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Grandchildren

Posted on by Susannah Warner

We’re lucky to have our little Bean over so often and so blessed to be grandparents. I mean, our kids were fun, but raising them was a lot of work; emotional and physical.  For one thing, they never slept well, even years beyond the baby stage, and since they are 6 years apart, I’m pretty sure I didn’t sleep through the night for nearly a decade. They fought a lot, usually just the garden variety, “she’s looking at me,” and “he keeps coughing in my ear,” followed by bouts of hitting or relentless teasing, but I also seem to recall, buried in the recesses of my brain, a rather unfortunate incident, involving a glass bottle thrown at someone’s head, and an even more egregious accusation of someone being chased around the dinner table by someone else who was wielding a knife. Who the aggressor was in each incident, I really don’t know, as I’ve just now stumbled upon this forgotten file in my brain, stored away at least 15 years ago and aptly titled, “Cure for baby fever!!” This, after I’d spent a dreamy 5 minutes, waxing poetic about the joys of having small children in the house.

And then there’s the guilt; a heavy, cumbersome mantle sitting securely on the head of every mother; working or stay-at-home, single or married. There is no escaping it, almost each day brings a fresh supply, and we as mothers accept the heavy burden with only the small consolation that we must be doing an ok job, or we probably wouldn’t feel guilt at all. Through all this; the fighting, the drudgery, the long days and short nights, there were plenty of good times too. But, it all seemed to go by so quickly, and even though the days often dragged, there is this strange phenomenon I heard a wise person explain like this, “the days are long, but the years are short,” I’ve found this to be quite accurate.

I actually enjoy my children so much more now that they are adults, because they are the friends that I raised. They know all my quirks, and think nothing of them. They  understand my need to quote my favorite movie lines every time someone says something that reminds me of one, or when I can’t help but sing the chorus of a song that seems to suit the occasion. When I say, “oh your father, you know how he is,” they nod fondly and smile, and they politely  remain nonplussed when “The Bickersons,” our evil, alter ego couple come to call, since they’ve seen their act many times before. Best of all, neither one can be bothered with staring at each other anymore, or coughing in each other’s ears and I’m quite confident that any squabble that might arise in the future, will not sink to the level of a thrown glass bottle, nor a threatened brutal knife attack, although a bout of relentless teasing cannot be entirely ruled  out. Thus, family gatherings with adult children is generally peaceful, if not a little bit predictable.

But a grandchild! Oh, what a joy! She lights up our world with her funny sayings, and her adorable little eyeglasses. We have all of the fun and none of the guilt. We really don’t care if she has cookies for breakfast, or if she doesn’t brush her teeth. We buy things we’d never buy for our kids…a milkshake at a restaurant instead of water! Noisemakers and glow sticks at a parade! Build-a-bear at the mall, and candy at the movies, instead of smuggling in our own! All fun, no work! Unless she wants to help, in which case we have all the time in the world for her to crack eggs and help pound in a nail.

In most cases, the less time we have on earth, the more patience we have for these little ones, and this is one of the many reasons they love us. Because, something all grandparents know is that as we age our days are shorter, but the enthusiasm and vitality of grandchildren, keep our years long. And that is just one of the many reasons that we love them.

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Baby, It’s Busy Here

Posted on by Susannah Warner

I really can’t stay (but baby, it’s busy here)
I’ve got to go away (but baby, it’s so busy here)
This evening has been (please help us get out of the mess that we’re in)
the worst shift ever (I’ll hold your hand, we’ll do the admission together!)
My husband will start to worry (co-worker, what’s your hurry?)
My children will be pacing the floor (listen to those callbells roar)
So really I’d better scurry (best friend please don’t hurry)
But maybe just a half a cold coffee more (do some charting while I pour)
The supervisor might think (baby, it’s so busy here)
Hey, what do you think? (no more beds to be filled out there)
I wish I knew how (I know you’re feeling guilty now)
To break this spell (I’ll hang up your coat, your hair looks swell)
I ought to say, no, no, no (but we need you, so please don’t go!)
At least I’m gonna say that I tried (you know that we’re all feeling fried)
I really can’t stay (oh c’mon, what do you say?!?)
Cuz baby, it’s busy here!
I simply must go (but baby, it’s busy here!)
The answer is no (but baby, it’s so busy here!)
This shift really has been (how lucky for us that you dropped in)
One of the worst that I’ve been on (look out the window it’s nearly dawn)
The other nurses will be suspicious (gosh, doesn’t that old donut look delicious)
My relatives will be waiting at the door (think of the overtime galore)
though a family Christmas party can be really quite vicious (gosh these saltines are so delicious)
So, maybe just a few hours more (anything, just please don’t walk out that door!)
I’ve gotta get home (but baby, you’d feel guilty out there)
Don’t make me feel bad (we’re up to our knees in here)
I’m really quite sad (we’ll laugh at this someday, over a beer)
But don’t you see? (how can you do this to me?)
There’s bound to be talk tomorrow (robbing Peter to pay Paul, is someone else’s sorrow)
At least there will be plenty implied (if we all call out tomorrow and say that we died)
I really can’t stay (I don’t want you to say)
Baby, it’s busy
Baby, it’s so busy here!

