No Fear, Just Faith

There is a great song out right now about releasing fear. The chorus goes like this; “Fear, you don’t own me. There ain’t no room in this story…I know who I am, I know I’m strong and I am free, got my own identity. So, fear, you will never be welcome here.” At sixty-three, you would think that this letting go of fear thing wouldn’t be a problem. Guess again. In the last four years, I’ve thought my world had been rocked right off its foundation, and I was hanging on by my fingernails. But, thankfully, I was reminded repeatedly that the foundation that I was standing on was strong, mighty, and could NOT be rocked by anything. The God of the universe was holding me in his hand, and I remembered that I could be strong in Him, so fear had no place in my life.


Four plus years ago, my mother – my best friend, my confidant, my roomie, and my rock, was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Blow number one. It was found at a very early stage and after a massive operation, she was in pretty good shape. Except for that one lymph node that had cancerous cells in it. That one would be a problem someday. In August of 2016, my brother, my only sibling and my crazy counterpart, was diagnosed with the same horrible disease. But his was very advanced, so he fought the fight for eight months and died in April of 2017. Blow number two. Eight months later, at a routine checkup with mom’s cancer doctor, it was discovered that one ugly lymph node had made its home in her liver. For six months, her life was pretty much normal. Then that diseased liver started showing signs that it was going to put up a fight. In November 2018, mom’s body quit fighting and she joined my brother in heaven. Blow number three. They say that bad things come in threes. Well, I think I can testify to that one. 


But now I look back from this side of the road, and I see that even though I often felt alone and afraid, I have never let fear win. I see God’s hands, and I see them in human form through the body of Christ. Those amazing and precious brothers and sisters who walked along side me, never letting me give in or give up. They literally fed me (Baptists are all about feeding each other when we are down!) and they sat with me when I needed to talk. They cleaned my bathroom, vacuumed my carpet, took out my trash, and sent me messages of encouragement. They welcomed my biological family when we gathered to celebrate mom’s life, caring for our emotional and physical needs. And, praise be to Jesus, they continue to be my strength when I am down, and some are my sidekicks when I am bubbling over. 


I say all of this to tell you that the memes, funny stories, and some not so funny ones that you see on social media, don’t begin to tell the story of Christ and his earthly family. Yes, some of us aren’t really helping his cause, but most of us are just working to be His hands and feet, not just for each other, but to the world. When he told us to “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations…” (Matthew 28:19), he didn’t just want us to go door-to-door and shove the gospel down everybody’s throat. He wanted us to live it out and be examples to a lost and dying world. One that needs Him more and more every day. 


So, when we try and fail, when we look foolish to the eyes of the world, please know that we, as Christians, are just people. Human people who fail, who don’t always live up to the call of our God. But we love you and we want nothing more than for you to fall in love with our Jesus. He died for you. He arose on the third day so that you could have eternal life. It sounds like a fairy tale, but it’s true and it’s real and I pray that you will check it out for yourself. Don’t let fear or pride hold you back. Just look and believe. 


“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.” John 3:16-17

The Honor of Walking Her Home

There are few things in my life that have been "an honor." Yes, I've been recognized in school or for a few things I've done as an adult. But to truly be given an honor is another thing all together. However, the last six months have been the biggest honor I can ever imagine, culminating with three weeks of love, laughter, and ultimately, joyous pain. I was able to help my Mom finish her "walk Home."

Four years ago, mom was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. God was good and the tumor was found when it was very small and with a huge surgical procedure, the tumor was removed. Then we waited. About two weeks later we got the call that of all of the lymph nodes that were removed with the tumor, one had cancer cells in it. Thus we knew that the cancer would return, someday. Mom lived a relatively problem-free life for a woman in her early 80's. She was very arthritic which caused her a lot of pain, but overall, she was pretty healthy. She had checkups with her surgeon every six months and those visits continued to be cancer free. Until December 2017. Her pre-office visit CT scan showed that there were two tumors in her liver. (We knew that the liver was the most likely place for that diseased lymph node to send it's cancerous cells.) She was beginning the final stretch of her walk "Home."

