I have discovered that I am not good at waiting. Another word for my character flaw may be that I am impatient. Yes, if I am being totally honest, which is very difficult at times, I do not do well in situations or seasons of life that have caused me to be out of my own control and submissive to circumstances around me. Some of those outside influences cannot be changed, like for instance the calendar. I don’t know of anyone who can close their eyes and make the day of the week flip to the next, leaving behind the hours that go into the completion of one 24 hour period. Note: In the 7th grade I tried “willing” the clock to stand still in my math class so I could avoid going to my home economics class to face trying to repair a bad sewing project…that’s another topic…No, try as any one of us might, there is no magic strong enough to speed up or slow down time, thus learning how to “wait” becomes a test many of us are required to face in life to see how we fare. 

With today being the last day of November, indicating that the calendar WILL flip to December, I had a memory pop into my mind while I was making our bed. As I was pulling up the sheet and blankets, neatly tucking in pillow shams and placing our decorative pillows, I suddenly remembered the first time–probably the ONLY occurrence–that I stood in line to sit on Santa’s lap and whisper in his ear my long list of gifts he should bring me. I was with my mother that afternoon when I saw Santa in his big chair surrounded by Christmas decorations, lights, and a line of kids waiting to talk to him. I begged my mother to let me get in line. I’m sure she had better things to do than stand around with an impatient little girl, but she gave in and we joined the line. I could not wait to have my turn! We inched up slowly, counting off with our eyes as each girl or boy took their turn on Santa’s lap, leaving with big smiles and clutching a peppermint candy cane that Santa gave to each child when waving bye and yelling “ho ho ho”. In the busyness of standing in the line, swaying back and forth on my feet, getting warm under my  heavy coat and building anticipation, I saw it was my turn, and I froze. Santa motioned for me to come, jump up on his big lap…mom said, “Susan, it’s your turn”. But I remained frozen in time, unwilling to oblige to what was required of me to share my long list of Christmas wishes.

If I recall correctly, it was a long quiet ride home from Green Acres Plaza, the Federal Department Store where I attempted to talk to Santa. Mom was NOT happy with me. I’m pretty sure I got a scolding about “how I begged her” to visit Santa, and also the time we wasted “waiting” when we could have been home, perhaps to get a start on our dinner which was always promptly served at 5:20 pm. 

I’m also pretty sure I never asked to stand in another Santa line for the remainder of my childhood. My one attempt to include him in my waiting for Christmas to arrive, showed me I didn’t trust myself to sit on a stranger’s lap no matter how fun and exciting it looked to me. Over time I realized I didn’t need Santa to get some of my favorite Christmas gifts from a long list that was compiled with some help from the annual Sears & Roebuck Christmas catalogue. And I certainly realized that I didn’t need to face the ire of my mother year after year when she had better things to do than wait in a long line of children jumping at a chance to talk to a storefront Santa. But, I’m thankful she gave it a whirl that one time. It’s become a good memory, my face all lit up as I inched forward to my turn with Santa, and the look on my mother’s face when I refused to sit on his lap, and that long quiet ride home…..which became a topic at that evening’s dinner table.

“Jack, let me tell you about Susan’s visit with Santa this afternoon…..” Her words are a very dim echo in my mind these 60 some years later, but the memory of that weekday afternoon still warms me much like standing in the long line in a department store wearing a heavy winter coat, and waiting.

I have discovered that I am not good at waiting. Another word for my character flaw may be that I am impatient. Yes, if I am being totally honest, which is very difficult at times, I do not do well in situations or seasons of life that have caused me to be out of my own control and submissive to circumstances around me. Some of those outside influences cannot be changed, like for instance the calendar. I don’t know of anyone who can close their eyes and make the day of the week flip to the next, leaving behind the hours that go into the completion of one 24 hour period. Note: In the 7th grade I tried “willing” the clock to stand still in my math class so I could avoid going to my home economics class to face trying to repair a bad sewing project…that’s another topic…No, try as any one of us might, there is no magic strong enough to speed up or slow down time, thus learning how to “wait” becomes a test many of us are required to face in life to see how we fare. 

