Silveryside: A Rather-ish? Miracle

“Oh, thank you! Thank you!” says the petite, salt-&-pepper Asian lady standing next to me at the curb of a busy Philly intersection when I point to a car crossing the intersection. She thinks I saved her (maybe so, maybe not), by gently stopping her from crossing the street after the pedestrian signal appeared. She hadn’t looked to see the white vehicle that seriously ran a red light and was about to drive past us or at us if we had chosen to step off the curb to cross the one-way street. Just another interesting weekly trip to Philly, and now it’s time to safely ride the 6:36 p.m. train home with Jeff.

So, on the train ride home there was time to ponder the book I read just today, with a story of God using the prayer of an evangelist to heal a blind man. It was a true miracle, and as I read that story I wondered if God could use my prayers to heal someone... and maybe He did, but in a different way. Which is more of a miracle? For a disabled person to be healed by prayer, or by prayer prevent someone from needing prayer in the first place? Maybe that lady at the busy intersection was spared injury. 

I say this because there is a back story to Paragraph One:

I initially planned to ride the train to Philly on Wednesday, but plans changed. Because of a full parking lot, I managed to miss Wednesday's 10:36 a.m. train. I was bummed. I cried. On the 20-minute return drive home, I was able to decompress and briefly wondered if there was a reason why I missed that train since I am timely, and rarely miss an appointment.

Maybe Thursday or Friday would work to go to Philly. Fortunately, the two bedrooms in our new home that still needed attention after our recent move benefited from missing that train. 

Thursday came and went, with no time for Philly. And Friday's garage sale had me wondering whether or not Philly could be squeezed into afternoon plans. At 7:30 a.m. sharp I was open for business, ready to give free cupcakes to the first six customers and sell our dining table and everything. I waited. And waited. And had time to re-read a story in the book mentioned above. No customers whatsoever came, for 2 hours, so there was no need to stay open. Again I cried, this time because of a garage sale fail. Actually, it was a mega-fail. (A couple of hours later I discovered that my Craigslist post vanished, plus the sign at the end of the street that I thought was rudely taken down in reality fell down.)

I was determined to succeed at something this week! So as simple and unimportant as it might seem, that something was to get to Philly! It is a planned weekly silveryside activity I look forward to, and weekday options for the week had run out. It seemed poetic that since the train left me high and dry on Wednesday, randomly I didn't have to pay for Friday's train ride (nice). After arriving to the Philly train station, as always, the restroom was the first stop, then off to infamous busy Market Street (Facebook friends know that I have history there). Two or three lights later...

This stay-at-home lightweight might be grasping at straws, but if I hadn't failed to catch the train Wednesday, and if Friday's garage sale hadn't been a total flop (most importantly with time to re-read some of the book that encouraged the prayer), and if discouragement kept me from putting one foot in front of the other... with all that happened this week to get me to that busy Philly intersection Friday at approximately 3:45 p.m. to stand next to that older stranger, with an ideal vantage point to see her and Mr. Lawless simultaneously, close enough to naturally stop the lady's forward motion. Maybe it all happened to keep her from stepping into a scary situation. 

And the icing on the cupcake, to pause and punctuate a highly convoluted week plus that morning's book take-away, was that unexpected, complimentary one-way train ride into the city. Free always gets our attention! Some may call Friday's event random or over-rated, but because of odd circumstances and seeming fails that seamlessly combined together to orchestrate it, and the added 40-minute train ride home in the pondering "quiet car" (no chatting allowed or you get shhhsh'd), I feel obliged and compelled to not downplay it, and to label it a rather-ish? miracle. 

Two Market Street safety situations mean preserved 6th grade crossing guard days are restored. More than enough for purpose-a-plenty. Meaningful pretirement can be about chutzpah or boldness, prayerfully-applied. Otherwise, crossing guard, or healing acts like when Jesus rubbed spit mud on a stranger's eyes, could seem rude or overly dramatic (The Bible, John chapter 9). 

God can partner uniquely with anyone, so pray for opportunities. I am humbled.

