Tuesday, February 19, about 8:45 a.m. Just a bit more than nine months ago.
I was about to leave for work when my phone rang. I recognized the number as Jim’s old cell number and wondered why on earth he was using it to call me.
The answer came when I accepted the call. His work cell phone was no longer his, nor was his office. The CFO had informed him that due to a reduction in force (RIF), his position as vice president, software applications, was being eliminated. Along with 24 others, including one additional vice president, he was ushered out of the building by security and told to return on Saturday to clean out his office.
Somehow we both managed to get in touch with our girls, our families, and others who needed to know. I decided to stay home from work that day just to be with Jim and offer support. But there was no need.
Jim wasn’t coming home just yet. He had already planned two coffee dates with people from his network and would visit several recruiters before the day was done. When I came home after work, our dining room had been converted to what we jokingly referred to as The Office of Transition. The centerpiece was replaced by an aging iMac, and the table was already littered with papers, business cards, notes with phone numbers, and numerous unfamiliar items that had formerly lived in his office. By the end of the first week, he had already found several good job leads in Memphis. Not bad for an introvert.
The higher you go in management, the fewer positions are available, and we knew this would be a long process. After a few months, we prepared ourselves for the possibility of moving away from Memphis for the next opportunity.
We decided to think of it as an adventure in empty nest living. Maybe we’d live in a small miniscule downtown condo in Chicago; a rambling stony house with a beautiful pool in a Houston suburb; Minneapolis, where we would finally get enough snow for my taste; a home within walking distance of the beach in Jacksonville, Florida; or maybe in a city like Roanoke, Birmingham, Atlanta, Louisville, Nashville, or … St. Louis. I could almost hear the crack of the bat in Busch Stadium, where we’d have season tickets.
Having Jim home each day was new for me, and we began to develop routines. In the late afternoons, we’d both take a break and watch Gilmore Girls together. Some days I’d work from home and we’d head to the patio to work and enjoy the outdoors. Many mornings he made coffee, and I loved waking up to the smell. We counted the days until the opening day of baseball season, and the Cardinal games meant we always had something to do in the evenings. When Sara Ann moved back in with us, he was here to spend time with her and help her move, and he enjoyed taking walks with the dogs.
There were times that it felt like too much, as if the house would fall on us and we’d be left standing in the midst of fallen walls and shattered windows. When our girls were small and they were afraid, I’d tell them that nothing is as scary as God is strong. In their childlike faith, those words were comfort; in our adult doubts and fears they brought peace as we realized we were not alone. Over these months we were reminded that faith is more than just church on Sunday morning and a check in the offering plate. We learned anew that beyond every disappointment there’s a bit of new wisdom and that God is always, always faithful. I knew I’d grown when, after a particularly difficult no on a potential position, I realized I wasn’t upset or angry, but confident that the right opportunity would come, and excited for something better that must be in store.
From the moment I caught my breath after that phone call in February, our faith gave us an underlying peace, as we knew that God was with us, He was in control, and that the important things in our lives are not things. As the hymn reminds us, morning by morning new mercies I see. And we did. Some large, some small.
Jim’s old iMac, which should have long since stopped working, is still going, though frustratingly slow. His car needs $1200 worth of work, none of it critical, and will likely be done by whomever we sell it to after the holidays. My freelance work picked up so much that for a while I had no downtime. We were taken to dinner too many times to count, and spent long hours lounging in my sister’s pool. In May, my mother treated me to a incredible trip to New York, and in October my sister and brother-in-law took me to a World Series game in St. Louis.
Family “picnics” after church in a meeting room we borrowed. Some of the best-tasting peanut butter & jelly sandwiches ever.
But most of all, God gave us four seasons of faithfulness: spring flowers, home-grown tomatoes, beautiful sunsets, cool breezes, and fall leaves of every color. There is nothing that He cannot use for good, and He has outdone himself in our lives. Growth and learning always follow adversity, and to have faith is to be assured that divine good will ultimately outweigh earthly struggles.
