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Commonsense Dating, Part One

I’ve been journaling for over nine years, ever since the death of my husband David in March 2012. Each journal is chosen carefully, with meaningful covers. I have previously written about my process of choosing journals HERE.

Because journaling was my way of working my way through things, I panicked when I realized I’d run out of journals at the beginning of the pandemic. I definitely needed to write my way through the gamut of emotions I was experiencing. Realizing the absurdity of my panic, (I did have reams of paper inside the house, after all), I called the local bookstore and had them walk through the store, describing various journals available. Though I wasn’t thrilled with the “Alice in Wonderland” themed one the saleswoman mentioned, I was intrigued when she told me it was a “novel” journal, with words pulled from the text as lines. I ordered it. When I pulled up to the curb and put my window down, the salesperson, gloved and masked, approached. We both laughed when she threw the bag through the open window. When I got home and opened up the journal, it seemed the perfect choice for that period of time. I filled it in three months.

I’ve filled several journals since. But at the end of May, with in-person programming beginning at my workplace once again, and a sense of normalcy returning, I picked up another “novel journal,” this one with words of H.G. Wells sporting both pages and cover. Wait for the common sense of the morning, the words on the cover say.

On June 4, I copied these words from Henri Nouwen’s book on spiritual discernment into this journal: “When we are rooted in prayer and solitude and form part of a community of faith, certain signs are given to us in daily life as we struggle for answers to spiritual questions. The books we read, the nature we enjoy, the people we meet, and the events we experience contain within themselves signs of God’s presence and guidance day by day. When certain poems or scripture verses speak to us in a special way, when nature sings and creation reveals its glory, when particular people seem to be placed in our path, when a critical or current event seems full of meaning, its time to pay attention to the divine purpose to which they point. Discernment is a way to read the signs and recognize divine messages.”

On June 26, I wrote in my new journal: “I’ve been thinking about Vicki Jolene’s advice to me regarding finding love again. She asked if I’d prayed to David yet, to help guide me to the man he would choose for me. I know God asked me twice in the summer of 2018 to ‘pray for the man that would be my husband’ because he was going through something tough at the time, and I’d obeyed, though I’d felt foolish. I’d written down those prayers and covered them up in my journal, embarrassed. At the time, I believed he was promising me a husband, but so many years have gone by, I just wonder if I’d misheard him. But pray to David? Pray to a dead spouse? Is that even Biblical? I know that David told me he’d want me to marry again because he knew how much I loved hugging and holding hands and he’d want me to have that again, but to pray to him to help me find it?

Vicki Jolene, trained as a Methodist minister, was well aware of my struggle with loneliness these past years, my prayers to God to protect my heart and his clear answers whenever my romantic self imagined something might be happening. God had consistently done just as I’d asked, protecting my heart by making it crystal clear when a certain man I might be entertaining romantic notions about was not for me.

Yet my heart ached with loneliness, especially at night as I cried out to God, asking why other widows I knew had found love, but not me. Why I was still alone. What was so unlovable about me? Yet even as I prayed, whined, and lamented, I knew, without a doubt, God was working in me, changing me, that I was becoming all he wanted me to be.

I seriously considered Vicki Jolene’s advice, finally deciding it would do no harm. So I “prayed to David,” through Jesus Christ, if he could help guide me to the man he would choose for me, could he please do so. I don’t know how Heaven works. Maybe our loved ones do watch over us. Maybe they can help us.

Just days later, I connected with a man on Catholic Match. I’d decided to give the website one last try because my son had recently met a nice girl online. Their experience made me brave. I was about ready to delete my account after a couple of what I call “creeper encounters,” men who either sounded too good to be true (because they weren’t) or those who were downright scary. So I was appropriately wary when Nick messaged me. He gave me enough information I could do an online search and figure out he was telling the truth. He was visiting his sister in AZ at the time and she’d encouraged him to join the site where she’d met her husband. Nick and I messaged back and forth several times before he asked if we could meet in person when he got back to WI. I chose a public space. We’d meet after I got off work on a Thursday at Panera Bread.

