teen years, I continued to try to focus on what I hoped for.  No more Santa Claus dreams, but what I wished for in life.  Would I be married?  Would I have children?  Would I go to college?  Would I be successful in whatever I chose?  Being a planner by nature, I had a mental outline of happiness for me.   It was very clear in my mind and my heart that I wanted to marry my sweetheart, have a family and a home of my own.  It all equaled love, happiness and security. 

In my own way, I imagined how I could make it all happen.  I would write down a list of things that would be needed to make my life happen just the way I hoped for.  I wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I finished high school, got a job, bought a refrigerator and stove “on time” and figured, heck, I was practically there.  Next, the china, silver and crystal patterns, bridal showers, and a wedding. Then poof,  two young people in love were married and ready to take on all the fun that goes into raising a family, like bottles, diapers, making a home, buying a car, food, clothes, insurance, and on and on.  I figured some of it would have to wait, but we had carefully figured it all out on paper that we could make it work.  $2.00 a week here, $2.00 a week there.  $20 a month rent, we wouldn’t eat much, so we could save a lot on groceries by carefully shopping.  We didn’t need any clothes since we brought everything we owned to our newly furnished (“on time again”) apartment.  We didn’t have a car, but shoot, we could walk everywhere anyway and we could always borrow one if we had to.  And so it was that this young girl who thought she had it all figured out, began to learn to wait.

I have always considered myself to be patient, calm under stress, and able to take control whenever I needed to.  It comes with the territory when you become a Mom.  But learning to keep a meal hot without cooking the peas until they turn to bullets waiting for your husband to come home from work until 10:00 pm, isn’t explained in the marriage manual, or the cookbook. You feed the children, but you wait.    Instructions to set up a new kitchen in an unfamiliar house isn’t included in the lease, nor is meeting new friends when you’re the new kid on the block.  New schools, new church, new home, new city.  But wait, we’ll get used to it.  Piece of cake.  Consider waiting until the zero hour to leave the house with children for an appointment somewhere important and having to explain that Daddy had to work late again and couldn’t get home in time to go.  Ponder the disappointment in their faces.

What about all the times when you’re expected at someone’s house for dinner, a meeting, church,  or a special occasion, and you’re all dressed and ready to go, but the time just slipped away and now you’re going to arrive late because you have to wait .  Time slipped away at work.   How about a much-needed vacation that had been planned and payed for, but only part of the family spends a week at the beach cottage?  “But, it’s a huge project.  A big client.  A big snafu has come up and I should be there now!  Not next week!” And so, it goes.  Year after year after year.  Move after move.   Job after job. 

And then there are two.  No more worrying about schools, football games, baseball games, commitments, or smoothing the hurt for opportunities lost and promises not kept.  Time to get on with life as an empty nester.  But, on the plus side, you have all the family time (if there is any) just for yourself.  Wow!  Think impromptu mini trips, meeting up for drinks and dinner after work, and lazy Sunday mornings with coffee and pancakes together.  You plan a secret trip to the mountains, throw toothbrushes, pajamas and robes, and a change of underwear in a small bag and sit waiting.  Something about having a break down at the last minute and it had to be taken care of before leaving work.  So, you’re finally off, three hours late to check in the resort. You wanted to sit outside in the moonlight overlooking the Peaks of Otter but instead, simply crashed, exhausted from the two-hour drive and tense conversation.

There are innumerable times of driving like maniacs to get wherever it is you’re supposed to be a 6:00 PM because you didn’t leave home until 5:45 PM to make a 45-minute drive.  Countless times meals were overcooked and you finally decide to eat alone and go to bed.  Waiting. “I’m coming home early today”!  “Next week-end I’ll be off work and I’ll help you with that garden.” “I’ll be home next week-end!” 

Retirement comes.  Eventually, there is a presence at home.  Boredom sets in.  Old habits of needing to have a challenge set in and part time jobs become full time jobs and back to retirement again.   Home is a place to come when you’ve run out of something to do somewhere else.  The garage and outbuildings become a sanctuary for old cars and various projects left unfinished through the years.  Meals are prepared, announced, and eaten alone.  Friends or neighbors have a need for some odd job and time is lost to them.  Health issues take a toll and energy level and ambition are gone.  Death comes.  Now, life is like an abyss leading to an unknown place.  Life decisions are made with great uncertainty.   There are no plans. There’s no going back.  I have learned how to wait.