The Match

 

The Match

     Peggy's children were grown and she didn't have a pet, but she loved Sally. She provided for her well, giving her good shelter, spending a lot of money taking care of her other needs and keeping her clean and neat. She also showered her with attention; they went everywhere together. One Valentine's Day, Peggy put a huge red bow on Sally, but Sally didn't care. In fact, she didn't even know the bow was there. Despite her limitations, Sally was Peggy's pride and joy.

     Talk about true love--one day Peggy told me, "My dad had her a long time and he took excellent care of her. When I inherited her from him, I made a promise to do the same, no matter what. We fit together; we're a match." She sighed. "I know she's getting older now and can't move as fast as she once could, but I still love her."

     I scratched my head. Peggy was less than realistic. Sally had more problems than moving fast. She was slow starting in the morning, then she'd sputter around before getting into gear. Even when she got going, nothing went smoothly. Sometimes, at the worst possible times, she'd come to a complete standstill.

     Nonetheless, at Peggy's insistence, the three of us often went places together. I really didn't like to be involved with her. But, despite my reservations, I couldn't tell my friend that; she'd be too offended. I couldn't even tell Peggy, who had physical problems, that Sally took more care than she could feasibly provide. At twenty years old, it was time for Sally to go somewhere else. But I didn't express my opinion. Saying those things was useless. I knew Peggy wouldn't have listened to me.

     However, one day, after Peggy told me, "My friend's son is interested in Sally," I spotted my chance to speak up and took the leap.

     "You can't do anymore with her, Peggy," I insisted. "Why don't you give Hal a chance? Maybe he can fix her up." I thought this might be Peggy's opportunity to break the bond.

     She dismissed the idea then. But, to my surprise, after a lot of deliberation and indecision, Peggy did let Hal take Sally. At first, he took good care of her. But that was short-lived. Before two months were up, he had a wreck. Knowing how Peggy would react if she saw Sally all bent in on one side, barely able to move, Hal's mother called her.

     "I'm sorry, Peggy," she began. "I hate to give you bad news, but there's been an accident and Sally was hurt. Hal did what he could to steer her out of harm's way," she said, "but a truck ran a red light and then plowed right into them and, well,"--she stammered--"Sally got the brunt of the damage. I had to let you know. I didn't want you to come over here and see what happened and be shocked."

     With eyes downcast, Peggy shook her head as she told me, "I boo-hoo'd. My baby was hurt bad. I haven't been over to their house yet. I just can't bear to see her like that."

     Lines crossed my brow. "She's just..." I began.

     When Peggy blinked and her shoulders stiffened, I decided my next words would hit a nerve, so I chewed on my lip, cutting off my statement. Then I asked a question. "Doesn't Hal have insurance?"

     Wringing her hands, Peggy nodded. "Yes, he does. But if he makes a claim..."

     She couldn't finish the sentence. So, I did. "They'll cancel his insurance."

     "Worse than that." Peggy pressed her hands tightly against her cheeks. "They'll consider her a total loss." Sobbing, she added, "And my poor baby, my beautiful 1994 Buick Park Avenue, will end up in some old car junk yard." She shivered. "Oh, my! They may even put her in one of those horrible car crushers and crush her into a tiny cube. That's barbaric! If I could, I'd rather have her cremated."

     I went over and put my arm around her, wondering what words would provide appropriate sympathy for a car. I was also beginning to wonder if I'd personified this car like Peggy had. Was this getting to me, too? I was stumped, but it turned out that I didn't have to say anything.

     Taking a deep breath, Peggy looked up at me and cocked her head. "I, I sure hope," she sniffled, "I hope there's a car heaven."

     All I had to do was nod and be gratified at the consolation in my friend's eyes.  

Acceptance

Every year brings new challenges. Sometimes we are involved with people we can't understand. They do things that are illogical, inconsiderate and different from the norm. Their actions may be inconsistent with the values they've been taught. We tend to want to break the barrier, to make them see our viewpoint. But that quite often doesn't work. They have their own ideas and cannot be convinced otherwise.