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Dance then.

Posted on by Susannah Warner

My husband and I went to the hospital’s annual Christmas dance last night. We both love to dance, and we never miss it. He’s more free-spirited, as I have a tendency to get embarrassed easily if I feel like I’m not strictly adhering to social norms. But, I love to dance so I’ve never let my awkwardness get in the way. Although anyone who has seen my husband dance, must realize that it’s a pretty tall order to nonchalantly move to your own beat while he’s two-stepping, doing a Russian squat dance, a half split, or as he did last night, spinning himself so enthusiastically that he falls on the floor. He’s actually a really good dancer, not because he’s taken lessons, as our granddaughter does, but because he just listens to the music and allows his body to move with it. His lack of  extreme self-awareness that many anxious people have, allows him to trust his body to move with the beat, something that even toddlers can do, because they have no inhibitions. For the rest of us, who sometimes feel a little awkward but do it anyway because it’s so much fun, I think it’s a good thing to practice being less concerned with what the masses think; because really, we all look a little silly at a dance, the watchers and the dancers both, so my thought is, I might as well dance.

However, it did occur to me as I was out on the dance floor, literally jumping up and down while doing the arm motions to YMCA, that I must look ridiculous. But a second later, I thought, “who cares? I’m having fun!” Having fun as an adult is not as easy as it was when I was a kid. Everything was fun then… well, a lot of things were. I laughed a lot, even at the silliest things. I would have thought that maybe it was the amnesia of time that made my childhood seem like so much fun, except for our granddaughter. She laughs all the time, mainly at slapstick comedy and things that adults no longer find funny, because by the time you’ve been on this earth for nearly half a century, fun and laughter are as precious a commodity as a good night’s sleep. It is something we as adults arrange, rather than spontaneously enjoy. We plan vacations, and day trips, excursions and experiences, all in the pursuit of fun. So, when it sneaks up on you at work, or with your friends, or your spouse, and you get that kind of unworldly experience of time standing still for a second, and you can almost see yourself as others are seeing you, laughing and having pure, childlike fun, it’s remarkable. “I’m having fun” you might think, almost in surprise. I found myself thinking that even after my husband fell on the floor. I could see the watchers watching, and for a second I was embarrassed, but then I wasn’t. I laughed, and so did he. I don’t know what the watchers did after that, because I stopped looking at them looking at us.

I’m sure that there are many different reasons why the watchers are watching. It might be because they don’t like to dance, or they don’t think they can do it well, or maybe they have had an injury preventing them from dancing or maybe they just prefer to be on the sidelines. Certainly, there is nothing wrong with that, and the fact that the watchers are watching, and not looking away, or getting up and leaving in disgust, and that they attended a dance in the first place, means that there is something about dancing that they are drawn to.

The dancers are just out there. They may have been half-dragged there by a spouse, or they might have gone willingly. They might be just swaying, and feeling awkward, and thinking that the watchers are watching and judging. They might have gotten caught up in the music, or they just might be all-in, and all-out while not having a care in the world even when they fall down, like my husband.

If the watchers are truly happy watching, then that is good, but if there is even a small part of that person, wishing that they could be as carefree as some, and not worry about what other people think, then the next time there is an opportunity, the watchers should dance.

Why? Because most people are too busy with their own concerns and fears to judge yours. It is the paradox of insecurity to feel unable to measure up, while assuming that people care enough about you to measure you. You know what? No one cares. Most people are too busy thinking about themselves to worry about what you’re doing. The dancers are not judging because they are too busy having fun. And if there are a few poor souls who feel the need to judge, then they will judge you if you sit out, or if you dance…so you might as well dance, even if you fall.

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In His Footsteps

Posted on by Susannah Warner

 

When he was 6, the little boy liked to tag along after his grandfather, and try to follow in his footsteps in the snow. They were big shoes to fill; his grandfather was a man with a lot of work to do, and he did not tarry on his way to the barn. After all, a farm is no place for lollygaggers. There were 40 cows to milk, feed and clean up after, and it was wintertime in upstate NY. Plentiful snow, and wicked winds blew across the fields that in the summer, were dotted with cows; sometimes standing, sometimes sitting depending on the weather.