Close Call

Here is the short story: Springfield man faces 35,000-pound Philly bus and lives to share the miraculous save, and why I am still rattled and shaking. 

To celebrate my husband "Dave's" birthday early, we each eat a Shake Shack specialty shack burger with its famous smashed patty, seasoned sauce, and choosing to hold the salty un-American yellow cheese. Strolling home I hold Dave's forearm (a key detail to the happy ending of this hair-raising drama). At 6:10 p.m. we stop at busy Philly intersection Market and 11th waiting for the official “Walk” signal. The Walk appears, check. Type A Dave briefly looks left then to his right and quickly steps onto the street to cross, check.

Probably nano-seconds after Jeff's look to the left (remember, he is type A who must, because it is there, cross the street), I also look left before cautiously stepping off the curb, now tagging behind Jeff still gripping his forearm, but there is an arm-length distance between us. I see a 35,000-pound city bus barreling through the red light and headed for the bus stop down a ways and to the right of us and at Jeff (a frightening moment that is imprinted on my brain), check. In Jeff's defense, the city bus was hidden from his view because of a stopped or parked city bus (Jeff did see the stopped bus). That stopped bus must have compelled the other bus driver to last-minute impulsively whip around the stopped city bus and knowingly or unknowingly run the red light. 

Mr. Reckless bus driver had to have been looking behind, right, left and everywhere but ahead. Jeff was in the direct line of fire, and only because I was already holding his arm could I quickly and firmly jerk him back to the curb a split second (maybe 2) before the monstrous bus full-steam whisked by, no brakes applied, oh my.

A Native Philly woman next to us who witnessed it all, feeling as frightened and shocked as I, and more familiar with vigorously sharing her mind yells at the bus driver, “You ran a red light, !!!###!!!” Wish we had gotten the bus number or something to report that deadly driver, but at that moment too numb, shaken, and confused to again think quickly. Dave did not see what almost hit him; the only trauma he felt was me jerking him back. So I doubt he really gets (like I do) how close he came to not experiencing "When I'm 64" (The Beatles).

Brooms, & Chaos, & Transition. Oh, My!

We normally don't plan for chaos. It happens. Like a whirlwind, life spins out of control, for an extended timeframe. Sometimes during the process of a long-distance move when internet, dishwashers, washing machines, and even old faithful Mazda inconveniently break down or don't work, all at once. And trying house sale and complex house-seeking issues and decisions overlap.

Much can be learned through struggles, striving, loneliness, and a variety of chaotic scenarios. Some tend to safely learn about life through the window of the movie screen, where entire stories can be played out from beginning to end in around 110 minutes, and most times satisfactorily resolved. Unlike those who are drawn to scary movies or sad melodramas, I prefer movies with happy endings. For example, tagging along to observe two NYC strangers' emotions expressed in emails throughout their developing love story. Or, watching determined Entrepreneur P.T. create the greatest show, with his ups and downs, to finally embrace home. Or, viewing the Oz struggle, to obtain the all-important witch's broom, to pass onto the supposed great and powerful.

Anti-hero characters create tension and challenges for movie heroes. Including Oz's wicked witch and her ever-present broom, always challenging poor Heroine Dorothy. The broom seemed so important not only to the witch, but also to the wizard. So it got me thinking about the purpose and importance of brooms... to clean floors. Unfortunately, they can also be used in an unintended way... to sweep crumbs and dust under the area rug or even under the couch. Eventually, some time and some way the underneath of the rug or furniture will somehow be exposed. The dirt and chaos will not be hidden forever.

Likewise, piling up dirty dishes for 3 weeks straight, and the pile turns into mountains of cups, plates, and utensils waiting for the filled-to-the-max, broken mid-cycle dishwasher to be fixed (it's amazing how fast dishes pile up). To hand-wash the mountains, where does clean-up start? It takes a plan to have space for needed designated stations: dirty dishes, soapy sink, rinse, drying counter. And dishes are separated by type (plates, glasses, bowls... because air drying space is limited); and, an item's dirtiness means that early washing of one oily fish plate in the soapy water isn't wise (save the fish plate for last lest it contaminate the dish water).

