Memorial Day

Today is a day for remembering those who have fought and died in the service of our nation. Democracy, grand experiment that it continues to be, is not without a price. Those who have given their lives in the defense of this nation have done so for each one of us, personally, and I hope that every citizen takes a moment today to think about that.

They have preserved your freedom to pursue your dreams. They have preserved your freedom to worship as you wish. They have preserved your freedom to be a part of controlling those who control us, and to change the entire government around, if we decide that is what we want to do. They have preserved your freedom to think what you want. And, most importantly, they have preserved your freedom to publicly say what you think, out loud, without the fear of what our government will do to you.

There are billions of people on this earth who not only do not have those rights, but cannot even envision a world in which they could. Each time I approach my computer keyboard to write a post to this blog, it is something for which I am exceedingly grateful.

So today, I will fly my flag proudly (if it stops raining) and will say a prayer in my heart for each man and woman who gave everything for me to live as I do. I will also say a prayer for their families, who have sacrificed the most important thing they had, as well.

Thank you. It is not enough, but it is all I can do.

Summer fun?

A tidbit in the news yesterday caught my eye, in the worst sort of way. It was a brief item on the Memorial Day opening of the area public pools, and an associated cringe worthy problem that we all know exists, but which we try hard not to think about - people using the pool as their lavatory instead of going to the restroom. I don't mean to be indelicate, [well, I do, really, I suppose, since I'm mentioning it, but I try to observe the proprieties,] but apparently people, full grown adults even, are peeing in the pool at an alarming rate.

How disconcerting.

In the survey I was reading, fully 20% of the respondents actually admitted to the misdeed. [You have to seriously wonder about their social skills, even being willing to admit to this obviously anti-social behavior, but I digress.] Naturally, that leads me to wonder how many more people do it but won't admit to it.

Given the known statistic, I wouldn't be surprised to learn, what with the human tendency to lie about everything, even when it's not ridiculously embarrassing, to say nothing of something like this, that half of the people in the swimming pool at any given time are probably eliminating in there, as well. That is a really shocking number, making me think I will never set foot in a public pool again.

I don't know about you, but I would like to think that by the time a person is old enough to be in the pool unsupervised, they would also know better than to eliminate in there. Sort of gives a whole new perspective on the old "hand in the pan of water" trick, I think. [Any girl who ever attended a slumber party knows exactly what I am talking about, here, but as I mentioned, I try to observe the proprieties, so I'm not going to expound. You are on your own with this one.]

This is not just an icky thought. People are spreading germs which can make other swimmers sick.

We would never tolerate this lack of sanitary standards in restaurant kitchens or other public places. We demand high quality regulations any time the general public is exposed to the risk of contamination, in order to prevent the spread of disease and illness. It seems sort of pointless to slather up with antiseptic soap and antibacterial hand gel 24/7, only to dive into the community toilet the moment the sun emerges, don't you think?

But for some irrational reason, [wants versus needs?] we continue to expect chlorine and other vague treatments to be sufficient to overcome all the water borne germs floating in our public pools. Given the rates of people misbehaving, it seems like a Herculean task.

So I got to thinking that there must be a way to identify the perpetrators of this outrageous behavior. I have amused myself at some length troubleshooting solutions to this watery dilemma. I am surprised some chemistry genius hasn't already come up with something that would identify the miscreants at the time of their misdeed.

My ultimate solution? Peer pressure in the form of public humiliation. As a society, we seem to have gotten away from the idea of public disapproval as a discipline technique. As far as I am concerned, peer pressure is one of the most effective deterrents to bad behavior that we have available, and I'm not afraid to use it. [Just ask my children.]

I say we utilize it to correct a behavior which is not only bad, but dangerous, especially to those who have vulnerable immune systems. Surely there must be a chemical that would react with urine in the water, causing a color change, maybe turning the water bright purple or something, so it couldn't be missed by anyone in the vicinity.

Imagine the reaction, as the water gradually turns colors around the unsuspecting swimmer, with nowhere to hide. I know what you are thinking. But admit it, you giggled. Unless, of course, you are one of the people who do this, in which case, you shuddered and made a vow to never do it again.

See? Mission accomplished.

