I called my mom’s cousin midmorning to wish her a happy birthday. She called back from Florida after grabbing a towel. At 95, she planned to pick up family at the airport in a few hours. “I was in the pool when you called, and that’s my prayer time,” she explained. “I always pray for you and your children, sisters, brother …”
There was a lilt of expectation in her Jersey voice; lifelong chums were gathering for an afternoon party. “We’ve really had a wonderful life, all of us, even living through the Depression, and all that …” she reminisced.
“And all that” said more than words or time allowed, spanning close to a century of change and challenge.
She’s a role model for me, a Proverbs 31 kind of woman. I never slouched because she carries her shoulders with dignity. I still swim and sewed for years, though never as accomplished at either as this lady who hauled around the same portable machine for probably 50 years.
After her beloved hubby died from cancer, she demonstrated what it means to wear loss with grace. Strong faith lightens her gaze — I want to be like her when I grow up!
We rarely glimpse how small decisions, daily prayers, spoken words and tough times meld together in the forge of living. I thought of that after we hung up, and again upon finding a gift stashed in a dresser drawer. A present I’d nearly forgotten.
It’s a wall hanging, a tapestry of an oft quoted poem, “The Weaver.” Benjamin Malachi Franklin wrote it in the ’40s, those hard years of war and recovery my elder cousin remembers.
Lasting friends — Linda, Ruthie, Claudia, Debbie, Faye — gave it to me, wrapped in their concern and care. Thank you girls, for knowing I needed its message.
Forgive me for hiding it from the light of day. It reminded me of a door slammed shut on something my heart was set upon, and with its loss a certain sense of who I was slipped into the shadows.
Rejection can do that. Someone who’s felt its sting said rejection never feels good, even if we know it wasn’t a good fit. I stopped going to church, questioned my worth, faith, purpose.
Jim kept loving me as if I was going to be OK. And bless him, I am. Looking back, I see Jesus with me in the muck of that time. Slowly stretching into new skin, I became more ready to listen, less black or white in my thinking, with a panoramic vista of the curve of God’s expansive mercy for his fragile kids.
I want this space on the page you’re reading to reflect the real me, not some goody two-shoes. (I’ve been known — so says my hubby, mischief in his lifted brows — to throw a tomato in his direction.) My story is about more than mountaintops and beach vacations — the real me sometimes hides under the covers and can’t find my glasses when I finally crawl out. Like my home, my life is rarely tidy but filled with enough blessings they disguise the mess.
Writing about recovery helps me figure things out, it steadies me through dark passages as I feel for the walls and search for the light. I suspect I’ll always be recovering from something — that’s the nature of being human, at least for me.
One of my daughters posted Emily Dickinson’s poem “Hope” on Facebook. It begins, “‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers — that perches on the soul — and sings the tune without the words — and never stops — at all.”
God, in persistent majesty, is in it all. Our weed patches and victory gardens. The One who never slumbers sees our birthday parties, weeps for our heartaches, sings over his sleeping children in the night. My buddies wanted me to remember this.
For decades I taught others to trust that God is bigger than our problems. Even as a gawky kid on an elementary playground I encouraged friends to know they’re not alone — thanks to strong women who taught me to value people and faith.
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