The Red Sweater

I have long ago outgrown the excitement of receiving Christmas gifts.  I have NOT outgrown the delight of giving them.  I absolutely love having an excuse to give gifts to the people I love.  I will use any excuse to send a little something to grandchildren...Halloween, Valentine’s Day, the beginning of the school year, good grades at the end of the school year, going on a trip…sometimes, no reason at all.  So, being able to select Christmas gifts that my family members will enjoy is great joy to me!

But, I do remember a Christmas gift I received with great disappointment, which I had to suppress.

The year I was twelve, my mother was pregnant with my youngest brother.  To my knowledge, her pregnancy with me was the only uneventful one.  Two pregnancies had ended in miscarriage and two had resulted in blood clots in her legs which caused her to be bedridden most of the pregnancy.  This would not be the case now.  One of my daughters apparently inherited the problem and was able to continue living normally by self-injecting heparin every day.  My mother had to stay in bed.  This caused huge changes in my life…more responsibility than I was used to and much less focus on my needs.

My brother was born in January, so when Christmas came, Mom was confined to bed and unable to shop for gifts.  She gave my dad a list, and as she put it, “he did the best that he could.”  Just before the holiday, she said she needed to talk to me.  I had asked for a red cardigan sweater.  Dad had purchased a red cardigan, but it was the wrong size…. way too big.  My mother asked me to say ‘thank you’ and not let him know it was too big.  She did not want him to feel he had failed in his assignment when he had tried to do the right thing.  There was no time to exchange it, and I suspect he was feeling overwhelmed.

So, Christmas came, and the gifts were given, and the sweater was huge, and I said ‘thank you.’  Since it was my main gift, I choked back some tears and put on a happy face.  I was grateful that my dad had tried.  I don’t think I ever felt quite the same about Christmas gifts after that.  I began to develop a more grown-up perspective.

Christmas did indeed come, whether or not I was delighted with my gifts.  There were still decorations, and cookies, and wonderful music, and family get-togethers, AND oh yes, Jesus had come!  All the trappings of Christmas just set the mood.  The real event is that God sent His son into the world to be my Savior.  What a gift!  No disappointment!

I eventually grew into the red sweater.

I also grew into the realization that giving is much more fun than getting.

When the Pilot Light is Out

The pastor didn’t mean to traumatize me with his sermon this morning.  He was talking about being filled with the Spirit and being a blazing flame instead of a flickering pilot light.

Pilot light?  Uh-oh!

About the time of my 12th birthday, we had a problem with our gas hot water heater.  After 61 years, some of the details are fuzzy, but I remember this as a two-day event.  On the first day, the pilot light on the water heater went out, but the gas continued to flow.  We all began to feel ill, but as I remember it, my Dad and I had been out of the house more that day than my Mother and brother Bud, so they were feeling really ill, but Dad and I were still pretty functional.  At some point in this mess, a rep of the utility company had come, and the problem was supposed to have been resolved.

The next evening there was a special meeting going on at church, and my Dad decided to attend.  A family friend had passed away, so Dad’s plan was to attend the calling hours following the meeting at church.  I was left at home with Mom and Bud.  I was the healthiest one who could tend to any needs that arose.

During the evening, Mom and I both smelled gas again.  Mom was still pretty weak and shaky.  She said that she was going down to the basement to light the pilot, and I should come with her since she was so wobbly.  She was my mother and at 12, I wasn’t yet in the habit of teenage defiance of authority (actually, I never did reach that point).  Afterward, I wished that I had argued with her that it was a bad idea.  The basement was, after all, full of gas.

I helped her down the stairs.  She knelt in front of the hot water heater and confirmed that the pilot was out.  She said she would relight it and struck the match.  Flames shot out of the hot water heater accompanied by a blast that knocked her backward.  She flew past me.  I smelled the awful odor of singed hair and burned flesh.  Her eyebrows were gone, her hair was singed, and her right hand was badly burned. And there I was…the responsible “adult.”

I got her up the stairs and into bed.  I was terrified that there would be a larger fire.  I got on the phone and called the church, but my Dad had already left for the calling hours.  I don’t remember to whom I talked, but help was on the way!  Someone went to get my Dad, and people from the church began arriving at our house to do whatever needed doing.  There was no such thing as 911 in those days.  A local doctor was called and came to the house.  The utility company was called and arrived to shut off the gas and assess the situation.  I remember a group of men standing on the front lawn in animated discussion.

Mom’s hair and eyebrows grew back, but it took her hand months to heal.  I had guilt feelings for a long time.  I knew enough from my science classes, that I felt I should have thought about the possibility of an explosion.  It was my first experience with the realization that a situation might arise in which I could make a better decision than one of my parents….who knew?

Long range outcomes have included:

*I have never had a gas range and avoid gas appliances whenever possible…not that there aren’t risks with electric appliances.  I could tell another story about that!

*I was once on a medication that I knew was messing with my head, and my husband was out of town.  I told my young teen son that if he saw me doing anything unreasonable, he had my permission to stop me.  Sometimes a child does make a better decision than the parent.