While doing a devotional Thursday morning, I was thinking about my date that afternoon when I clearly heard I was NOT to meet him at Panera Bread. I was confused. Why not? And if not Panera Bread, where?

AT YOUR HOUSE. Now, if you are a new Christian, or have not yet developed a relationship with Jesus, this kind of directive could easily be ignored. But because I have been living in the Word and I can discern God’s voice, I should have known better than to disobey.

But it made no sense to me. Why would God be asking a single woman to invite a strange man to her house? I decided I had misheard the directive.

INVITE HIM TO YOUR HOME. At work, the message got stronger and stronger. I was jumpy with the ridiculousness of it. Invite a strange man to my home? That’s insane. It’s the exact opposite of the advice I would give to my daughters or any other woman. I tried calling my oldest daughter so she could talk me out of it. She didn’t answer the phone. The message became urgent. INVITE HIM TO YOUR HOME. I couldn’t take it anymore. Okay, okay! I threw up my hands in despair. I will obey.

I messaged this stranger, telling him exactly what had transpired, including the spiritual directive, and how I didn’t understand it. I waited. An hour passed, and no message from him. He would be leaving soon to get to Dubuque in time. Oh, no, I scared him. He must have thought I was a total weirdo. I sent a quick message “We could meet at Village Inn if you’d prefer.” He replied “No, it’s fine. I’ll plug your address into the GPS and be there at 4:30.” I ordered Panera Bread to be delivered to my home. All the way home, I was praying, “God, I don’t understand. Why would you ask me to invite a stranger to my home? This doesn’t make sense.”

The food was on my steps when I arrived home so I put it in the fridge. Nick arrived shortly after. When I saw him walking up the stairs, it was the first time I realized he had the neatly-trimmed goatee, broad shoulders and kind eyes I’d added to a list for my “ideal man” I also kept in my journal after someone had advised I tell God exactly what I wanted in a man.

“Did you think I was crazy, inviting you to my home against all common sense?” I greeted him as I let him in the door.

“No, it told me something about your faith that you would follow God’s lead like that,” he said before adding, “But it was crazy and you shouldn’t have done it, and your children would kill you if they knew what you had done!”

We sat down and began talking. And talking. We talked with ease about everything. And nothing. We couldn’t stop talking, and it seemed as if we’d known each other for years. Our talking was interrupted suddenly by a noise outside. I looked out the window and my oldest son Dan was there, fixing my stair railing I’d asked him to repair weeks before.

“My oldest son is here,” I told Nick, and then realization dawned on me. “Do you think that is why I was supposed to invite you here? So you could meet my oldest son, or him meet you?”

Because, suddenly, that made perfect sense. Dan has taken care of me since his Dad died. He has worried about me, fixed things around the house, has known of my loneliness. We share a special relationship in which we can sometimes feel each other’s pain.

“Dan! I didn’t know you were coming,” I step to the door and call out. “My friend Nick is here.”

“On the phone?” he says. “I’m just here to fix your railing.”

“No, my friend is in the house,” I stepped aside as Nick comes to the door. They exchange pleasantries and Nick and I went back inside, to return to talking. We discuss faith, the Bible, our spouse’s deaths, our children. We talk with an ease I’ve never before experienced, realizing we intimately share the loss of a spouse who will forever be a part of our lives. He asks about the Bible verse on my wall, Jeremiah 29:11, and I explain how it has been my life verse since David’s death. Remembering my summer 2018 journal entries and the prayers for a man I did not yet know, I get a tiny shiver down my back when he mentions that his wife died in April 2018 and the next few months he experienced the hardest time he’d ever had in his life.