There is a real function to this idea, beyond simple embarrassment. This would allow other swimmers not only to know who did it, but where the contaminants are.

Equally importantly, it would give a clear indication to the teenagers working there when the water was so contaminated that everyone needs to exit the pool for some type of shock treatment. [I don't know about you, but I think putting the health of the community into the hands of teenagers, trusting that they will do the testing and treating on schedule, as they are supposed to, without a single parental reminder, is a bit of a stretch.] The entire pool as a test strip, so to speak, with the outcome obvious to everyone at all times seems like a more effective way to control the situation.

I believe this is an idea whose time has come. If I were anything like a chemistry geek, I would get right on it and patent it, and make my millions. Since I am the artsy craftsy type, and couldn't even memorize the periodic table, I freely give this idea to the masses. Surely there is some eager young inventor out there waiting for the right concept to come along. Consider yourself run over.

In the meantime, I think the only diving I'm going to be doing will be into a book. I'll see you on the pool deck, with my laptop aimed at Snopes.com.

I love to tell the story...

A storyteller is a purveyor of life's experiences. It is a moniker that I accord to the very few people who can weave a tale in a way that makes us care, incites us to feel, causes us to lose ourselves in someone else's history. Telling stories is the oldest form of entertainment, pictures drawn in the imagination with colorful words, shared happenings retold in a fresh form.

Whether it's written down, or simply spoken, stories are the thread that connect us to the past, to the future, and to each other, through our shared experiences. They draw us in and throw our emotions around. They are a way of making us walk in someone else's shoes, to feel other people's experiences, to live an alternate life that has worked out differently than our own.

Thus, I was humbled and surprised when someone recently complimented my ability to make other people laugh and feel, labeling me a storyteller. I am a Minnesota Lutheran after all, and, like most people who were brought up as I was, I have a hard time acknowledging my own strengths, especially if it is a quality I admire in others. While I have always known I have a certain skill in writing, storytelling is a different talent altogether, based not on learned skills, but on a talent and a feel for words which is innate and intuitive.

Although I have often been told that I am funny or a good writer, the idea that I am a storyteller is a more complex concept. The idea that I can move people emotionally on many levels through the power of my words is one that both excites and intrigues me. It is a compliment, to be sure, but also a responsibility, and it is one which I have been pondering lately.

Like most aspiring writers, I have always dreamed of writing the great American novel. But I seem to have produced mostly short work, instead. Maybe I get bored with my own writing, losing interest if it takes too long to get to the end. Do I suffer from attention deficit problems? Or is this a function of having honed my storytelling abilities over the years? Or perhaps I tell stories because that is simply what I have always done best, and like most people, I do what is easiest for me to do well.

I know I am driven to write my experiences, to commit to words the moments that make up my realities. Even in the midst of the most emotional moments of my life, I need to write them down to fully experience them. I am not reliving the moments, I am feeling them in a different way.

It is, I think, the same drive which has inspired humans to tell stories forever. Shared experience is a powerful binder, bringing us down to a common denominator that allows us to overlook the differences. I want to know all sides of every experience, to explore each nuance and think through every facet of every event. And that is, at the bottom of it all, what storytelling is all about.

I never gave a lot of thought to my method of telling the story, or even what I am trying to accomplish by doing it. Perhaps that is partly due to having been a writer since I was little, chronicling my day to day life in my journal or even in an actual story. My first effort at writing a story was the gripping tale of a deer that got caught in a fence, and which ultimately had to be destroyed. I still have a copy of it, and occasionally like to look at it to remind myself of how a simple story can still move its audience. Because even in that early effort, I think I already understood some of the necessary elements to make for a good story, even though I didn't know it.

So when someone unexpectedly called me a storyteller, I began to think about what it is, exactly, that sets a good storyteller apart from the others. What can I do to make my stories better? How do I craft my words so that other people experience the story, rather than just hearing it? What is it, ultimately, that sets a good story apart from one that is poorly told?

I think the most important element in storytelling is truth. Excellent stories are rooted in reality, real life events about real people. The best stories usually have a basis in everyday reality, simple truths that are easily recognizable, genuine emotions that everyone can relate to. The most proficient storytellers can pick out the common incidents that most people have experienced, and allow us to laugh or cry or empathize or enjoy that experience in someone else's life as if it were our own. Because, in a sense, it is.