With today being the last day of November, indicating that the calendar WILL flip to December, I had a memory pop into my mind while I was making our bed. As I was pulling up the sheet and blankets, neatly tucking in pillow shams and placing our decorative pillows, I suddenly remembered the first time–probably the ONLY occurrence–that I stood in line to sit on Santa’s lap and whisper in his ear my long list of gifts he should bring me. I was with my mother that afternoon when I saw Santa in his big chair surrounded by Christmas decorations, lights, and a line of kids waiting to talk to him. I begged my mother to let me get in line. I’m sure she had better things to do than stand around with an impatient little girl, but she gave in and we joined the line. I could not wait to have my turn! We inched up slowly, counting off with our eyes as each girl or boy took their turn on Santa’s lap, leaving with big smiles and clutching a peppermint candy cane that Santa gave to each child when waving bye and yelling “ho ho ho”. In the busyness of standing in the line, swaying back and forth on my feet, getting warm under my  heavy coat and building anticipation, I saw it was my turn, and I froze. Santa motioned for me to come, jump up on his big lap…mom said, “Susan, it’s your turn”. But I remained frozen in time, unwilling to oblige to what was required of me to share my long list of Christmas wishes.

If I recall correctly, it was a long quiet ride home from Green Acres Plaza, the Federal Department Store where I attempted to talk to Santa. Mom was NOT happy with me. I’m pretty sure I got a scolding about “how I begged her” to visit Santa, and also the time we wasted “waiting” when we could have been home, perhaps to get a start on our dinner which was always promptly served at 5:20 pm. 

I’m also pretty sure I never asked to stand in another Santa line for the remainder of my childhood. My one attempt to include him in my waiting for Christmas to arrive, showed me I didn’t trust myself to sit on a stranger’s lap no matter how fun and exciting it looked to me. Over time I realized I didn’t need Santa to get some of my favorite Christmas gifts from a long list that was compiled with some help from the annual Sears & Roebuck Christmas catalogue. And I certainly realized that I didn’t need to face the ire of my mother year after year when she had better things to do than wait in a long line of children jumping at a chance to talk to a storefront Santa. But, I’m thankful she gave it a whirl that one time. It’s become a good memory, my face all lit up as I inched forward to my turn with Santa, and the look on my mother’s face when I refused to sit on his lap, and that long quiet ride home…..which became a topic at that evening’s dinner table.

“Jack, let me tell you about Susan’s visit with Santa this afternoon…..” Her words are a very dim echo in my mind these 60 some years later, but the memory of that weekday afternoon still warms me much like standing in the long line in a department store wearing a heavy winter coat, and waiting.

Gratitude

Before Halloween is but a blip on the radar, here and gone before we know it, November shows up with a mere flip of calendar pages full of photos containing colorful tree scenes, sunrises and sunsets, cornucopias, images of tables laden with luscious looking foods, all that is familiar to families in America signifying that Thanksgiving will soon be upon us. Ads on television and radio show us happy families traveling miles by car or air to be with loved ones on this hallowed Thursday. Stores entice us with sale notices for the foods we all enjoy, the turkey, cranberries (maybe?), stuffing, pumpkin pie…green bean casserole according to our son….and then there’s the football games, and the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade. All this, and more, are what has evolved into carving (no pun intended) out memories centered on a big bird in the middle of the table, or chicken, or ham…whatever is your choice meat. (Two years ago we enjoyed homemade reuben sandwiches on Thanksgiving!)

As I think about and reflect about Thanksgiving, I decided to do a brief search as to its origin. Below is one link that has a lengthy article well worth reading. Be prepared to undo many of your preconceived notions about this wonderful holiday as well as recall what you were taught in grade school. 

https://www.congregationsofgod.org/thanksgiving?article_id=1_the_origins_of_thanksgiving

What do you remember being taught in your elementary school days? For me, even at age 68 now, I can vividly remember hearing stories about the Pilgrims who arrived on our eastern shore, their struggles through a harsh winter, preparing a feast of turkey, corn, squash, pies, etc. and inviting local Indians (yes, that’s what we called this people group back in the 50s and 60s with no one telling us to “wake up”! They’re Native Americans!) I can still see school age me cutting out pilgrim hats, turkeys, pumpkins from a variety of construction paper colors that became wall art in our classroom. Listening to the stories, making things to illustrate the Thanksgiving story were all a part of the third week in November year after year. Foremost in the lessons being taught, was the main message of “gratitude”. I was taught that the Pilgrims were “thankful” for surviving hardship and how God had provided for them. 