The happy ending
Last week, Jim began a fantastic new job at a Memphis-based company. It’s essentially a raise, a promotion, and carries the added perk of an I-240-free commute each morning. Next week I’ll celebrate my 55th birthday. Yes, in my kids’ eyes, and probably many of yours, that’s old. But I like to say that no cancer survivor ever complains about getting older. Each year is another year of life that cancer didn’t take away.
Another year of wisdom — and 365 more days of new mercies.
I just ran across an interesting article on Lifehacker about the creative personality, called The Seven Elements of a Creative Personality. I read everything I can on this topic because it pretty much describes me. Especially this:
You’re creative if:
Your Mind Has an Associative Orientation
This means that you have an active imagination. “You can fluctuate between daydreaming and perceiving reality,” says Martinsen. “You’re playful and have an experimental attitude.” But you are also able to become deeply absorbed in your work. For example, you might be so involved in your work that you forget to eat lunch. Interestingly, the advertising students scored slightly higher with associative orientation than the artists. But both these groups ranked higher than the baseline sample.
This nails me.
Yesterday I had a few minutes to myself and decided to just sit quietly and relax. I set a timer and closed my eyes. The first thing I heard were birds singing outside. The birds reminded me of my daddy, who could whistle like a virtuoso. He sounded just like the birds and if I’d been a bird, he’d have certainly faked me out.
That got me started thinking about duck calls. Remember, I grew up in Arkansas. There are people in my family who are expert duck hunters and can make the duck call sound just like the real thing. The poor ducks get all excited, thinking they are going to see a friend and end up on someone’s dinner table.
So duck calls and bird whistles got me thinking about how easily we’re all deceived. How quickly we hear what we want to hear and chase after it without fully investigating, only to be destroyed in the process.
I think that’s another post for another day; I’m not feeling that deep right now. But it does lend a bit of insight into the workings of the weird creative mind. A mind that goes from birds singing to complex life concepts in five minutes or less.
If you’re not a creative person and have to work and/or live with one, chances are there are times they drive you crazy. Ask my husband. But you probably drive them crazy too.
I’m grateful God didn’t make everyone like me, though the world would surely be fun and colorful. We need analytical minds to keep us from buying a car because it’s pretty and has a sunroof, or to figure out which TV is really the best for the money.
We see the beauty in our differences when we respect and honor them, rather than trying to fit everyone into our mold. You probably have at least one creative person in your life; I have many analytical types in mine. Don’t just tolerate those differences; celebrate and cherish them as we help each other get things done and have fun in the process.
A good support system is a must. But it’s crucial to actually let them help. I don’t like being physically dependent on others and I feel guilty imposing. But family, friendship and community mean that sometimes we carry one another for a while and sometimes we let our loved ones carry us.
Mental rest is important too. My body is aching, tired and hurting. And my mind is as well. I had great ambitions for all the reading I’d do, but it’s hard to concentrate. Maybe it’s the anesthesia, the pain, the disruption in my schedule, but it’s hard to focus. I’m so glad that few people have need for anything my addled brain cells can put together right now.
Whatever you do, never Google a health issue. A couple of nights ago, I felt chilled and achy and started poking around on the Internet to see if that’s normal. Next thing I knew I was sure a trip back to the hospital was imminent and pictured myself in a post-op-complication-induced coma. Chances are if I’d read the instructions from the doctor I’d have been less freaked out. (Update: I’m ok. Probably just tired.)
Time. It does just take time for body and mind to heal. It’s funny how speed-obsessed we get. My DVR-addicted mind gets restless during a 30-second ad on Hulu or a TV commercial. I want my Web pages to load fast or I’m gone. Click. But beyond the common-sense things I can do to speed recovery, there’s no fast-forward button. Time to work on patience.
Stay connected. A lot of folks would probably tell me this is a good time to unplug. And honestly, I have to some extent. But I’d have missed so many sweet words and thoughts from friends that have given me needed encouragement and support. Letting go of connections now would be isolating and depressing for me. And the asynchronous nature of social media allows me to take it what I can handle and ignore the rest.
Freshen up. Find new interests. I’ve recently rediscovered my affinity for photography. Don’t ask me about F-stops and shutter speeds. I’ll relearn what I used to know about that stuff soon. For now, I’ve subscribed to some new sites with interesting and artistic photos and have been paying more attention to Instagram on the iPhone (where my user name is bethgsanders). Even a new TV show or two can be a breath of fresh air for the mind.