All of this has nothing to do with the pastor’s sermon which was about the way in which the Holy Spirit manifests himself differently in the lives of different people.  I did manage to shake off my unpleasant memories and pull my thoughts back to the sermon, but here I am on a Sunday afternoon over six decades later reliving the event.

Deliver Us from Evil

I can’t find Children’s Memorial Hospital on a Chicago map, so I guess it no longer exists.  In 1965 when I was a nursing student in the Chicago area, I spent three months at that hospital for my pediatric rotation.  I could write several blogs about experiences I had there, and I’m not sure why this one is coming to mind today.  Perhaps it is because of all the current media attention to sexual harassment.

The hospital took up a triangular shaped block on the northside of Chicago, not very far from Lake Michigan.  A park on the shore of the lake was an easy walk from the nurses’ residence which was across the street from the hospital itself and connected by a tunnel.  In addition to the tunnel providing for safely crossing the street away from traffic and out of the weather, it also kept us safe from the neighborhood which was a bit sketchy.  It wasn’t a good place to walk alone. 

On one occasion, I planned to return to my home hospital for a couple of days to work on my days off.  I was starting to save money for college.  I had to walk a couple of blocks to the nearest station for the elevated train.  It was broad daylight, so I didn’t expect any problem.  I was on a busy street.  But, I noticed a man ahead of me who had stopped and was staring at me with interest.  I thought about crossing the street, but traffic was coming steadily, and I was in the middle of a block.  I was carrying a suitcase.  As I got near him, he said, “What’s the matter, doll?  Gotta leave town?”

I ignored him.  He repeated his questions.  This time I just uttered a “yup,” not making eye contact.

As I passed, he called after me, “Too bad….cute little doll like you!”

I can only imagine what would have happened if I had been in distress and actually contemplating leaving town.  I’m pretty sure he would have offered to “help.”

Although that was a bit unnerving, it did not compare with another incident when I was walking alone.  Sometimes I just needed to get away and out for some fresh air.  One evening when no one else was available, I decided to walk to the park by Lake Michigan by myself.  I had a nice stroll through the park and as dusk approached, I had turned to head home, when two policemen walked toward me.

“You shouldn’t be down here walking by yourself.”

I replied, “I’m heading home right now.”

One of them said, “It isn’t safe here.  We have animals that swing out of the trees.”

“Yeah,” said the other, “and some of them wear blue uniforms.”

My heart skipped a couple of beats….were they saying I couldn’t trust even them?

I tried hard to show no fear and kept walking.

I also showed no fear the evening I was walking up the stairs to the elevated train platform and a young man was standing under the stairs “exhibiting.”  If he was expecting a scream, he was disappointed.  I acted like I didn’t even notice.

Looking back on this now, I’m thinking, “Wow, this all happened within a 3-month period about the time of my 20^th birthday.   Why was I able to handle this?”

Someone was probably praying for my safety, as I now pray for the safety of my granddaughters.   “O God, don’t let evil come near them!”

Self-Discipline

My daughter-in-law sent a picture of our almost two-year-old grandson standing in the time-out corner crying.  The accompanying text explained that after being told to stop an offending behavior three times, he put himself in the corner and stood there crying about his self-inflicted punishment.

This did not surprise me at all, because the little guy’s father once negotiated to increase his punishment.  He was dairy allergic and could, therefore, not have the joy of getting ice cream on those hot summer days when the ice cream truck came jingling through the neighborhood.  Eventually we learned that the truck also had blow-pops which were safe for him.  One day I was sitting on the front porch doing some hand-sewing when the ice cream truck appeared and parked across the street.  I gave my son the money for the blow-pop.  I didn’t think to admonish him to look both ways before crossing, because he had been wary of streets since being a toddler and always crossed cautiously.  But…not this day.  He ran out into the street towards the ice cream truck never stopping to look.  A UPS truck was coming on a collision course.  I saw it, but I made a split-second decision not to scream.  I calculated that if he heard me and stopped, he would be hit.  If he kept running, he might make it.  The ice cream truck driver saw what was happening and started to jump out of his truck.  The UPS driver saw him and slammed on his brakes.  I imagine their hearts were racing as fast as mine.  He made it across the street and purchased his blow-pop.

That night when I tucked him in, I talked to him about what had happened.  I said, “I think I need to do something to help you remember to cross the street safely.  So, I am going to tell you that you can’t go to the truck for a blow-pop for the next two weeks.”

He replied, “Two weeks isn’t long enough.”  He was only about 6 or 7 when this happened, but he apparently already knew that a blow-pop wasn’t as valuable as his life.

As it turned out, about two weeks later, we went to our cottage which is on the grounds of a camp which has a snack store.  He discovered the blow-pops cost much less at the snack shop than they did from the ice cream truck.  He figured getting them from the truck was a rip-off, and never asked to get one from the truck again.  I am not sure if the cost difference or the value of his life was the deciding factor.