We started 2018 with Mom still feeling okay, but she was beginning to lose weight. Weight loss was the #1 thing we had been told to watch for as it would indicate that the cancer was going to win the battle. One pound down, three pounds, five or six in a month. But the numbers on the scale started winning the downhill race, and the more she lost, the worse she felt. Her strength was being sapped, and the errant cells were obviously spreading. I did my best to get her to eat, until it became obvious that she just couldn't get much down. What she did eat I tried to make high calorie, but even that became redundant. Cancer was winning, she was getting farther down that path towards "Home."

We had lots of talks during the eleven months that Mom was declining. Talks about what she wanted in regards to her funeral, talks about legal things I needed to check on, and lots of talks about what I was going to do. She was so concerned about me being thrust into "aloneness." Would I shut myself in and become a crazy old lady with a cat and a taser? Or would I be able to get back in the saddle and keep myself busy with ministry and friends and family? She was so concerned, and I kept assuring her I would be OK. I just wanted to walk along side her as she headed "Home."

In September, my sister-in-law and niece began coming to stay for a day or two each week to help and to give me a little emotional break. You see, two years ago, my brother and only sibling died from pancreatic cancer. Since we had long ago dropped the "in-law" from Sue's family designation, she was simply my sister and Mom's daughter. As such, she felt the need to be here to help me as we walked Mom "Home."

Just as Fall was erasing all vestiges of summer, Mom was also losing the precious glimmer of her earthly life. Hospice brought in a hospital bed so that she could be in the middle of our daily living.  But as the days went on, she lost interest and so we just sat with her and tried to tell her how much we loved her. We cared for her physical needs, we made sure she was as comfortable as possible, and we prayed that God would take her "Home."

On the morning of November 2, it was obvious that the end was near. She was at peace and there was no evidence that there was anything else she needed from us but to hold her hand and wait with her. My cousin came for lunch, none of knowing that she was to be there to share in those last treasured moments. At about 12:30pm, Mom's breathing became quite labored, so I called hospice and they sent a nurse to assess her. Terri arrived, did her assessment and told us that she was very near death. The four of us held hands with Mom and prayed, and as the amen was said, she quietly slipped from earth into the glory of Heaven. She was finally "Home."

You may wonder about my use of the word "Home." In October of 1975, Mom made a decision to accept the free gift of eternal life by placing her trust in Jesus Christ. John 3:16 says, "For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life." She placed her soul in the hands of the only One who could save her from a life that would end in eternal Hell. And her one desire from that day was that everyone would make that same decision.

And so, on November 2, 2018, at 1:07pm, she finished her walk Home and joined her Savior in the eternity of Heaven. She left her cancer-ridden body and took her next breath in the sweet air of God's presence. I miss her terribly, but because I too have placed my trust in Christ, I know that when my days here are done, I will join her in our eternal home. I will never forget those last days, and will always be glad that I was chosen before the world began to be there with my mom and have the honor of "walking her Home."

The Strongest Women I Know

I have come to understand that I live in the presence of two of the strongest women on the planet. Women who have faced incredible circumstances, things that might crush the average human, and come out on the other side, not unscathed, but with an amazing faith and dignity.

The first of these women is my mother. Yes, I know, most all of us think our moms are Wonder Woman and Jaime Sommers (The Six-Million Dollar Woman) rolled up in one person. And I'm sure that you can give me multiple reasons why your mom fits the bill. Let me tell you about mine.