But the heart of winter meant that the cows had to be fed inside, and breaking a trail to the barn through the fresh snow was a very hard job, and the boy struggled to keep up. He wanted to walk where his grandfather had walked, because the snow was over his knees, and to walk in his footsteps would be easier than breaking his own trail, but mostly he wanted to walk where his grandfather had walked, because he wanted to be just like him. The little boy wanted to walk as upright and confidently as the old man did-to not waste steps or breath on foolishness, to be as steadfast as the sun, and he wanted to be absolutely sure of where he would wake up every morning, as his grandfather was, and had been every single day of his life, having never moved from his boyhood home.

The little boy did not always know where he would wake up in the morning at his parent’s house. He did not always know which house, which town, or sometimes even which state he would live in next. The boy’s parents moved a lot. They also fought often and sometimes hurled ugly words at each other like daggers, but they bounced off each other, and pierced the little boy in the heart, and made him afraid. He was often afraid, but not on his grandparent’s farm, where there was no time for fear, and no reason for it either.

There was always work to do, and it never changed. The rhythm and flow of the farm was steady; there were no high highs, but no low lows either. The boy knew that every morning when he woke up, his grandmother would be making breakfast, while his grandfather would be finishing the morning chores, and would soon come in the back door, stomping his feet to rid his boots of the snow, while his grandmother scolded him for leaving puddles on her clean floor. Sometimes after breakfast, he would help his grandmother bake, and sometimes he would work outside with his grandfather.  When he went to the barn, he knew the names of all the cows. His grandfather did not care about the names, but his grandmother did, and he did too. He knew that next summer, when he was 7, his grandfather would teach him to drive the tractor, and he couldn’t wait. He knew that once a month, on a Saturday, he and his grandparents would take a trip to Ogdensburg, 25 miles away, so that his grandmother could get groceries. He knew that she would put on her red lipstick before they left, and that his grandfather would not allow the old Desoto to go more than 25 miles per hour. He knew his grandmother would get him a new comic book when she shopped, and in the summer, he would spend the afternoon lying on his belly in the hay barn, reading his comic book, while the barn cats sniffed at him curiously and dust motes danced in the air. And he knew that every night after supper, after he and his grandmother had washed and dried the dishes, she would put Jergans hand lotion on, and give some to him, while his grandfather sat in his chair and read the paper, the smoke from his pipe drifting lazily above his head.

Although the work never ended, life was easy and simple for the little boy when he was on the farm. He wasn’t afraid of work, so there was nothing here to fear. He knew his grandparents loved him, and that they would always be in the same place, no matter where he lived. He knew that he would not hear harsh voices or jagged words on the farm. In fact, his grandfather hardly spoke at all, but when he did, he knew it was important, and he listened carefully. He knew that his grandfather was a good man, and that he wanted to be just like him when he got big.

What the little boy didn’t know, was that someday his own grandchild would want to follow him. This time, the grandchild was a little girl, and she loved him as much as he loved his grandfather, except that she said she wanted to marry him when she got big. She knew that her grandfather loved her, and would always be happy to see her. She knew that every time she ran to him to hug him, he would kneel down, and with open arms, would let her slam into him and laugh just as she did. She knew that he laughed when she accidentally gave him a black eye when they were play-fighting. She knew that she was always safe with him, even high up on his shoulders. She knew that he missed her when she was at school, and that he would play and wrestle with her on the weekends, and that he made the best scrambled eggs in the world, even better than her grandmothers. And she knew that he would play with her in the snow, and that they would look for deer tracks, and that when it was time to go into the warm house for hot cocoa, that she would follow in his footsteps, just as he had done with his grandfather, almost a half century ago.

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Step into the light

Posted on by Susannah Warner

It’s you…

You robber of joy, you stealer of laughter. You’ve taken our peace, that’s what you’re after.

You’ve stolen my love, taken him away again, and replaced his smile, with anger and pain.

You took our hope, you’ve stolen his light, you made him believe that life isn’t worth the fight.

You inject us with strife, what slick lies you weave, you seek to destroy, hoping one of us leaves.

But, oh… once again, you’ve overplayed your hand! Through the havoc you wreak I understand…

That’s it’s you…the accuser, the liar, the thief; not my husband, not our lives, it’s not even me.

For those who’ve felt the crush of bipolar, and for the loved ones still standing when the heaviness takes over,

only you can know, how isolating it feels, when the blanket of oppression so stealthily steals.

But, take heart my love, and for all those who suffer, you will stand again, and fight the blackness that hovers.