I don’t remember anyone in my community being upset that we called the Indians, Indians. No one got angry that birds were being raised and processed to be on thousands, if not millions, of tables. No one in my circle of family and friends got upset that “God” was part of the story in my neighborhood elementary school lesson plans….Black Friday sales were non-existent and I don’t ever recall my family flipping on the TV to watch anything….trappings of today’s current culture were not present in our home….for that I am grateful. My being grateful then, as a small little girl, hasn’t ended. Trying to bombard my fond memories, though, is a society and culture–a segment of us–who want me to refer to Indians as Native Americans or Indiginous Peoples or First Nation.  I’ve said to myself “Ok”, the label doesn’t change the fact these are God’s people, too. My elementary school teachers meant no harm or disrespect by referring to these beautiful people as “Indians”. Truth be told, if I had to choose any description, I like “First Nation”. It has a certain sound and depth to it. Second truth be told, I’d have to study history to see if I can find what group of people are considered as being “first” to settle on our vast country land. 

Folks who are against animal cruelty don’t want us meat eaters to enjoy our turkey or ANY meat from an animal. I’m okay if you want to be a vegetarian, all I ask is you allow me to enjoy beef or poultry. Atheists and agnostics don’t want God to be part of anything involving government, schools, universities, holidays!–you name a place where integrity, honesty, and genuine concern for every human being belongs–you’ll find someone who opposes what is holy and right. 

So, how does gratitude fit in with my writing today? I’m grateful for my education, for growing up in a family and neighborhood filled with like minded adults doing their best to raise good kids. I’m grateful I was taught to love every person without labeling them. I’m grateful I’ve never gone without shelter or a meal. I’m grateful that in almost two years being surrounded by a new virus, I have remained healthy. I’m grateful that my life ambitions don’t include adding more “stuff”, things that rot, decay, or break or need dusting! I’m grateful–above all–that God remains my true source of hope, love, encouragement, and guidance for everyday life–even though He is not welcome or loved in return by many in my own extended family or community. I’m grateful that I allow God to shape my thoughts, my actions, my opinions and not someone trying to “wake” me up or “spin me” or “rewrite” some components of history in order to make ME feel bad. 

Yes, I. Am. Grateful. 

We will make the drive to one of our nephew’s homes to celebrate Thanksgiving Day 2021 with family. There will be turkey, potatoes, stuffing, pies….maybe a football game on their big screen…I’ll look to see if our great nephews made any art projects that may be hanging in the kitchen. And I’ll ask them, “So, what do you know about Thanksgiving? More importantly my next question will be “what are you thankful for?”….

I’m sitting at my laptop this morning, two days later than I usually write each week. I’m scratching my head trying to hone into a topic or person to pen some fancy or deep meaning words that will dazzle my readers. Try as I may, I’ve got nothing, yet I sense,  hear a variety of thoughts racing through my head, each vying for first place inside my mind. November has given me 11 days already on the calendar and a lot of things have happened, events that have fueled my inner joy along with some that have derailed my inner peace, causing deep sadness. I guess, rather than attempt to pinpoint one topic, for the sake of releasing recent events into the world of polished words, I will capsulize several of the last few days into shareable memories and reflection.