My mom is eighty-four years old. She raised two kids, worked a full-time job and still got dinner on the table and showed up at my choir concerts and my brother's sporting events, and then was widowed at age seventy-seven. With the exception of arthritis, she has always been in a general state of good health. I mean, how many eighty-four year old people do you know who only have two prescriptions to take each day? So, when on a routine Saturday in August 2014, she suddenly turned a pumpkin-ish yellow, I knew we had a problem. Several tests and an admission to the hospital later, we heard the words nobody wants to hear, "You have cancer." Cancer of the Pancreas to be exact. If you know anything about Pancreatic cancer, you know that the general rule is that by the time you are sick enough to be diagnosed, it's too late. (Ironically, her dad had died of pancreatic cancer. Although we had no idea then, this is now considered a possibly familial disease.) She was transferred to a larger hospital where there was specialist in this particular disease. He didn't pull any punches, told us the risks and the potential outcome. The only good news was that the tumor was small and in a place that was surgically accessible via a monstrous operation called a "Whipple." (Sounds friendly, huh? Well, it's not! Look it up.)

My brother and sister-in-law and I sent her off to surgery, praying we would get her back alive and "well." The post-op report was that the tumor was in a place that IF you were going to have this awful cancer, you would want it to be right there. The pathology report showed that only one lymph node was cancerous, which was another good sign. With the original tumor removed and only one positive lymph node, it was possible that all of the cancer had been removed. It was also possible that the cancer had already sent it's deadly cells out and that there would be a secondary diagnosis sometime soon. Fast forward three and a half years and she is still cancer-free! My hope is that she will die of natural causes before any of those ugly cells pop up somewhere.

Just over a month ago, and just to show that her status as a superhero was intact, she once again tested the waters by taking an awful fall. She whacked the back of her head hard enough to make her brain bleed. For those of you with no medical inclination, this is not a good thing. Once again, we went to our local hospital and she was quickly transferred to the same "bigger" hospital for care by a neurosurgeon. The bleeding stopped and for two days, we waited to see if she was in the clear. She came home and she spent four days trying to regain her strength. One week after the fall, mom developed a horrible headache and I loaded her up for another visit to the Emergency Room. The diagnosis this time was that there was fluid building up in her skull and that it needed the attention of the neurosurgeon again. So, off she went to have care by someone who was skilled in matters of the  brain. By the next morning, said physician told us that he felt surgery was warranted because the swelling would likely end up causing a stroke or worse. Just an hour later she was having two burr holes drilled into her skull to relieve the pressure! Mind you, this is the same eight-four year old woman who is thus far beating cancer. Three days after surgery, she once again came home to recover. (And miraculously, two weeks later her CT scan showed that not only was the fluid and blood gone, except for two holes in her skull, there was no evidence that there had ever been a brain bleed!) Today she still struggles with some of the problems associated with an aged, arthritic body crashing to the ground, but her neurological status is A #1.

Woman #2 on my list is my sister-in-law. She is stronger that she will ever understand and yet she is such a gentle soul. She married my brother at age 18, barely out of high school and coming from a home with not much training on how to be a good wife and mom. But, she loved my brother and he adored her, so they made a home and started learning how to "do" marriage together. For thirty-six years they made that marriage one that wasn't always perfect, but was filled with love and laughter...and four kids!

She was a "stay-at-home mom" and also home schooled her kids, two things that send an awful lot of mothers into a hysterical panic now days. She pulled this feat off while being married to a guy who moved her multiple times, once to a far away state where she had no family to help in times of difficulty. But she stood strong and went wherever he led.

Just to make her life more interesting, in her mid twenties, she was diagnosed with Myasthenia Gravis, a neuromuscular disease which attacks muscle and can become terribly debilitating, and some times fatal. So now she has two small children and a muscle disease that would make her legs fold up under her, or suddenly mess with her vision, or one of several other fun issues that made life difficult, let alone the  fact that she was trying to care for kids and keep her home intact. Thankfully, after several years of pills that helped some but not enough, she found a doctor who put her on a medicine that gave her real control over her symptoms.