For it IS a battle, we who fight illness know, how tenacious it is,  it doesn’t easily go.

Yet, the Light is coming, hold on a little more…See? here He comes, through the open door.

He bares our weariness, heartbreak and stress, beckons us to Him, so we may finally rest.

So, don’t worry, my sweet, it will be alright, take my hand and together, we’ll step into the Light.

 
The people living in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned.
Matthew 4:16

 

 

 

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The Things We Keep

Posted on by Susannah Warner

I had a burst of energy that sunny, November morning. It was Saturday, at 7 am, and a few restorative sips of coffee under my belt found me knee-deep in old boots, coats, and sports equipment as I had ambitiously decided to tackle my entryway closet.  I spent an hour purging it of many of the things that I had binged on through the years and the “give-away” pile was growing; not nearly as quickly as the “keep” pile, but I was pretty satisfied with myself, and my progress, until I found an old pillowcase, shoved way in the back. Inside, were the vestiges of my life, and my little families life, and the physical reminders of them that I’d chosen to keep.

I remembered then, that I’d thrown it in there many years ago, after a strikingly similar botched organizational attempt left me so sick of sorting through everything that I thrown the whole mess in to deal with later. Well, later had come…albeit many years later. Except this time, I finished my task and was quite pleased with my efforts as I sat down, and sipping my now cooled coffee, sorted through that old pillowcase (why I had used a pillowcase, I really can’t say) full of things from the back of the closet. Most were school papers from the kids, things that I found impossible to toss then, and difficult to throw away even now, although at least half of the drawings didn’t have a name and only by subject matter, or personal style could I identify the artist; intricate perfectionist drawings half-finished by our son, slapdash but completed works of art by our daughter.

Amongst the schoolwork and report cards decades of years old, I found crumbling baby teeth, the “tooth fairy” was unwilling to part with, locks of baby hair, that I guessed to be our daughters because it was not blonde like our sons, miniature arm bands, worn by our babies in the hospital and even, to my great chagrin, two, + pregnancy test sticks. Clearly, I am a person with a heaping helping of sentimentality, who is prone to tidal waves of nostalgia. My husband, is not so much, and calls me a packrat. However, he has a romantic streak, which this pragmatic girl does not, as evidenced by multiple little cards that come with flowers in the pile sent to me, by him, many of which expressed a remorseful, apologetic tone, while still others, gushing declarations of affection. There were also several love letters, one of which was in an envelope with a return address of “heartbreak hotel” at “I miss you, USA, ” with a “county jail” stamp emblazoned across the front. What can I say? A long marriage is full of ups and downs.

They were all things, that for one reason or another, I’d chosen to keep. Things that although I’d felt were important enough to store for almost three decades, I had not looked at, or thought of in many, many years. They were tangible reminders of the feelings they had once evoked, and I must have felt that if I threw them away, I’d be throwing away the emotion itself.

When I was younger, I was foolish enough to believe that the best things in life came in packages, things that could be wrapped up, with a bow on top. I thought happiness was tied up that way. After all, things are tangible and can be enjoyed for a long time as opposed to experiences and ideas, which were either too fleeting and expensive, or too abstract for this practical girl to embrace. What I didn’t know then, was that objects lose their luster as we become used to having them, and so we crave more. The shininess wears off, revealing cheap plastic underneath, which we toss away with one hand while reaching out for something new with the other.

As I’ve grown older and a little wiser, I have come to realize that the abstracts in life are truly what we desire. Love, joy, faith, hope, loyalty, friendship, family, and memories…not one of these things can be bought, but all are trully precious. These things did not have as much value when I was younger, many of them were not thought of at all, but as wisdom increases, many of us realize that we’ve taken for granted many priceless possessions. The expectation of our youth gives way to the gratefulness of old age for the intangible things. Things that we have discovered, are all that matter, and the only things worth holding on to. We eventually learn the secret to one of life’s mysteries…that the imperceptible gifts of love, joy and friendship we give to each other, come back to us so multiplied, they are nearly palpable.

Sneezing as I looked at each photo, read every card, and fondled the broken teeth, I contemplated throwing it all in the trash, but I knew that I couldn’t do it. Stuffing everything back into the pillowcase, I wedged it all back in the corner of the closet, knowing full well that someday my children would come across these things after my death, or when they moved me into a nursing home, and wonder why in the world I’d decided to keep such ridiculous reminders of the past. But, I’m pretty sure they will know too, of the things we keep.