In marriage it seems so much easier to hide emotionally, going through life like close acquaintances, back-to-back busy or distracted, committing relational sins. In other words, unknowing to one of the partners, agreed-upon systems are being circumvented. It is easy and convenient to never deal with dysfunction.

Any anti-hero or villain wants marriages to crumble; for systems to break down. Broken marriages mean broken family units and chaos. Long-term distraction could dismantle a marriage, leaving it unprepared. Lesson learned? Don't hide relational issues under the rug. Clean-up delayed needs a plan, and it takes focused time to address the issues. The longer dirt is swept underneath, the harder it becomes for the dirt to remain hidden, especially when and if all hell breaks loose. Like the chaos that can happen during transitions of any kind (moves, aging, empty nest, etc.).

Oh, that "broom." Use it for its intended purpose. Deal with the dirt (face it), sweep debris into a pile (determine a plan), and get rid of it (give the outcome to the actual Great and Powerful One). Be courageous, use your brain, and have a heart. Gentle confrontation is worth the risk to pride and ego, because chaos of some sort will at one time or another come to challenge even an ideal marriage.

Friends and family would be shocked to learn... we were not prepared relationally to deal with transition's unpredictable chaos. In the middle of a long-distance move, when it felt like everything familiar was being ripped away with the earth opening underneath my feet (like Dorothy being whirled to an unfamiliar land), and major decisions were being made... that is when I realized that agreed-upon systems were being circumvented. A minor secret was being kept, but it represented a critical unhealthy teaming dynamic.

I think the anti-hero is disappointed. We are, most of the time calmly, addressing our trust and communication issues, or lack thereof. When a relationship is living and vital enough to handle life's major transitions and chaos, and safely team together, there's no place like home sweet home (wherever "home" is). It's the greatest show.

Working towards a happy ending.

I press toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus

Philippians 3:14 NIV

In This House

In this house, a daughter's courtship and marriage
In this house, a son became a man
In this house, a faithful dog's home-going
In this house, a dear father's rapid dementia decline

In this house, family, friends, neighbors, and belonging
In this house, cancer defeated and celebration
In this house, church birth
In this house, earnest back porch prayers the right pastor needed & surfaced the very next day

In this house, intense journaling, blogging, journaling
In this house, stimulating trail head for lake walks, lake walks, lake walks
In this house, grandchildren's laughter, toys, and noise
In this house, Christmas joy

In this house, a courageous man's skills honed
In this house, life's ebb and flow
In this house, tears of joy and sadness, another move
In this house, EVERYTHING

Gotta Live Like We're Trying: The Call

Our local Braum's carries the particular brand and type of almond milk my sensitive body needs; and, the check-out lady giggles and calls my husband "the tech-y guy" because we use a phone app to make our purchases. David at the local health food store recently shared he lost a close friend in a way I'd rather not say, and he knows the items I come into the store to regularly purchase.

Wendy's on Independence has rehearsed our order many times: Low-salt fries and no-cheese on the burgers; and, they can predict we'll respond "Dave" when they ask our name. At a nearby Vietnamese restaurant, we don't even have to verbalize our order (we are annoyingly predictable, and that waitress is amazing)!

Our church purchased at least a thousand snack bags of my favorite (Boomer Generation) Lay's original potato chips, even though they know Doritos are preferred by the Millennials they are geared toward. Jason in Branson's Banana Republic Outlet store can probably predict that each visit's purchases will total less than $10 after our coupons and discounts.

Two local hummers have discovered their feeder-of-choice for summer 2019 and dive bomb it regularly. A Dollar Store hummingbird feeder hangs from the red bud tree in our backyard. When chipmunk-chomper Lois the Cat visits from next door, they do retreat temporarily. Years ago when our favorite son asked if we wanted a red bud tree, offered free at his workplace, we never imagined it would begin as a skinny little stick that would need to be protected, nursed, carefully nourished, and eventually ideal for hummer-sightings.

Three of our favorite grandchildren (albeit long-distance grandchildren and the only ones we have) dream about a magical closet in our home, with shelving that holds a zillion toys and treasures.