In 1989, with three boys under 10, she gave birth to a beautiful little girl who as a toddler began to show signs that there was a misfire somewhere in her brain. Our sweet girl was going to be mom's lifelong partner because of something that wasn't wired quite right. She is learning disabled, and has other cognative problems that will never allow her to live independently. (So, it sounds like she is really qualifying for Wonder Woman status to me.)

But then, after raising her three boys to adulthood and sending them off to college and work; after living with a neuromuscular disease for more than 20 years; after raising a disabled child, life took a huge turn and she suddenly became a pastor's wife. My brother had worked as an manufacturing engineer for years, but with a desire to preach and pastor a church always in his heart. Off they went to a VERY small town and a VERY small church and for five years he pastored and preached and fulfilled that heartfelt desire. She learned to love their small congregation and was an exemplary pastor's wife.

Just as life seemed to be settled into one that would be their lifelong commitment, my brother heard the words "You have cancer" but his came with the addendum, "It is too late." He went through treatment that only offered possible pain management, which it really didn't give, and eight months later, my quiet, unassuming pastor's wife of a sister-in-law, was a widow. A fifty-six year old widow with a twenty-seven year old "child" and no where to go. They had sold their last home and were living in the church parsonage. She had to figure out where to go and what to do once she got there. She found the house back "home" that she and my niece are now living in and it seemed things were going to quiet down for them.

Then once again, life took an unexpected turn and because of a tragic marital breakup, my sister-in-law became a "mamaw extraordinaire" and began to help keep three of her grandchildren from coming totally unwound because of the breakup up their home. She babysits the two littlest ones, gets the oldest through first-grade homework and made sure that the house my nephew bought became a home for them all.

I tell you the story of these two dynamic women because they have one thing in common, the thing that makes their earthly superhero status possible - they both depend on the strength of God to get them through each event, each day, each moment. Both of them claim the Biblical promise that putting their faith in Jesus Christ gives them the promise of eternity in Heaven, thus assuring them that even in the most difficult trials, in the darkest days, they can garner strength from the Giver of all strength. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that without Jesus, neither of them would be able to tell you why they are where they are today. God gives the strength, they give honor and testimony to His gift.

I am so thankful to know that I am in the presence of something really special when I am with these two women. I praise God that because I too know the God of all strength, and believe in the Son he sent to save me, we will all keep on making it through the obstacles and laughing at the victories. And that one day we will live together in Heaven, free of the earthly struggles and surrounded by saints who have also fought the good fight and were super men or women to those who loved them.

Migrained Meanderings

Oh, have mercy, I have a headache. I would have considered that I was suffering from some dreaded disease if I wasn't wise enough to know that the actual cause is somewhat deadlier than that. Deadlier because I could end up on death row if I finally lose it and go postal on those who are inflicting the cephalgic botheration that is my misfortune.

Let me explain by first making a confession. I watch a fair amount of television. Not the Jerry Springer or WWE variety of mindless TV. I'm a much more refined viewer. I love me some Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Or Chip and Joanna. Or a lively episode of Chopped. I make this public admission freely and with very little guilt, not asking for your approval or criticism. I am just giving a point of reference for my calamitous condition. Because my malady is not caused by a particular program, rerun or competition. It is a direct result of ISIIC.

What is this "ISIIC" and do I have it, you ask. ISIIC stands for "Incredibly Stupid or Insulting to the Intelligence Commercials." These are advertisements that are trying to entice you into buying their product all the while treating you like you have no functioning brain cells, or more importantly, taste. Ads that allow you to purchase a car with the assistance of two idiotic women who seemingly don't have the intelligence to be driving anything more powerful than a Big Wheel. Or toilet paper commercials that feature either bears who are civilized enough to use TP or a terribly obnoxious British woman who does man-on-the-street interviews to make sure you know you could feel "cleaner" with her brand of ridged tissue. (And while we're in the loo, there is now an even more wretched one for a spray that will make your deposits smell better. Ewwwww!)