 

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The Miracle

Posted on by Susannah Warner

My husband has smoked cigarettes for 42 years. He started when he was 11 years old, after he spotted his older brother smoking in the woods with his friends. So, to ensure that he wouldn’t rat them out, they made him smoke too. This isn’t to say that he wouldn’t have smoked anyway.  I’m quite sure that he would have, given the pack of ruffians he hung out with when he was growing up, and since a pack cost 35 cents in 1976, they were not hard to come by. His parents eventually found out, and grounded him, but he was not deterred.

I smoked too, for at least 10 years, my favorites were Marlboro lights 100’s in a box. There was nothing like the feeling of zipping the cellophane off a new box and inhaling the sweet smell of tobacco from what looked to be a box of perfect, white chalk sticks. I enjoyed the social side of smoking, and I’m pretty sure we were both smoking when we met at a pit party in 1989.  I continued to smoke, even throughout my first pregnancy (hey! my easy-going OB-GYN said “pfft that’s like smoking nothing” when I tearfully admitted that I still smoked three cigarettes a day), and even while I was in labor (although I’m not proud of this fact, please know that our now 27-year-old daughter has never smoked a day in her life, and has no health problems related to my foolishness). However, 5 years later, when I was pregnant with our son, I was older and wiser (24! LOL!), and felt too guilty to continue, so I quit only to pick it up two weeks after he was born in attempt to lose that baby weight, which I did – seven pounds worth in the first week. When our son was about a year old though, I had a patient about my age, who was on birth control like I was, who also smoked, and had had a stroke so severe that she could not pick up her own baby. The similarities were striking and scared me into quitting the very next day. It’s been 20 years since then, and although I still dream about smoking occasionally, and have often joked that I plan to return to it when I’m 80, I’m actually pretty sure that I won’t ever smoke again.

My husband, although proud of me for quitting, did not stop. He continued to smoke even after he went to college for physical therapy, and worked with patients who were dying of cancer and those whose activity was so limited by lung disease, that not only could they not walk due to breathlessness, but eventually even eating took their breath away. As a caregiver, it is such a helpless feeling to watch someone struggle to breathe; I can’t even imagine what it feels like for a family member to watch their once vibrant loved one become a shell. I didn’t want to see my nature loving, exercise obsessed, gotta-move, husband become like that, and I told him so, but still he smoked.

It’s not like he didn’t try to quit. Over the years he had many periods in his life that he did not smoke for days, and sometimes weeks, due to unfortunate incarcerations, or self-imposed week-long Appalachian trail hikes, meant to get him over the hump, literally and figuratively. He also tried the gum, patches, and even hypnosis, but nothing worked for him. Each time he came home, he was so restless, and so terribly irritable that he couldn’t stand himself, and I couldn’t stand him either. I once told him to leave the house and not come back until he had smoked because I couldn’t stand his crankiness one more minute.

As the years went by, he became very self-conscious about smoking. It had not been socially acceptable for many years, the era of the rugged Marlboro man long gone, replaced with the trappings of poverty and weakness. It became a very heavy burden; always looking for a place to smoke when out in public, remembering a lighter, trying to cover up the smell, not to mention the cost! He started to despise it so much, that he always tried to hide it from our granddaughter, and he obsessively washed his hands after he’d been outside (he hadn’t smoked in our house since 1990), and he was constantly asking me to wash his jacket because he didn’t like the smell.

Enter our granddaughter Bean. She and I have prayed for him to quit smoking for at least half of her six years. I’ve talked about the power of Bean’s prayers before; the red balloon, the boyfriend…but this request put our faith to the test. Half of your life, is a long time to pray for something, but she didn’t give up. The night he stopped, was no different. I had picked Bean up from school, taken her to dance class, and I was putting her to bed, while waiting for her mom to come home from work. Bean started with “Dear Lord,” then added in her little girl concerns and ended with…”and please help my Papa quit smoking! Amen!” I said the same, tucked her in, kissed her, said goodnight, and shutting her door went downstairs, picked up my phone and found this…5206D3DC-F38B-4991-9C39-1A6B69F29568

Now, don’t get me wrong…I absolutely believe in prayer, I believe that God answers all of our prayers, and that he wants the best for us, but this seemed too good to be true! I’d heard testimonies in church of people being “delivered,” but to have this addiction taken from him so effortlessly seemed too much to hope for. We were both a little afraid that talking about it would “jinx” it, so we moved on to other topics from there. I also didn’t want to pressure him, and make him feel badly if another attempt was unsuccessful, because every effort he’d made didn’t work, and every time he’d tried, he’d limped back to that controlling old lover with his tail between bis legs.