At some point, I realize I have forgotten to feed him and my son is still outside, working. Dan finishes up his work and talks to us for awhile as we eat our salads on the couch. Only later do I realize I hadn’t heard a word Dan said because I only had eyes for this amazing man sitting next to me.

Hours have passed when Nick stands up to leave and I give him a hug. I’m not sure which of us asked for the second hug, but by the time Nick got to the door, we both wanted the third hug and I said yes to a second date that Sunday.

Neither of us got much sleep that night, tossing and turning. In the early morning Friday hours, we texted each other, wondering at what had just happened. Commonsense tells us that people don’t feel like that about each other after one meeting. Commonsense tells us we must be imagining things. We both forget to eat that day. Sunday suddenly seems so far away. As we talk on the phone that evening, marveling, wondering, confused, we come to the same conclusion. Before our date on Sunday, we must pray together. We need to ask God into this relationship.

By Saturday morning, we are miserable. We haven’t gotten much sleep. We miss each other even though that makes no sense. We’ve met only once.

We have no idea what God is going to ask of me that afternoon, a request that once again, makes no sense at all, a directive that makes me feel foolish and uncertain.

How do I tell a grown man that I am to read a book out loud to him?

faith, hope, kindness, miracle

Close Encounters of the Fifth Kind

In 1972 Dr. J. Allen Hynek, a noted astronomer and famous ufologist developed a measurement scale for alien encounters. When a UFO is sighted, it’s called an encounter of the first kind. When evidence is collected, it’s known as an encounter of the second kind. When contact is made with extraterrestrials, it is the third kind. The next level, abduction, is the fourth kind.

Aliens aside, these past few days I’ve been contemplating encounters of a different sort, a fifth kind; encounters between humans on this planet. Random strangers. Though, not so random, if you believe, as I do, that God delights in orchestrating many of these meetings.

We’ve likely all experienced something similar; an encounter that has stayed with us, whether it was an act of kindness forty years ago, an unexpected hug in a hallway last year, or the discovery of a kindred spirit just yesterday.

Six years ago, I wrote about this very topic in my No Such Thing As a Random Stranger blog posting. At that time I asked “What if we treated every day as the momentous event that it truly is? If we allowed that the strangers we meet each day might be the friends of tomorrow? What if we are all presented with ‘random strangers,’ ‘random encounters,’ and ‘random moments’ that are not so random?  I believe we all are given those opportunities to make a friend, help someone, be helped, to hug, to be hugged, to say ‘God bless you,’ and mean it. It is a personal relationship with God that allows us to recognize those moments for what they are.”

“Never met a stranger,” is a commonly-used phrase to describe someone whose personality is outgoing, friendly, and with an ability (and desire) to talk to anyone. My husband David was such a person. In fact, I’m ashamed to admit now that it used to embarrass me when he’d stop to talk to a stranger. I didn’t understand it then, but I do now that I’m the one who embarrasses my children by doing the same. I’m a different person than I was then; talking to strangers, reaching out to others, and glad for the change in me. My mother was also one who “never met a stranger,” which accounts for the names and addresses of several “strangers” in her old address book.

Apparently, Lyn was a man she met on the bus on a trip to Colorado to visit my younger sister. I’d love to know what intrigued her about this man enough that she requested his address. Did she notice his long hair? A tattoo? Was he carrying a guitar case? Drawing in a sketchbook? Was she the only person on that bus to truly see him? To talk to him?

What happens when we treat every day as the momentous event that it truly is? I can tell you what happened to me in the last ten years, since I look at every encounter differently, knowing the strangers I meet are not always random.

A few days ago, I had my hair done at the local beauty school. I save a lot of money there and am confident because of what I’ve observed about one of the instructors who oversees the students. Not only is Diana talented, she is lovely, glowing. That’s what I see in people who are in the right profession. Their eyes brighten when they talk about their work, their voices become animated. Their whole face lights up. I watched for this in the young student when she informed me she planned on opening up her own salon in Bellevue after graduation. I saw it in her face and heard it in her voice when she told me she’s known since she was a freshman in high school what she’s wanted to do.