• Friday, Nov. 5 was my 68th birthday. I woke up at around 7 am which is my usual time, went to the kitchen for my first mug of coffee as I made my way to my “prayer corner”. To my delight, my husband had run an errand, coming home with flowers, a card and my favorite candy bar, a “PayDay”. Mid morning we headed for haircuts, then drove back country roads to Olive Garden and enjoyed a wonderful lunch. The remainder of the day was relaxing, filled with sunshine and a light breeze that was a welcoming afternoon for a walk around 3 pm. I’ve been walking around saying to anyone who will listen “68 is great”. I really think it is, by the way. 
• On Saturday, Nov. 6 we drove to my brother’s home, had lunch and headed north to attend the 50th wedding anniversary party for a favorite cousin. Our drive took us about 2 ½ hours, traveling on two lane highways through small towns and rural farm land. The sun was shining, the temperatures in the mid 50s. We arrived midway through the party to enjoy our family, meet some new folks, devour yummy desserts. My cousin Jim invited us back to his home for an impromptu dinner which consisted of grilled hot dogs and side dishes gleaned from the pantry and fridge. Swapping stories and solving world problems kept us at his home til midnight. As we drove to our hotel for the night, I remember trying to think of the last time I had stayed up that late…68 may be great but a 10 pm bedtime is pretty darn good, too. (smile)
• Tuesday, Nov. 9 was a hard day. Our church celebrated the life of a 45 year old husband and father of three who died from complications related to the Covid virus. I was present at the service to represent our church and “host” his family and friends in any way to make them feel at ease. Burying someone so young is hard, even when they had a deep powerful relationship with Christ. Seeing his young family stand at his open casket to say their final goodbyes was difficult. I found myself weepy and selfishly interjecting my own mortality in the scene…would my children be as brave to tell those in attendance what a great dad they had? Will my children eulogize me with loving and kind words? What if my husband “goes” before me? What will that day look like? Will I be a little old lady by then? 68 is great but each year I’m blessed with taking me closer to my own “going home”….
• Today, Nov. 11, is Veterans Day. I grew up in the 50s and 60s, when for the most part America was at Peace. The VietNam war was the first event to bring me live images from the devastation of being at war. Later, we had the Gulf War, followed by our years in Afghanistan. Fortunately, I have not had any loved ones who served in the latter wars; my dad was a veteran of WWII and the Korean Conflict. He’s my favorite naval personnel veteran, along with his six brothers who each served in our country’s branches of armed forces. I’m grateful they were returned home to safety after sacrificing time away from loved ones. I can’t imagine the things they saw, heard, or endured so every American could benefit from their efforts. The only response I can give is verbal respect to them, our country, and the flag…and monetary gifts to those who have lingering injuries from hard fought battles.

So, as I’m sitting here mulling over the first 11 days of November, I’m a mixed bag of joy, laughter, sadness, and gratefulness.   There’s an old saying that goes like this: “Life isn’t perfect”. No, it isn’t. It’s not a “bed or roses” either. But life is good no matter our circumstances when we take time to step back and envision a bigger picture than our eyes can fool us into believing. Each birthday gets me one year older, but each year gives me more opportunities to “live”. Each person we bury is hard, but gives me one more reminder that eternal life with God far outweighs the tears I shed in grief. Every war our country enters has the potential of separating loved ones to places around our world, yet gives us opportunities to celebrate and hold tight to all the freedoms fought and upheld for by men and women who are much braver than I could hope or dream of becoming. 

Today, I’m glad that I could sit for a while, surrounded only by the clacking of my laptop keyboard, the heat cycling on and off, and an occasional car passing by on our road. Today’s moments of quiet silence gave way to time spent recalling memories made in 11 days, and daydreaming what the remainder of November will give me. 

Over the last few weeks I wrote about women who impacted my life in a variety of ways. I talked about two Bettys and one Janet. Today, as I racked my mind to find who to highlight this week, I thought of Colleen. I met her in the late 70s and I didn’t like her.

So, if I didn’t like Colleen, why or how is she instrumental or vital to the growth of me as a person and a woman? I think the answer lies under the blanket that describes God as One Who uses unusual or surprising circumstances to meet someone’s need. In this case, at the time we became friends, we both had a need that she met. Before I get to that, I need to explain how we became acquainted. 

In the 70s, a nuclear plant was being built in Midland and Colleen’s husband was part of a company that was on site to complete the enormous project. In fact, it was his employment that moved them to Michigan from the east coast. Colleen had experience in mortgage financing and the bank I worked at happened to be looking for such a lender, so she landed the position. I was working for the personnel director and several other department heads. No matter the department we would have been in, we would have met because our community bank was a small one and we all knew everyone on staff. 

As Colleen’s time with us rolled along, we would exchange pleasantries, maybe share a lunch hour time in the break room, but outside of those encounters we didn’t socialize. We were polite with another, but always under a cloud of hesitancy laced with air as though soaked in ice cubes.