We didn’t say too much about it when I got home that night either, but the next day, I was dying to know what happened in the morning, as this was the time of day he needed to smoke the most. So, I waited awhile, but at break time at work, I could stand the suspense no longer and texted this…03CA8FBC-E108-4450-826A-79C13EDB2F5F

“It can’t be this easy,” he said, but it was. He was not irritable, he didn’t have to chew the terrible tasting gum, wear the patches that gave him panic attacks, or distract himself from nicotine cravings with candy. It was as if he’d never smoked at all…No cough as the previously paralyzed cilia in his lungs woke up and started to sweep out the debris, and his sense of smell, something he didn’t know was crippled, returned. The concerns he’d had initially about filling his time, dissipated. It was all so easy because God did it.

Reader, you might scoff at this, you certainly have the right to believe whatever you want. You might have been praying for things to change in your life, and it seems as if he does not hear you. But, let me tell you, He does. My husband was addicted to cigarettes for 42 years; it controlled his life and mine. He tried so many times to quit, but he could not do it on his own, at least not without an immense amount of suffering on his part, and on mine! It took some time; Bean and I prayed about this for years, and I know he’d also been praying about it for a long time, but if it had happened sooner, it would not have seemed like the miracle that it truly is.

I want you to know that my husband and I are rational, normal people. We are nothing special, just a regular American couple. We have two children and a granddaughter, we work, go to church occasionally, read our bible way less than we should, and tithe when it is convenient. We swear sometimes, go to bed angry sometimes, and are not always a good example of God’s love. We are Christians, but not what I would consider to be “good Christians,” if there is even such a thing. But, let me tell you something that I know, that I know, that I know…and that is this. It doesn’t matter if we are good; God is good. It is not about our faithfulness; He is faithful. It is not how much we love; He is love, and He loves us. We try our best, and he does the rest. It is just that easy, and it is just that simple…and that is the real miracle.

 

 

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The Golden Arrowhead

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Once upon a time, many years ago, in a land not too far away, an adorable little boy lived an unhappy life with unhappy parents. He was a sweet little boy, but he was full of energy, he liked to talk a lot, and he loved to see other people laugh, so he was often in trouble for being a class clown, or for being rambunctious although he meant no harm. In fact, he tried very hard to be good so that his parents would be proud of him, but he never felt like he was good enough.

The little boy was very active, and he liked to play outside with his friends, but he was often grounded and not allowed to go out, so he was very surprised when his mother told him that he was going to go to church camp for a whole week. He had heard his friends talk about camp, and it sounded like so much fun that he could hardly wait.

At last the day arrived, and although he was a little bit afraid, because he didn’t know any of the kids he saw playing outside, he bravely carried his little suitcase, and rolled up sleeping bag to the bunk house. Inside, there were other boys settling in for the week, and before he’d finished making up his bunk, he’d already made new friends and no longer felt nervous.

Camp was just like his school friends had said it would be. He ran and swam, played games and had so much fun with his new friends that before he knew it, it was the last day of camp, and that afternoon, his parents would come to pick him up and take him home. He was sad to think that camp was almost over, until lunchtime when one of the teenage counselors stood up, and made an announcement.

He held out a clear plastic box, and inside, nestled on a bed of red velvet, was a golden arrowhead. The counselor said that there would be a contest to see who could go the whole afternoon without saying a word. The winner would be announced at the closing ceremonies with all the parents present, and he or she could bring the golden arrowhead home. The little boy was so excited. He knew that he could win that arrowhead if he tried really hard, and he just knew his parents would be so proud of him. He could just imagine their faces when his name was announced, and he walked up on stage in front of everyone to collect his prize. He knew just where he would put it in his room, and he imagined taking it to school for show and tell. He was so sure that he could win it, and so eager to start, that he stopped talking even before the contest began.

At last lunch was over, and after a countdown, the contest officially began. Silently, all the children ran outside, a few pushing excitedly past the slower ones. “Hey!!” one of them protested. “OHHH! You’re out!” a counselor shouted, pointing at the talker. The little boy smiled to himself; he knew there was no way that he was going to make that mistake! Outside, the playground was eerily quiet, as all the children tried their best not to talk. But, after a few minutes, more and more children were pointed at by the counselors but still the little boy did not speak. He knew he could win, and he was determined to get that arrowhead.

An hour passed, and at least half of the children were “out.” The ones still in the running for the arrowhead, walked around but did not play for fear that they would speak, but the ones already caught talking had gone on to play kickball, and jump rope, and swing on the swing set. The little boy wandered around, hands in his pockets, thinking to himself that he wished he could play with the others but that it would be worth the wait, to see the look on his parent’s faces, when they saw him win that beautiful arrowhead. Scuffing his feet, he turned towards the swing set, just in time to see a little girl, younger and smaller, fall backwards off a swing, her pigtails covering her face as her head hit the ground.