While normally I crave silence while my hair is cut and dyed, when I pulled out a clipboard and started to write, young Paige settled into the chair next to me and asked what I was working on. Before long, my clipboard was forgotten and we were leaning in close to each other, deep in animated conversation about creativity, the topic of my upcoming book. I became certain there was something she was supposed to hear, that our unexpected encounter was not random. At the same time, I was struck by how differently I would have responded to her questions just ten years ago, if I’d have even bothered to respond beyond simple “yes” and “no” answers.

Time passed quickly as I enjoyed our conversation, and soon the instructor interrupted to check my hair. Diana’s fingers move fast. She has a magic touch, a skill that comes with talent and practice, but it’s the look on her face and her casual banter while she works that makes it obvious she truly loves her job. Perhaps her comments to the student are intentional, to boost the customer’s ego. I assume the young woman can learn more than simple hairstyling from her instructor’s methods.

“Her hair is fine like ours, but has wonderful body to it. It’s so easy to work with. Look how beautiful it is,” Dianna says to Paige as she deftly scrunches whipped mousse into my hair. “Look what happens when we use this product that boosts her natural curl,” she continues. I stare into the mirror, transfixed. Transformed.

Tired, stressed, and overwhelmed when I arrived, I feel lighter, happier, maybe even beautiful. I needed this. One student. One instructor. One haircut. An encounter others might deem meaningless feels otherworldly to me. Whether I was to observe someone else come alive with their passion, pass on some words of wisdom to a young person, or realize just how much I have changed, there is a meaning to this meeting, an encounter that stays with me some four days later.

Then, there’s yesterday afternoon. I have a recurring dream; a nightmare where I spit a mouth full of teeth into my cupped hand. All my teeth. I shudder every time I have this dream. I’ve given birth to eight children, undergone three caesareans, a knee surgery, gallbladder removal and hernia repair, but when it comes to teeth, I get dizzy and feel faint when I need dental work done. Imagine my horror, then, when eating yesterday, to feel something come loose, and yes, live my nightmare by spitting out a tooth, a crown, or something like it, right into my palm.  That I didn’t immediately identify it as a crown come loose, nor could I bear to look into the mirror to study the area from which it came, demonstrates just how bad this phobia is. The dentist on call must have heard the panic in my voice. He agreed to meet me at the office. My anxiety was fueled by the one-hour drive. While I was fairly certain it was a crown, what if it was a broken tooth? I’d broken a tooth before and have an empty space in my mouth to prove it. What if my teeth fell out, one by one, until I was toothless? How would I do public speaking without teeth?

Entering through the side door, I noticed an older gentleman seated outside of the room where the dentist was leaning over a woman laying back in the chair.

“Are you the lady with the missing crown?” the man asked. “You’re not the only one needing dental work this weekend. I’m waiting for my wife.”

I noted the obvious concern on his face, and my heart went out to him. For a brief moment, I forgot about myself and the teeth that were surely falling out of my head, one by one.

In the next instant, I felt a deep pang of sadness. This is what it is to have a partner in life. Whatever you go through, you are not alone. They are with you. David would have talked me down from the anxiety, would have driven me to the dentist office, sat there waiting. Worried about me, like this man with his wife. I had that once. Secondary loss, having lost that partner, hit me hard.

The man indicated I should sit down. When I obliged, he asked to see my crown. Confused by a stranger who was not the dentist asking to view something that came out of my mouth, I made a feeble joke. “You make me sound like royalty, wanting to see my crown.”