When my children were teens, I told them repeatedly that if they were to discipline themselves, no one else would have to do it.  I have no idea if they remember me saying this, but I tried hard to help them understand that as we grow toward adulthood, we are supposed to learn to control our own behaviors.  Parents and teachers are not trying to make kids miserable.  They will not inflict discipline if there are no offending behaviors.

Looking at the picture of my little grandson wailing in the time-out corner, I could not help but think this would be a better world if we all put ourselves in time-out and were sorrowful when we did wrong!

Anonymous Gifts

There was a time in my life when I felt poor, and I was relatively poor.  “Poor” is always relative, because you can always find someone worse off than you are yourself.  When I was in high school, I had a friend who bragged that she could go through two weeks without wearing the same outfit twice.  I had 3 sweaters and 3 skirts, some of which could be worn in different combinations, so I could get through a week without re-wearing the exact same outfit.  I had a friend who had just one sweater and one skirt which always looked clean.  I’m not sure how she accomplished that.

My parents had agreed they would pay for me to go to nursing school, but I was on my own after that.  Because nursing students were basically the hospital’s slaves in those old three-year diploma programs, hospital-based programs were inexpensive.  The entire three years cost about the same as a semester of college. 

In addition, my parents sent me $12 a month.  While it is true that $12 was worth more then than it is now, it was still a pittance.  That amount kept me in toilet articles and stockings (There was a time when pantyhose didn’t exist).  I did not have the money for any splurges.  I remember on one occasion being with a group that decided to stop for ice cream, and I had no money for a cone.

One of the amazing encouragements to me at this point in my life was periodically receiving an anonymous gift.  A card…often a “Thinking of You” card…would arrive in my mailbox with a five-dollar bill in it.  The envelope would not have a return address, and the card would not be signed.  The cards were mailed from several different small towns in the area in which I grew up.  While it was very tempting to try and figure out who might be doing this, I had to give up on it.  I talked to my mother about it, and although we could think of some possibilities, I never did know for sure.  No one ever revealed himself/herself as the donor.

Five dollars doesn’t seem like much, but these gifts always seemed to arrive when I was most in need.  It was also a huge encouragement to me that someone was thinking of me.  I suspected it was someone from my church, and that meant they were also praying for me.

Over the years, I have encountered other people who have received anonymous gifts.  I have always suggested that they not expend too much effort in trying to figure out the source.  If someone sends a gift anonymously, they do that for a reason.  It is best for the recipient just to take it as God’s provision for their need.  I’m pretty sure that is the intent of the person sending it.

Be thankful, and “pay it forward” when you can!

Senior Menus and Senior Moments

Before I was a senior myself, I thought that the purpose of a senior menu was to give the elderly less expensive choices.  After all, many are living on fixed incomes.  I, of course, noted that the servings were smaller, but I didn’t realize the extent to which metabolism and appetite are impacted by age.  For decades, I was able to eat pretty much whatever I wanted to eat.  and I did not gain weight.  Now, even though my appetite is significantly less, I can’t seem to avoid a creeping weight gain.

If I order off the regular menu, the portions are usually so large that I cannot finish my meal.  Sometimes by the time the main course arrives, I already feel full from the salad and a small roll or piece of bread.  I eat some of the entrée and ask for a box to take the rest home.  The upside of this scenario is that, if my husband does this too, I do not have to cook the next evening.  I am thinking about this, because I do not have to cook this evening due to the events of last evening.

A couple of weeks ago, Bill brought home tickets to a fundraiser taking place at a very nice restaurant in a nearby St. Lawrence River town.  Accordingly, we drove the 20+ miles last evening.  It was a lovely drive…lots of fall colors along the way.  When we arrived at the restaurant, the parking lot was very crowded.  We assumed that the fundraiser was going well.  But when we got inside, we discovered that the fundraiser is next week.  Neither of us had….in our senility…looked closely at the tickets.  We don’t know how we got the event on the wrong date on the calendar, but we were a week early.  I guess that’s better than being a week late, but it did make us feel like doddering oldsters. 

We decided to stay for dinner.  The menu is extensive, and the entrees are quite interesting and elegant.  There is no senior menu.  We tried to order dishes that seemed to be on the small side, but we still ended up with more than we could reasonably eat.  Dessert menu?  You’ve got to be kidding!  Please bring me a box.

I keep saying that someday I am just going to eat the salad and dessert and totally skip the main course, but I haven’t done that yet.  I expect I will do it someday, when I am old enough that I no longer care about social conventions.  I shudder to think what else I might do at that stage!

A Box of Beads

A box of beads,

Different colors, shapes and sizes,

Rolling around but

Confined to the container.

Randomly bouncing

Off each other.

No pattern emerging,

Emitting a noisy clatter.

Is that life?

Isolated, differing events

Kept together only by the confines

Of birth and death.

Or are those events

Strung together in a pattern,

Held by the invisible cord,

Of a world view.

I grieve for those I see,

Living scattered lives,

Empty-headed, hazy,

Thoughtless lives.

When they bounce off

The final edge of the box,

Will they look back on 

A life of unstrung beads?