We have community and friends. And heroic neighbors like Irish Joe. Our dearly-departed cock-a-poo once snuck a sip from his drinking cup sitting in the front yard and was a little loopy afterward. Joe has had knee replacements, mind you, and he has and knows everything and can do anything! He does things like provide and replace a sprinkler head to keep our front yard bushes from slowly withering away, and helps hubby and me cut down a hard-to-reach branch, because Joe spots from his front yard that I can't seem to jerk the telescoping branch-cutter cord fast and hard enough while hubby steadies the pole.

So, why on earth would the notion of moving far away come to mind? Especially after 25 years in the same city? and at this stage of life? Are we crazy? We would prefer to believe we've accepted the call. And, gotta live like we're trying.

Yellow Brick Road: Dreams

Atop Oz Hill

The Land of Oz, Yellow Brick Road, and aspiration are all synonymous with a teen fictional character named Dorothy. She walked her long road just once and eventually reached her goal--returning home to her beloved Kansas. 

Dorothy's struggles played out in a dream state; our aspiration struggles played out in real life. Over and over, for 18 years... similar to Bill Murray's Groundhog Day, a 24-hour time span that repeated and repeated. Fortunately, our days were not insanely identical. More like the biblical Israelite people, aimlessly walking in the desert for 40 long years, but many of their aspirations never realized. Forgive the Debbie Downer, but most died never seeing the Promise Land.

The Yellow Brick Road's journey can feel endless at times; but, with a little faith and a lot of bigger-picture reminders, one can survive unscathed (with no lingering smoke smell, like the three biblical survivors in Daniel 3's fiery furnace). Their ordeal left no scent of toxic responses, like cynicism or sarcasm.

It may sound corny, but our "road" related to praying for THE dream job for my ambitious husband. To use his courageous heart, mind, and passions in a career where he is best suited. I am biased, but I believe he is gifted, IQ-wise. Brainy. For years we envisioned a dream job that was potentially a misfit. It didn't happen. We semi-retreated for a long while to study our navels and take time for needed reflection. In hindsight, we could have experienced the Peter Principle, jamming a round peg into a square hole. 

Around age 45 is when our career grooming and prayers began, zeroing in on one narrow type of promotion. Yet, after years of quiet preparation and waiting, we were passed over. Invisible. Even Loyal Toto needs affirmation other than a dog biscuit every so often... yet, our bubble dramatically burst, high and dry. That was 1,824 days (a day was subtracted for leap year), or 5 years ago. But, who's counting?

All it takes is complex math to figure out our ages now. Old enough to throw in the towel without ever seeing our prayers answered. Old enough to semi-retire and live out the rest of our years in the same pleasant city, eventually fully retiring, after being a part of a larger organization that graciously provided us finances and purpose for a combined 50+ years. Riding off into the silver-lined sunset, with co-worker friends singing "Happy trails to you."

But a funny thing happened on the way to pondering those swirling thoughts. A new job possibility presented itself. A meaningful opportunity. What's the catch? (Dorothy was required to fetch the witch's broom, so there MUST be a catch). It involves sifting through and packing possessions (dishes, pans, tools, clothing, toys, etc. acquired during 40 years of marriage), to sell our dream home; moving away from familiar and affordable Midwest to foreign and pricey East Coast.

Our tweaked dream job is in a city miles away; a long 12-hour drive from everybody and everything familiar. No longer an affordable, spur-of-the-moment solo car-drive away from those we love and cherish, but a draining drive or a pricey flight. 

That is the catch. That is the kicker. For this unbelievably impacting opportunity.

As I fumble to open a new box of toothpaste, a startling thought comes to mind: When I open the next new box (in probably 3 months), we will be living in a land far, far away.

I am fearful, about the entire moving, re-situating, and community-building process. However, fear-fueled sounds better, because this move is not about us. We dare to adapt and dream, for an ever-more cause. No guts, no meaningful Oz story.

Tick-tock. Follow the Yellow Brick Rode. Way too much to do.