This morning, I was “telling stories” on the way to take the grandchildren to school. It’s our thing. Bottoms aren’t even settled into seats before the chorus reaches a crescendo. “Please, Didi, please! Tell us! Did anything funny happen last night?” I dig into the recesses of my mind. Today we talked about their silly grandfather and how he gives all the animals dozens of nicknames that make no sense to anyone. For instance, our foster cat, Bon-Bon, who is quickly turning into a foster fail, is now called Bonnie, UGG Boot (they shaved the middle of her front leg for IV access during her spay, causing her to look like she’s wearing one furry boot), Vampire (her white teeth absolutely glow against her black mouth), Chicken Bone (again with the shaved front leg), and Little Face due to her petite nature. We were howling with laughter. I mentioned that Bon wasn’t the first pet he’d called Little Face. It started with Poppy the pug, with her very large head juxtaposed by all facial features being contained in a tiny circle. See, she had a little face. Silence. No laughter. Turns out, they didn’t remember Poppy.
I just finished a Bible study session with my church. Written by Jennifer Rothschild, Take Courage, was an amazing trip into the life and times of Haggai and how his God-given job was to convey a message of motivation and purpose to some downtrodden folks. Toward the end of the book, Jennifer talks about marker moments, those things that occur in our lives that are so powerful, we chart time by what was going on before the thing in question happened or what occurred afterward. We all sat around and compared notes on our most profound moments. While we all had expected markers, things like a child’s death, losing one’s parents, birth moments, etc., we all had some surprises, too – forgotten things.
I remember my baptism, but not in the way you might think. We weren’t church going folks when I was a kid. We would try, but it never seemed to take. When I was around 12, both of my grandmothers began talking to me about baptism and its transformative properties. I wanted in. I remember nothing about the big moment. The preacher’s face is a blur to me. I don’t know what I was wearing. I can’t recall going under the water that day at Point View Baptist Church in Combine. What I remember, vividly, is how we stayed after church for the picnic. My dad suddenly produced my violin from the trunk of the big Oldsmobile sedan he drove. I hadn’t known he was bringing it. He wanted me to play for everyone. My stomach turned. I ran to the restroom to vomit. He was mortified that I didn’t play that day. He had hoped for a little Orange Blossom Special or a few measures of Turkey in the Straw. I will never forget that feeling of angst that marked my first fight or flight experience. I’m not a fighter.
Cancer is often a huge marker moment. We remember the phone call and the treatment and all the aftereffects that define our lives. I don’t recall many details at all about my mastectomy, however. I know I spent the night in the hospital – was it two nights? I can’t tell you if my surgeon spoke to me beforehand. I have no clue what clothes I brought to wear home or what car we were driving in 2008. I don’t know what I ate or what meds they used to keep my pain at bay. But I will never forget the nurse pushing my bed out of an elevator and toward my hospital room, post-surgery. In my mind, I still ponder the expressions on all the faces we passed along the hallway: my mom, my dad, my best friend, my husband. All foreheads were knitted. All eyebrows were peaked in the center with edges that dipped down in anguish. Everyone looked dark and foreboding, ominous and worried. My journey had just begun and everyone I loved looked at me with the reality that this story ending was a bit up in the air.
I guess we should all consider how beyond our control this thinking game can be. The hippocampus wants what the hippocampus wants. But I can gap fill as I wish. I gave my heart to Jesus on baptism day. God repaid me by teaching me a valuable lesson in disappointment and unfulfilled expectations. There is beauty in that story. I survived cancer like a boss. Yet very few people can ride past a hallway of their loved ones like a Rose Parade float, seeing the love people have for them on display in their very eyes. There is beauty in that story. Once there was a pug named Poppy who had no neck, a very large head, and an impressively little face. It is okay that the grandkids don’t remember her, because I own that tale. There is beauty in that story, too.
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