The little boy ran over to the little girl, and said, “are you ok?” as he helped her to her feet. Crying, she nodded, just as a counselor pointed at the little boy and said, “You’re out!” The boy protested, “but, I was asking her if she was alright!” The counselor, who seemed quite big to the boy at the time, but who was probably no more than 14, was quite sure that the rules were black and white, “doesn’t matter, you still talked!”

The little boy gave up, he knew he would never get the arrowhead, and although he was angry with the councilor, he wasn’t sorry that he’d helped the little girl. He knew even then, that he wouldn’t want the prize if it meant that he couldn’t help someone. The rest of the afternoon passed, and at the closing ceremony, a girl about the little boys age was awarded the arrowhead. Everyone clapped as she proudly went onstage and afterwards, as he and his parents drove away, he saw the little girl’s mom hug her while her dad carried her suitcase and sleeping bag to the car, so that she could hold on to her award.

Years passed, and the little boy grew up. He continued to get into trouble sometimes, and he never really thought that his parents were proud of him, even when he went on to serve his country, or when he was the first person in his family to earn a college degree. The boy married, had children of his own, and eventually his parents passed away. The little boy was a father himself for many years before he remembered the story of the golden arrowhead again, and told his wife. He chuckled remembering how much the little boy wanted the arrowhead, and laughed when he told his wife how the joke was on him for losing the prize at a church camp because he’d tried to help someone. But his wife didn’t laugh, she felt sad for the little boy, who was punished for doing a good deed, and who couldn’t see that he was a such a good person inside, no matter how many times he got in trouble. She was proud of him, but rarely told him so.

Many more years passed, and the wife never forgot the story of the golden arrowhead. She thought to herself many times that she should tell the little boy that she was proud of him, and grateful that he had a merciful, sweet spirit, but she never did. Until one day, the story spilled out of her head, into her fingers and onto her keyboard. She wrote about the little boy because she wanted him to know that she was so proud of him for losing that contest, and that she loved him just the way he was, even though he sometimes talked too much, and was still quite rambunctious. The wife wanted him to know that even at his worst, he was still good, and that together they could live happily ever after.

The end.

Posted in Uncategorized

Susie Sunshine

Posted on by Susannah Warner

I’m kind of in a ranty mood this morning, so maybe you want to stop right here….still reading? OK, don’t say I didn’t warn you!

So, I guess I woke up on the “wrong side of the bed.” I don’t know why; it is raining out, so it could be that I suppose, or the fact that the wind is blowing the few remaining colorful leaves off the trees, and with it, the last vestiges of our glorious Maine summer, while ushering in Old Man winter. We had snow squalls yesterday, and while snow before Halloween in Maine is not unheard of, it’s always jarring when it occurs, because wasn’t it just last week, my husband and I were traipsing through the woods–coat less, hat less, and happy? Yeah, actually that was last week! Now, here I sit, typing away, right next to a roaring fire in my wood stove, warm and toasty on one side of my body and freezing on the other, or at least until I turn my chair.

I have a lot to be thankful for, and not much to complain about, except for my little list of first-world problems…Like, I’m out of my favorite creamer AND dish washer detergent AND toilet paper in the downstairs bathroom, which necessitates a trip to Wal-Mart, which means I’ll have to take a shower, and get dressed ON MY DAY OFF. While there, I’ll no doubt see people I know, since I live in small-town USA, and since I have a happy smiley face on all day at work, I don’t feel like having one ON MY DAY OFF, so, I’ll be forced to duck my head, and spin my cart around, so that I don’t have to make nice chit-chat about the weather and the Red Sox. I’m pretty sure I’ll walk out of there, 150 bucks poorer, and wonder how in the world I spent that much on three items?!? When I get home, I’ll realize that I should have thrown away all the healthy food I bought one sunshiny day last week when I was in an optimistic mood, to make room for all the junk I bought this week, because it is raining and my intake might as well match my salty mood. The junk food will remind me that I should have gone to the gym because I won’t be able to squeeze in a guilt-walk today, since it is pouring, and then, shrugging and giving up completely, I’ll put my sweatpants back on, open a fresh bag of Cheetos and throw myself on the couch for a few episodes of Shameless, which btw, is aptly named for the show itself, as well as for those of us who binge on it.