No doubt about it, I am getting better every day. I just wish I were getting more patient.
I’m having major surgery this coming Monday. A hysterectomy, to be exact.
Not too long ago, I had a minor procedure that involved a biopsy and they found some abnormal cells. Not cancer, but precancerous. For any cancer survivor, the word precancerous is actually code for Cut. It. Out. Of. Me. Now.
So I may not be blogging, writing, geeking out, tweeting, Plussing (is that what we’re calling it?) or Facebooking for a week or so. Or I might. It depends on which is more painful: the pressure of an electronic device on a fresh abdominal incision or the horrifying prospect of tech withdrawal (I’m predicting the latter).
My phone and iPad will go with me to the hospital, as they did last time. After all, it’s difficult to freak out when your mind is focused on 38 Down in The New York Times Thursday crossword puzzle. Or level 5-7 of Angry Birds, which I still can’t beat, dangit. And I think there’s wifi, which means there will probably also be tweets. At least until they take my phone away. This is cool because it gives my family something to laugh at me about so they won’t worry so much.
I won’t say I’m looking forward to it, but I’m not really scared either. I’m anxious in the same way we all are when we get a shot — you know that moment just before the nurse jabs the needle in? That, but worse — this is going to freakin’ hurt a lot. And I really don’t like pain meds because they make me itch.
I know I’ll be frustrated at all the things I can’t do. I’ll miss going to church. And tech coffee. And driving for a couple of weeks.
Even so, I’m blessed far beyond what I deserve by a community of awesome friends and family. I know right now that there will be people praying for me Monday morning and four very dear colleagues have already offered to bring me dinner in the coming weeks. I have an incredible online community as well, made up of folks I’d never have met without these here Interwebs.
I’m convinced that something good will come of this, as one of my favorite Bible verses promises:
And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. Romans 8:28 (NIV)
Emphasis mine. In all things. Not just good things and fun things, but painful things too. Surgery will hurt in the short term but it will make me healthier in the long run. So it’s all good.
For those of you who are so inclined, please pray for me and for my family. If you’re not the praying sort, your good thoughts will do nicely, thanks.
Today someone offered me a piece of a chocolate donut … and it made me cry.
I spent this morning at Manna House in midtown Memphis, which offers hospitality, showers, change of clothes, coffee and rest to area homeless persons. After we served coffee, provided showers and dispensed basic toiletries, socks and clean clothes, we spent some time in the back yard, just talking and listening to our guests.
One man talked about how hot Memphis is in summer, and that he really wants to find a place to sleep inside before it gets too hot. Another told me which alley he sleeps in. Both had come into the backyard at Manna House with sack lunches and quickly began making trades: a peanut butter sandwich for a brownie, ham for a bag of chips. One of the men spent a good minute or so driving a hard bargain for a donut. Then he sat down, began to unwrap it and before he took a bite, he offered a bite to me.
He knows I’m not homeless. I’m obviously a middle-class white woman and I wore a nametag that identified me as a volunteer. But he offered me the first bite of his donut. Not what was left over when he finished it. Not the donut he didn’t want. The donut he negotiated and traded for. The first bite.
One of the founders of Manna House explained to me that the name comes from the manna God sent from heaven to feed the Israelites after they left Egypt. (Exodus 16) He sent it each day; just enough for that day, no more, no less, and instructed them not to gather more than they needed. They trusted Him to provide the next day. In much the same way, Manna House meets the daily needs of its guests; their mission is not to solve all problems, but to meet daily needs: basic hygiene, clean socks, a good cup of coffee and companionship — for that day.
I don’t know why my donut friend offered me the first bite; why didn’t he keep it for himself? He may or may not get another donut any time soon; I can buy a dozen without a second thought. Why was he so willing to share with me?
Maybe a better question is: why are so many of us unwilling to share what we proudly call ours? Our money, our home, our time.
We turn our heads and our hearts away and refuse to give of our abundance, while this man offers the first bite.