There are commercials from lawyers who will sue anyone who has ever looked at you crosswise; lawyers who will get your out of debt, even if you got there by your own stupidity; and probably lawyers who will sue the lawyer who didn't get you "all you deserve." There are constant pleas from those who want to make sure you use the correct shampoo, best deodorant, and the shiniest, whitening toothpaste.

Whatever happened to Speedy Alka Seltzer? That little guy just wanted to alleviate our gas and indigestion. ("Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief it is!") Where did Smokey the Bear go after he warned us that "only we could prevent forest fires"? These were important things to know. These were things that made sense in the scheme of our day to day lives. Clara asked "Where's the beef?" in an effort to help us pick the right burger joint. I grew up knowing that if my mom loved me, my baloney would have a first name, it was O-S-C-A-R. Mean Joe Green validated my love of Coke, and even Budweiser had a hand in our education, helping us love those gigantic Clydesdale horses. There were so many others, so many companies that made a place in our hearts, minds and memories, all without the need to insult or embarrass us.

Life is hard enough, people. Let's get back to some basic civility. We are assaulted by a constant barrage of misgivings by those who are offended by our beliefs, our values and/or our life choices. Can't we at least make a decision about the chips we eat without feeling like we need a mental bath after the company pitches their wares?

Now, where is that Tylenol? My head is splitting.

A Close Shave

Recipe for disaster: take one 76-year-old woman with six hairs left on her legs, multiple varicose veins and one disposable triple-blade ladies razor. Mix with equal parts exasperated daughter and a local emergency room. What do you get? Well, it’s like this…

My mother, God bless her, has never been good with technical things like computers or say, pretty pink razors. She has a puzzling aptitude for messing with them and they misfire. There is no particular thing she does wrong, it's just that said object knows that if possible, she’s going to booger it up. I mean, really, how do you make the window (of Windows-fame) "disappear" into the corner of the computer screen. But she's done it, many, many times. (And called me at work to ask me where the window went!)

So anyway, recently she decided that it was time for her "once-every-six -months-whether-I-need-it-or-not" leg shave. Instead of just plucking those remaining six hairs she grabs a brand new triple-blade razor and a bar of soap. Lathering up those gams, she proceeds to take a whack at said hairs and low and behold, she accidentally nicks one of her varicosities. One that was evidently bored and looking for a Friday night out because with one swift stroke said varicose vein has been severed and begins to spray Type A-positive blood all over the bathroom.

Now as this bloodletting is taking place, I'm peacefully minding my own business in another room. Suddenly I hear my name being called, not exactly with a tone of panic, but certainly with the inflection of "Hey, get in here, now." So, I head
towards the sound of her voice to find her clutching a small piece of tissue over her ankle area. There is a pool of blood on floor and “splatter” on everything else within a 3-mile radius! I swear it looked like a crime scene from NCIS.

Being medically minded, I grab a “maximum capacity feminine protection unit” (Maxi-Pad) and slap that baby over her ankle. At this point, it's just a matter of quenching the hemorrhage before she redecorates the entire room or faints from blood loss. We get the "compression dressing" placed and head for a spot where we can get her leg elevated thus stopping the flow of blood. How we were going to accomplish this was another story in it’s self.

After an amusing (part hobble, part hop) trip to the sofa I get her situated and head back to the scene of the crime to clean up the gory mess. I figure give it 30 minutes of elevation and compression and that little blood vessel will have shut itself off and it will be good as new. 30 minutes -- check the dressing -- she's still a-gushing! OK, maybe 30 more minutes. No dice. I make the veiled threat that if this doesn't stop soon we will have to go the ER. Neither of us figures this will be necessary, but it was kind of my form of chastisement for the shaving of six stray hairs in the first place.

