Weekend

I struggled with severe jealousy and self-pity this past week. I watched a joyful event play out from a distance, an event I hadn’t been asked to join. It wasn’t that far and I would have gone in a heartbeat, but the lack of invitation brought me up short and I didn’t want to poke and prod with questions of “why not me?” So all week I wallowed. I snapped at Matt and got frustrated at work until finally giving in to tears late Wednesday night. I sobbed my selfish troubles to a husband who was glad to finally find out what the heck was going on.

As the weekend drew closer I tried to distance myself from the updates of social media. Little things came up to help point out that my life doesn’t really suck as much as I felt it did: Friday afternoon at the park, Saturday playing with a new “techie” purchase, Sunday night enjoying the Oscars with my family.

It’s amazing how much energy can be channeled into bad feelings. I spent days feeling like every little thing was the world’s vendetta against me, which is really incredibly laughable. I’m not saying that it’s wrong to get upset about the little things in life, but it is wrong to let those things consume me.

When my mind wanders off to the possibilities of “why/WHY ME?/when/how/HOW SOON?” I can almost feel God gently tapping me on the shoulder and replying, “Why are you looking ahead? And dissatisfied? When will you be satisfied with the here and the now? How are you accomplishing what I’ve given you right now?”

And I sigh, because He’s right (obviously). So I suppose my goal is to work toward not letting negative emotions fester, because festering is gross. (Just say it slowly: Festering. Blech.) Just cry it out, brush it off, and move on. Focus on where I am, what I have and what I can do with it.


Easier said than done, but I’m gonna try.

Valentine...

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, not meeting my eyes. “I’d much rather stay home anyway.”

But I knew she didn’t mean it. I could see the pain clearly on her face. Her cap of gray hair shone almost silver against her festive red sweater. Alone all her life, she now has someone who loves her, someone who cherishes her. A true Valentine. And oh, she wanted to them to know. To show that she’s cherished. To walk in on his arm for all the world to see. 

But the banquet that night was for married-couples only. It has started as an open event  - married, dating, engaged- but morphed into a celebration of marriage and marriage only. As wonderful as that is, it was causing her pain. The office staff gossiped about the few couples they knew who were shunning convention and going anyway. But not her. She’d been the topic of gossip enough over the years – why put herself out there for more? It doesn’t matter that he loves her. It doesn’t matter than now, in their later years, they have found joy. They sit close together every Sunday morning. He calls to check on her during the day. Her face lights up at his name. But for this event, this should-have-been celebration, they have been deemed unacceptable, and shut out. 

We close up the office together. Everyone else is gone, preparing for the big night. My husband had to work, so I hadn’t purchased tickets either. We walk together to the parking lot, an empty stretch of concrete between our two lonely cars. 

“We are the only people here!” she sighed again. “What’s wrong with us?”

It’s not us, dear friend. And it’s certainly not you. They don’t see the beauty of your love, the purity of your affection. Your happiness together is not enough for them. He is a widower jut past eighty, and you’ve been single for sixty years. You have found joy in each other through simple companionship. You revel in this new-found affection, and they are foolish who do not see what a wonder it is. 

Don’t let their snub discourage you. Don’t let them damage your joy.  

"John Hofmann, 1952"

This evening I was going through the books in our study and pulling out a select few for “decoration” on the living room shelves. I had just purchased a candles-on-a-tray set and wanted some nice hardcovers to place around it. I pulled out a large blue volume from a lower shelf: The Complete Works of Shakespeare, Oxford Edition. The spine crinkled softly as I opened it and read the two inscriptions: 

“John Hofmann, 1952”

 “To Teal, May 2004” 

I sat down and just held it for a moment. I turned a few more pages to find the publication date: March 1938. 

I never met my grandfather. He died when my mom was only 2. Grandma always had a photo of John on her dresser; a smiling young man in black and white. He loved books, especially science fiction and the many Oz novels by L. Frank Baum. 

In high school I developed a love for Shakespeare – a passion that has never waned. On my 17^th birthday Grandma presented me with the heavy book, my first Complete Works. I read the inscription written in blue ink below and to the left of the original. Her handwriting was elegant and smooth; John’s handwriting in black above it was slightly sharper but still beautiful. Handwriting has already become a lost art. 

Grandma died of cancer two years after giving me the book. I cried for her at our wedding. I cried that she couldn’t be at my college graduation, or my brother’s, or see any of us growing and changing and coming into our lives.  

The book is water-stained in one corner and fraying around the edges, but I cried holding it tonight. I wish I could have known the man that bought that book in 1952. It was probably used when he purchased it, but he kept it and cared for it through the rest of his short life. Then Grandma kept and cared for it and gave it to me 8 years ago. I’m going to keep it and care for it the best that I can.