In such cases, as difficult as it is, we have to realize that we're not supposed to understand everything, or everybody, on this Earth. It isn't Heaven. Problems exist.


Then how do we deal with such situations? Maybe the only way is with acceptance. First, though, we have to note that acceptance does not mean approval. It does not mean we condone the actions of others that are against our principles, or against principles that are considered morally correct.


In the end, we have to understand our limitations, change what we can, resign ourselves to accepting what we cannot change, and pray for the wisdom to know the difference.

2014

In the new year, 2014,
Resolutions will be made
Some kept; some broken.


Things will change
Time will move fast
And it will stand still.


Excuses for failures
Won't affect those changes
Nor make anything better.


It's not what happens
To us that matters--
Not at all.


The outcome of situations
Depends entirely on
How we deal with things.


 

Christmas Cheer

Christmas Cheer

 
At Christmastime it seems

There's some kind of a trick.

An unexpected gift

Makes you take action quick.

 

To have a fair exchange

You give a gift back to

The person, by surprise,

Who just gave one to you.

And there's always the joke

That someone has to make,

That in the whole wide world

There's only one fruit cake.

 

It just goes round and round

Till it gets back to you,

And if you take a bite,

Your life may soon be through.

 

Oh, Christmas is a day

Of all kinds of good cheer,

Along with many reasons

To try to hold it dear.

 

Remember as you struggle

To keep it full of fun,

The reason for the season

Is Jesus, Number One.

 

Mary S. Palmer

12/14/13

The Reverend's Rambling - Christmas thoughts

The Reverend's Rambling

     Two days before Christmas, following an altar girl with the cross held high, Reverend Timothy O'Hara walked down the center isle of Saint Mary's Catholic Church. He moved slower than in the past. Knee surgery and his eighty-two years were telling on him.

     Why am I still saying six a.m. Mass every morning? he mused. I'm retired; I don't have to do this. Too many innovations nowadays. I never liked the idea of girls as altar servers but I have to tolerate them; I have to read some of the liturgy because it's been updated and my memorized version isn't in vogue; and I stumble on the words, embarrassing myself. Hell, I can't even recite the Lord's Prayer anymore without missing a beat sometimes.

     Hell? I said Hell on the steps to the sanctuary. God forgive me.

     The deacon at his side held onto the priest's elbow as he walked up the steps and over to the lectern to face the parishioners. "In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost--" The Mass had begun. As soon as Father O'Malley sat for the readings by the lecturer, his mind wandered again.

     I guess it's the Irish in me, I always get sentimental at Christmastime and when a new year approaches. More so now that most of my family's gone and I never had one of my own. I think about regrets. Over fifty years a priest. I've baptized many children, and their children. I've watched them grow up. Some turned out fine; others, well, not so good. I've buried many parishioners, too. And visited them in jail. Plus, listening to their woes and trying to advise and console them, promising them God never forgets them. I've also reminded a few why they're on Earth--not to rack up millions but to serve God and reach heaven.

     He stared at the deacon who had begun reading the gospel but he wasn't listening to the words of it.

     Hmmm, I wonder what my life would have been like if I'd gone to medical school like I planned? Maybe not much different. As an internist, I'd still be counseling people, listening to their problems. But, God willing, I would have had children. Would I now be proud of them, or would that have been a disaster? Although I never let them know it, sometimes the school children get on my nerves. Maybe I wouldn't have been a good father. He suppressed a smile. Was I any good at being a "father" to my flock?

     Father O'Hara blinked when he realized the deacon had finished reading the gospel. He rose for the Prayers of the Faithful; following them, he stepped over to the altar and recited the Mass prayers almost in a sing-song fashion. The congregation stood and joined in when he reached the Lord's Prayer. At the Sign of Peace, he looked out at the pews and waved to the O'Hara's, who always attended daily Mass, the general's wife who came most of the time alone, and to Sister Louise, now retired. He blinked when he spotted the young couple who'd just lost the month old baby he'd baptized in a back pew on the side area. As they hugged each other, he could see the sadness in their eyes.  