So ninety bloody minutes go by, pun intended, and the blood flow has slowed to a trickle. Things are looking good. About that time she decides she has to go potty and BOOM, that stupid little nick lets loose again and the bathroom needs decontaminated one more time! So yet again I apply the pressure dressing with the maxi-pad/ace bandage combo. But this time I insist that it’s time to the Emergency Room. After an hour and a half, three TINY stitches and a tetanus shot later we have no more blood flow and are finally headed home.
I love my mother and I hate it when grown children treat their parents like they are infants. But if I ever see her with a razor blade again, I swear I'm going to pluck those hairs out one by one with pliers. Then I'll send her to her room with no supper!

Not So Simple

Douglas was a simple man (an understatement of monumental proportions) with a grand plan to simply live "simply." He had a lovely wife, Susan, and a daughter, Rachel, as well as a beagle named Molly and a cat called Crackers. His three grown sons lived nearby all raising families of their own. Douglas knew that there had to be a better, more uncomplicated way to live and made numerous attempts to find just the right path, many of which seemed like a good idea in the beginning but quickly became more complicated than the busy lifestyle he was trying to escape. Ultimately the day came that the lives of "the Amish farm family" came across his radar and from that time on Douglas could no longer let the thought of that idyllic existence go. He found a small farm to rent, took a leave from his nine-to-five job, packed his family into their BMW and off they went. (The sound of Susan’s kicking and screaming could be heard for miles.)
Soon after arriving at the farmstead, it became obvious that the bucolic farm life was going to be a bit more bucolic than he previously thought. Douglas immediately had to put his engineering background to work endeavoring to harness a team of draft horses to his Beemer without scratching the car’s expensive finish. Inside the house, he had Susan and Rachel quickly hanging the boxes of extra heavy, window-darkening curtains before the nearest neighbors (2 miles to the north) could peek in the windows. All the while the family dog ran laps on a self-propelled doggy treadmill collecting enough electrical current to run Douglas’ short-wave radio.
Susan cooked and baked on the wood-burning stove; did the wash with water heated on the stove and carried to large steel tubs, then hanged the laundry on outdoor lines to dry. She kept house, planted a garden and tended the recently adopted chickens and cows. Douglas sat on the porch and enjoyed the simple Amish life.
Susan did dishes after cooking three farm-style meals a day, swept the entire house with a small straw broom and washed more clothes. Douglas sat under a tree and enjoyed the Amish life.
Susan cursed the day Douglas was born……..and Douglas enjoyed the Amish life style.
Soon Sunday came and Douglas and family searched for the nearest Amish church service. They arrived at the farm of their nearest neighbor just as the bishop was hitching his buggy to a large oak tree. The honking of Douglas’ car horn as he pulled into the yard startled the bishop's horses. It seems that his large black buggy had driven a bit slower than Douglas liked, making the driver of the horse-drawn BMW a little testy. The issue was quickly diffused as their host called the gathering worshipers into his home. Douglas led his wife and daughter onto the porch but was told that the women would need to be seated without him as women worshipped together at the back of the room. This brought a broad smile to his face. Finally he was in the company of men who understood!
Following the morning’s very long service, Douglas headed for the barn where dinner was to be served – first to the men (and again that stupid smile). It was at that time that the church elders along with the still perturbed bishop came along side him and asked to speak with him. The "community" had some uncertainties about some of the things they had heard about their new "English" neighbors. This is when the idylic, bucolic, blissfully simple Amish lifestyle began to unravel for Douglas. It seemed that these plain folk didn’t agree with his need for window coverings. He tried to explain about modesty but they explained their beliefs about worldly goods. They mentioned their disagreement with the large trucks delivering electric cables and poles. Douglas explained the need for electricity to run the NuWave and his tablesaw. They argued that their ways had been everyone’s ways for many years; Douglas countered that they were just wrong.
It was at this point that it became obvious that these Amish folk might not be as unassuming as Douglas had thought. These seemingly quiet men, professing to be non-violent, were very convincing. They said a blessing over him and asked him to be on his way.
So, Douglas, Susan and Rachel gathered Molly and Crackers into the Beemer and headed back to the restless lifestyle they had left behind. But poor Douglas would always question what "Nehmen Sie wissen, dass es alle Möglichkeiten, Englisch und weggehen, NOW!"* meant. He wasn’t sure that it was really an Amish blessing, seeing as how he didn’t think it was normal for Amish men to yell a blessing while waving their fists and stomping their hats into the dirt.
　
*("Take your know-it-all English ways and go away, NOW!")