He introduced himself then, a retired dentist. Pulling his chair close to me, he studied the little plastic bag I pulled out of my purse. “Yes, that’s a crown. It looks good. This should be an easy fix,” he assured me, patting my arm. My heart stopped racing. I relaxed. I suddenly knew; this was no random encounter. A retired dentist waiting for his wife at the exact moment I arrived? His kind eyes, reassuring voice, the pat on my arm. This moment, this encounter meant something. It reminded me that although I might not have my partner anymore, there are a lot of good people in the world, people that care about others. Who don’t laugh at another person’s anxiety. A dentist who takes time out of his weekend to care for a patient, even when it isn’t a dental emergency. He could have told me I’d have to wait until Monday. I’ve had dentists who have done just that. A man, worried about his wife, taking the time to reassure a stranger. These were good people.

Within minutes, the dentist had reattached my crown. I stood to leave. “I hope your wife is okay,” I said, turning around to face the man. His wife sat up in the chair.

“She will be,” the dentist reassured all three of us.

What happens when we treat each day like the miracle it is, each encounter with a stranger like the miracle it might be?

everything-is-a-miracle.22-Albert-E

Which way will you live your life?

 

creativity, talents

Childhood Calling

In Called to Be Creative, to be released by Familius Publishing September 1, 2020, I encourage readers to look back to their childhood interests to discover where their natural talents lie. (italicized sections taken from book)

“Whether it was cooking, gardening, spending time with animals, sketching, writing, empathetic listening, or music, there was something you were drawn to as a child, an activity that brought you joy, that you can reignite now, as an adult.” 

I revisited my childhood this past week as I organized letters my mother had written to my grandmother in the 60’s and 70’s.

moms letter

I skimmed through more than 200 of Mom’s letters in two days, observing at one point as I read, that it was her voice in my head. What a treasure her words are now, providing a glimpse into the heart of a mother who believed every one of her ten children was endowed with certain gifts, talents she observed and recorded in letters to her mother.

Weekly Reader

I have no copy of the poem or Weekly Reader letter, nor can I remember ever seeing the published version, though I have a vague memory of an elementary teacher reading it to the entire class.

oratory

I did know what I “liked to do” back then; writing, drawing, and public speaking, but I never imagined those endeavors making any money. Certainly none of them constituted a “career” of any sort. Instead, when I began attending classes at the University of Northern Iowa, it was with the intention of becoming a teacher. Quickly disillusioned with that idea, I ended up graduating with a B.A. in Psychology, enjoying opportunities to conduct research and write papers. I may have been one of few students who actually loved essay tests. Nine credits shy of a Masters in Family Services, I left college to serve my own growing family, taking finals in the hospital bed after giving birth to my fourth. For the next thirty years, I struggled to maintain a semblance of creative self through freelance writing. As for the public speaking, as an isolated homeschooling mother of eight, weeks could pass when the only adults I spoke to outside of my husband were the butcher at the grocery store and our mailman. I rapidly lost the ability to string two coherent sentences together, which makes it all the more remarkable that I now take great pleasure in public speaking. I never feel more alive than when I am speaking in front of a room full of people.

“It doesn’t take a stretch of the imagination to predict that the little girl who spent hours reading and scribbling out stories might someday become a writer herself. Nor is it difficult to imagine the high schooler who won awards at speech contests someday becoming a public speaker. Yet I didn’t return to those roots of elocution for nearly forty years.”

Forty years is a long time to abandon a talent even my father had recognized when he’d admonished me to “use your gift for good, not evil,” and yet the fact that it took forty years to return to it should encourage my readers. It is never too late.

“Imagine the possibilities; a mostly stay-at-home, isolated mother of eight who could barely string two sentences together to communicate with the butcher and mailman, now speaking in front of crowds, designing power-points, and conducting workshops. After thirty years of writing articles and essays, that same woman somehow manages to sign six book contracts in the space of six years. If this woman’s broken self, laid bare by grief, could learn to reach out to others and discover a job in midlife that fulfills all her passions, incorporating everything that her soul has been seeking, where might your search for meaning and purpose lead?” 

Isn’t it time to find out?