Oh shoot, I also have to have a mammogram today, ( I’m aware that is unnecessary information, but, you were forewarned!), AND  blood work for which I am supposed to fast for, but already ruined with a thick slab of banana bread. All this, coupled with the knowledge that my work friends and I, who collectively just blew a lot of money on this first-world foolishness, DID NOT win Mega Millions and will in fact be returning to work, was just all too much this morning. The knowledge that before last week, I had never bought a lottery ticket in my life, AND the useless trivia cluttering up my brain, that 44% of lottery winners go broke within five years notwithstanding, I had already lived out my philanthropist dreams of “making it rain” in a crowded grocery store, and the acquisition of a writer’s paradise in the form of a private island, several times over in my head.

I’m aware of how I sound; like a spoiled, surly Susie. Fortunately for my husband, this is an anomaly rather than the norm. He, who is a night owl, set his alarm last night to give himself a few extra minutes to share coffee with the sweet girl he kissed on the forehead last night, only to blink in surprise at this stranger sitting across from him, a messy bun on her head, furrowed brow on her face, with grievances to air, and a pot to stir. He wisely made a hasty exit, a marriage hack he’s learned over several decades and employs when the need arises. He knows that if I’m feeling cranky, it’s a bit like the embers in our wood stove, slowing burning. He could choose to feed it, and crank it up, or let it slowly die on its own, which it always does when there is no fuel.

Finding no material here, yet still itching for a fight, I turned to Facebook, and quickly typed out a snarky comment to a poor unsuspecting soul who had posted some innocent meme about raising kids, then mentally smacked myself just in time before I hit post, erased it all, and sat down to blog out my annoyances instead. So, here I am; no Susie sunshinesque life lessons to impart, marriage advice to give, or cutesy photos of us rambling through the Maine woods or smiling broadly from a mountaintop. These things are not fake, they really do make up about 90% of my life, but sometimes I’m not into it. One Facebook friend aptly posted as he headed to work outside in the raw, gray drizzle, “I’m just not feeling it today,” and I almost reacted with “love” because I’m not feeling it either, but decided against it because I wasn’t sure if that would look like I was happy that he was suffering, or the virtual fist bump of solidarity that I had intended.

Sometimes though, misery really does love company, which is why I love my work friends so much, and our coffee breaks. A few minutes of airing our grievances to each other, and we all come out of the break room with our frowns turned upside down, feeling heard and justified. This is also why I will always gladly enter into our little office pools, partly because….well, FOMO, but also because I actually would have something to cry about (oh wow, that just brought up memories from my childhood!), if they were all gone and I didn’t have anyone to commiserate with.

I’m actually feeling better now! My mood has lifted as I’ve typed away my irritations. I feel more like myself! Who cares about Wal-Mart trips and mammograms and rainy days. And who cares that I didn’t win, I have blessings to count and I’d rather count them, than just money any day. Susie Sunshine has returned!

Update: I’m back from my errands and I actually spent 153.96 on God knows what, my mammogram doubly sucked because the radiologist was not satisfied with the first set of images so we had to do it again, and the cold northwest wind was enough to make me decide against my walk, but not enough that I don’t feel guilty about it. BUT…wine (not whine!)! That’s it. The end.

Posted in Uncategorized

Driving Blind

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Once I dreamed it was black as night, I could see neither left, nor right

I was driving, although I could not see, the road right in front of me.

I was not afraid until I became aware, that FEAR had dropped out of thin air.

“What am I doing!?!” I shouted in fright, because driving blind is obviously not right.

“I’ll crash, I’ll hurt someone, or myself!” Panicking, I looked around for help.

“Here, I’ve got this,” he said with a smile, “slide over, let me drive for a while.”

I didn’t move, so he sat on my lap, he moved as gracefully as a cat.

“Let me take the wheel, my dear, I’ll soon have us out of here.”

I almost listened, he seemed so sure, besides I didn’t know how to steer anymore,

because it’s impossible to fight that fight, when you don’t know if you should go left or right.

I lifted my hands to let him steer, and that is when I recognized Fear.

“Wait a minute! I know who you are! Get the F@#$ out of my car!”

His time was up and he knew it, once again he knew he blew it.

“I’ll get out, but you’ll see, you can’t continue without me.”

He slunk away, with threats to come back, but I knew I’d know him by the way he attacks.

Alone again, I still couldn’t see, but a new thought bubbled up out of me.

“I’m doing it!” I thought, “I’ve been doing it the whole time, I’m still on the road, I’m doing just fine!!

All I have to do is keep going, even though no path is showing.

It doesn’t matter that I can’t see, in fact that’s what has set me free.

If I am blind and yet can still move, God is in control, and that is the proof!”

He heard my cry and didn’t let me crash, kept me from scary teeth that nash.

And like a Good Father, He let me drive, so that I could learn, and grow to be wise.

And if again I’m blinded by fear, I’ll never doubt that it is HE who steers.

 

Joshua 1:9

 Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go.”