     I'm glad I never had to suffer through losing a child, he consoled himself.

     The Mass ended. After telling the congregation, "Go in peace to love and serve the Lord," he received help down the steps. On the way down the aisle, he passed a lady he didn't recognize, but she looked familiar somehow. She followed him to the back of the church.

     As soon as they reached the holy water fount, she touched his arm and motioned him over by the sacristy door.

     "Father O'Hara," she said with a twinkle in her blue eyes, "I guess you don't remember me. It's been many years, but I'm Susan Stein Lewis." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "But I bet you remember the night you kissed me goodbye and said you were going to the seminary."

     Father O'Hara cut his eyes in all directions. He hoped the parishioners passing by didn't hear her remark. "Oh, Susan. What a nice surprise. How has life treated you?" he asked, recalling what a tease she'd always been.

     "Actually, I've had a very good life. My husband, John, is very successful. He's an engineer, retired now, so we moved back to my hometown. We have two children, the oldest, John, Jr., is also an engineer. The younger one, Timothy, she chuckled and blinked, "well, he's almost middle-aged but still finding himself." She pulled out a picture of a handsome man with carrot red hair and a winning smile and held it up. Her voice lowered. "John doesn't know it, but I named him for you."

     She edged closer. "Look, Tim, er, Father, he's in jail on drug charges and burglary. I came to ask you to say some prayers for him." Her mouth twisted in a smug look that he remembered fondly. Then she added, "If things had been different, he might have been your son," and Father Tim caught his breath.

     He put his arm around her shoulder. Oh, dear God, my memories are flooding back. No, I never forgot that last kiss. I think I loved her. My decision, was it right? Timmy? He's got red hair like mine was before it turned white. Would he have been different if I'd been his father?" He blinked. How am I going to handle this?

     He stiffened his body, stepped back, and held Susan at arm's length. "Since Timmy is your son, Susan," he said in a firm tone of voice, "I'm sure he's enough like you to overcome adversity. Give him a little time and keep praying for him and he'll be all right."

     Father O'Hara steadied himself by leaning his back against the wall. "Suz," he used his pet name for her, "I'm convinced that you know the right things to tell Timmy to turn him around, back to God. And I'll keep him in my prayers."

     The tears in his former girlfriend's eyes melted his heart. He hoped he was telling her the truth. But it was time for dismissal. He looked at his watch. "I'm sorry, but I have to go. A baptism. Thank you for coming by." He squeezed her elbow. "Keep the faith." He didn't extend an invitation to come again.

     It wasn't till Suz left that he realized how ludicrous his statement--"Keep the faith"--was. Suz was not Catholic; she was Jewish and deeply entrenched in her religion. It reminded him that their marriage could have turned out to be a very shaky one. A definite obstacle to happiness.

     Walking back to the rectory, Father O'Hara raised his eyes to the sky. So, the baptism's not till this afternoon, but I had to have an excuse to leave, Lord, before I got in some real trouble. Ah, age doesn't end feelings. Suz was quite a looker and she's still a charmer--and a tease.

     He turned and looked back at the church he'd just left. This isn't the first time I've had doubts about being a priest, either. But I think it's the last. I may be an old man, but I learned something from that encounter: The church is my home; I made the right decision.

My latest post, Anticipation, a Thanksgiving story, won First Place 11/16/13 in the Baldwin Writers' Group contest. It was a nice gift certificate from Books a Million and an autographed book by our guest speaker. I'm sure I'll enjoy both.