My desk was by the door to the bank lobby and when Colleen entered from the hall leading to her office, she had to pass me. Every time. We’d smile, say hi, but that was it. Until one day she stopped at my desk, said hi, and then proceeded to tell me my mascara was smudged. Man, if I hadn’t liked her before this exchange, I sure wasn’t happy she took time to point out a problem with my makeup! I was happy when she continued on her way, carrying her mortgage folders to head off to wherever she was going. I’m sure she wasn’t aware of the fumes surrounding my head as she went about her task, me shaking my eye and glaring at her.

What changed? Well, both of our circumstances. In 1978 I made the difficult decision to leave my marriage. I didn’t want to move back to my parents but I did because I had no other place to go. That week home with them did not go well, I returned to my marriage and home for about a week and then had had enough and was determined to leave, the second time for good. But where? Somehow, Colleen and I engaged in conversation regarding my dilemma and she quickly said “You can move in with me. My condo has plenty of room.” Later, she confided in me that her husband Ray had left their home, moved out. She was alone, too. Throwing aside our “differences” I gladly accepted her offer and moved my personal belongings to her home. What a beautiful home she had. Just like her, everything was neat, clean, and in its place. We slowly became amicable roommates, and much to my delight and surprise, we actually sat down one evening to share a glass of wine and stumbled upon asking and confessing to each other the hidden issues under that blanket I mentioned above. Imagine our laughter when we both screamed “But I didn’t like you either!” Why? Oh my goodness. Both of us were jealous of the other. All the time I was coveting her neat appearance, fresh haircut right on time, expert looking applied makeup, and a wardrobe that never seemed to require “hit repeat” she was thinking exactly the same things about me…when I told her how angry I got about the “mascara” smudge, she laughed and told me “I wasn’t being critical; because I knew you liked to look ‘perfect’ I wanted to help you.” Smack! Humility hand to the forehead please!

A shared condo. A glass of wine. An honest conversation that originated with a mascara smudge changed everything. I thought I had a pretty good gig going until Colleen and I went grocery shopping together one evening and a guy approached her in the produce department, talking to her quietly. I had no idea who it was. It took me several glances and a few sneaky eavesdropping sessions to figure it out. It was Ray! When he walked out of the store, I got up too close to Colleen and verified “Was that Ray!? What was he doing here? He’s coming home Colleen!”

“He’s coming back home”, she quietly confirmed. Ugh, I thought to myself. That’s a game changer.

In the course of the few weeks I lived with Colleen, my dad called me at work one morning, having found out about my “second leaving” and pretty much demanded I move home “until everything is sorted out and settled”. So, I did. I made the move and I’m pretty sure Ray returned to Colleen and our lives, though intersected for a while, returned to a working relationship improved by friendship that sprouted from needs and honesty sewn in to patch  holes created by our misunderstandings.

Our careers continued. Eventually the bank relocated all its administrative offices to a new location, a beautiful building that sat on the bank of the Saginaw River. Colleen and my work offices were still separate, my personal life healed and was headed in a good direction. Hers? Not so much. Her marriage was under stress and strain. Ray’s work was demanding, long hours, and eventually took a toll on her mental health and work performance. Mr. B____, her supervisor, terminated her employment, sending her home to an empty condo and no one to come alongside her in yet another time of  her deep need. I never liked Mr. B_____; he could be arrogant and nosy. He knew that Colleen and I had a “connection” and he asked me to keep in touch with her because he feared “the worst”. Oh, that kind of worst. Would she do something to harm herself? Thankfully, she didn’t. She and I spoke several times and soon, the time between phone calls grew longer and we both faded out of each other’s lives.

I have no idea where Colleen has ended up in life. I’m happy I can see her face, her smile, and hear her quirky little jokes when I close my eyes. I’m thankful that God used an unlikely co-worker to help me during a difficult time in my life. I still smile when I think about the “mascara smudge comment” which taught me a valuable lesson: Don’t assume. Seek openness and honesty. Ask questions to bring clarity to avoid misunderstandings. Stop being jealous over silly stuff. Be a friend. Help others, even those you don’t like at first…..