Lifestyles of the Poor and Tasteless

In "the good old days" summer vacation began at the Memorial Day holiday and ran until the day after Labor Day. It was a glorious time of playing outdoors, swimming at the local pool, and sleepovers with friends. However, I didn’t have to look at the calendar to know when the summer was ready to come to an end. It all came to a crashing halt on that fateful day when Mom announced it was time for her annual ritual of "torture and agony". No, she didn’t beat me, lock me in a closet or stick bamboo under my fingernails. (Those would have actually been less painful.) No, the suffering that was to take place would be quite public and completely legal. Much to my dismay, it was time to shop for school clothes!
This was a time in the distant past when girls wore only dresses to school. No jeans and a cute tee shirt for us. No, we had to dress like "young ladies." Young ladies who would spend recess with our ruffled panties showing because we were playing kickball in a dress. Young ladies who had frostbite all winter from walking to school in the bitter cold with our bare legs exposed. The only thing that made this "dresses only" policy worse was that my mother’s fashion taste tended towards Peter-Pan collars, white anklets and saddle shoes while my personality was more predisposed toward sequins, silk and stiletto heels. OK, I was just in elementary school, but I had great taste.
And so each August, after a terrific summer, Mom would spoil the mood by dragging me uptown to Sears and Roebuck. Again, this was the "distant" past—the early 60’s where there were no malls, no "Gap", no "Macys" or for that matter, not even a Wal-Mart! For those of us on an average budget it was just Sears, JC Penney or Woolworth. Each year the ritual began in the exact same way. We would enter the store, walk to the appropriate department and she would march directly to the first rack she came to. She then would pick up a dress; any dress, and say, "Isn’t this one nice?" I would instinctively look at her like she was holding a bag of poisonous snakes, sigh, roll my eyes and march off to another rack, often without even looking at what she was offering. Hour after hour, rack after rack, we would look at dresses and disagree on their worthiness. Why it took so long I don’t know because they all looked just alike. They were blue or red, plaid or solid, cotton or corduroy. Period. Not one lick of imagination here. There wasn’t one bugle bead, no lace, and not even a touch of fur. Just schoolgirl, "little missy" patterns. My mom, being Mom, never once took my individuality into consideration as we trekked through the Young Miss department. No, she just continued to be irrational and left me feeling like the poster child for the Wardrobe Challenged pre-teen.
This would go on until she was ready to send me to an orphanage and I was more than ready to go. I would have rather been sent to Girls School than go through this year after year. Our tastes were never going to converge so why go through this excruciating process? Why not just order my clothes from a local convent and leave me out of the whole thing? (I always wondered just who elected her the Chief of the Fashion Police anyway?)
I know I wasn’t alone in my predicament because every other girl in school was dressed just like me. There was no chance anyone would be able to make a fashion statement with these duds. We could have exchanged our clothing and sent them home to be washed and not one mom would have known the difference. Little Suzie’s wardrobe looked exactly like Little Mary’s, and Little Mary’s looked like mine, and so on. It was depressing.
To this day I remain convinced that Mother Sears and Mother Roebuck stocked those stores in order to inflict the same torture on their female offspring. And I’m convinced that those poor girls had to bear the same anguish as the rest of us. I mean, if just one of their mothers had cared, I know that there would have been at least one dress with a feather boa flowing from beneath the sequined collar of that plain little blue plaid dress!