ANTICIPATION

     Lottie looked at her watch. It's already noon. They'll be here in a minute. As in Thanksgivings past, she placed Haviland dinner plates on the table, admiring the tiny pink flowers of the Varenne pattern. Next, she put her sterling silver knives, forks and spoons in the proper order on either side of the plates. She slipped pure white cloth napkins into brass rings and made sure they were exactly parallel to the spoons.

     "Oh," she said with a little tremor in her voice, "someone's knocking at the door. That must be Susu, she always gets here first."

     When Lottie opened the door, she got a big hug. "Glad to see you, Mama. How are you doing?"

     "I'm fine. You want to help me finish setting the table? Get the turkey platter. It's on the bar in the kitchen." She smiled. "I didn't carve the bird yet. I wanted you to see how pretty it is."

     "It's lovely, Mama." She put the turkey in the center of the table.

     Lottie poured some iced tea in each crystal goblet. "I hope Jansen gets here on time. Everything's hot and I don't want it to get cold."

     The door opened and a tall, slender man walked in. "I'm here," he announced. Putting his arm around his mother's shoulders, he said, "Good to see you." Then he sat at the table and Lottie sat across from him.

     "Let's say the blessing." Reaching out, Lottie took each of their hands. "Oh, Lord, thank you for the many times we had Thanksgiving at this table in the past. And please bless those who can't be with us today." She reeled off a list of grandchildren's names. "Please bless all of us, too. Thank you for all the gifts you've given us, including our family being together today enjoying this meal."

     They said an Amen in unison.

     Lottie pointed to the turkey, "Could you please do the honors, Jansen? Use that electric knife, it slices more evenly and..."

     Her words trailed off as she slumped forward in her chair. When it tilted sideways, she fell to the floor with a thud.

     Seconds later, two nurses who'd received an alert from a monitor rushed into the room. They shoved a card table out of the way and, following procedure, carefully rolled Lottie onto her back.

     "She's still breathing, but her heart's beating erratically. I don't think we'll be able to resuscitate her this time," one of them said as she frantically administered CPR.

     Minutes later, despite their efforts, Lottie was gone. The older nurse had tears in her eyes. "Miss Lottie was a sweet woman, kind and patient, not like some of the old biddies in here. She rarely complained." She looked at the lifeless figure. "It's sad. She's been in Baytime Nursing Home ever since I have. Four years and not once have her two children visited; the only time I saw them was when she was admitted. I guess they think they're too important to be away from their offices. The son's a psychiatrist in Atlanta and the daughter's a big-shot literary agent in New York."

     The other nurse raised her brows. "Really? That's awful that they don't come see their mother."

     "Well, they seldom call to check on her. Oh, the daughter sends expensive clothes for her birthday and Christmas. But I think that's to ease her own conscience."

     "You're probably right. But Miss Lottie never spoke ill of them. I'm new here but Miss Lottie's one of the patients I took a liking to right away." She looked at the table with paper plates, cups, and plastic serving pieces wrapped in a paper napkin, all were in disarray. "What's all the stuff on that card table about?"

     "Oh, we humored her. Every Thanksgiving we'd set up a table and let her pretend her family was coming for dinner," she replied as she bit her bottom lip. "She'd talk to them, but I don't know if she really believed they were here. She did have a little dementia." She looked at the pale pink blouse with the lace collar they'd pulled back to work on Miss Lottie. Stepping closer, she re-buttoned it and pushed her patient's white hair off her forehead. "But she didn't forget her nice designer clothes and she always made sure we dressed her up for this occasion."

     The nurse backed away and shook her head. "So, whether this dinner with her family was pretend or real in Miss Lottie's world, I guess it doesn't really matter. Either way, for her, it was Thanksgiving and she used it as a time to give thanks, even if her family didn't show up and she didn't have much to be thankful for." 

     She pulled a tissue from her pocket, roughly wiped her eyes, and kicked a folding chair beside the card table out of her way. "I'll notify her son and daughter. Maybe they'll make it to the funeral." She shrugged. "But I wouldn't bet on it."