We have all been caught listening to people who have an interesting story to tell, but they cannot seem to move past their opening words. They become so concerned about getting some small detail nailed down that they forget the story itself is what actually matters.

Experienced storytellers know how to move the story forward, without getting bogged down in useless information that doesn't add anything to the overall picture they are creating. This is one of the key elements that define storytellers from talkers, in fact. Whether verbally, or on paper, the most capable storytellers get to the point, giving only enough supporting information to support their theme.

From my earliest writing, I have always tried to use the underlying words as the framework for the idea I want to convey. I believe in quality of writing, where less is more. If you allow the imagination to run free, you will give your reader the real gift of participating in the story themselves.

Storytelling is the earliest form of a history book, a living reminder of our shared past. Human beings are driven to tell about ourselves, our lives, our times. Although the methods have changed radically over the years, from cave drawings to online blogs, we are still participating in the same process, a carrying forward of our lives and times, who we are and what we are about, for future generations.

Whether fictional or biographical, the classic stories, the ones that stand the test of time, pull us in and make us a part of the ongoing action. They allow us to experience the events being told, and give us a part in the ongoing pageant of life. When Shakespeare wrote about Romeo and Juliet, for example, it has endured until the modern day, not because we care about the Montagues and the Capulets, but because we understand the pain of love denied. Even with the ancient language, words which resonate for few people any more, the story continues to inspire and enthrall because we have all felt the pain of love lost.

Modern people have gained a reputation, perhaps not undeserved, for being shallow and silly, superficial and temporary. We substitute texts and e-mails for personal conversations, and our relationships are as likely to be carried out by IM or Facebook as in person. And yet, I notice that the movies and books that do the best seem to be those that have the classic themes interwoven as an integral part of the story being told. It seems, even in the electronic age, we are still trying to connect with other people in the oldest of fashions, through stories of common experience.

Next time you start to wonder what is going to become of human civilization, go read a story, or better yet, tell yours to someone new. We all have a story to tell, and you never know where you will find a connection with your own future.

Happy Mother's Day....

Tomorrow is the day each year that we honor our mothers. It is, in some ways, a manufactured day, driven by consumerism and flower shops and card companies, all getting in on the gig to prod each of us to remember our mothers. Does it really require a special day, set aside just for the purpose of being grateful, for us to recognize the contributions our own mothers have made to our lives? Shouldn't we always be grateful for the woman who gives us her all, and then keeps giving?

This morning I read a small item on CNN, the best gift your mother ever gave you, written by a lot of regular, every day people, about what one thing their mother has done for them that means the most. The list, unsurprisingly, is not about the big stuff of life. I didn't see a single mention of anything that cost much money or which was really, in any way, out of the ordinary. Instead, it was a list of loving actions by a lot of ordinary women who do something extraordinary - raising a child to be a loving, thankful, decent adult.

As a mother, I am all too aware of my failings. I know I have fallen short, not once, but over and over, and yet, my children continue to forgive and forget and love me anyway. I have heard it said that every day is "Children's Day," but in truth, every day that you are a mother is a gift, not only to your children, but to you. Each day is another opportunity to try and get it right, to do something ordinary and yet not.

When my children were little, Mother's Day was not a big celebration at our house. As I recall it, when someone mentioned Mother's Day to my then husband, his response was the predictable line, "She's not MY mother. Why should I do anything?" [At least he's consistent. Then, as now, he has always missed the point. Any point.] But even then, I saw the faintest inklings of what the day would become, because my darling daughter would do her best to make the day special for me - to celebrate me in whatever way she could.

These days, I look forward to Mother's Day all year long, because it's a day for my daughter and me. (My son would be included, too, of course, she would include him in every minute of every day if she could, but he is away at school in finals.) Each year, my thoughtful girl dreams up a different day, filled with activities for the two of us that we love to do together.

She has never missed, whatever she has dreamed up, because she knows me inside and out. We have gone shopping, gone to the park, gone to museums, had a picnic, gone to the zoo, walked the dogs, done ceramic painting. There is an almost endless variety to the things she dreams up for us to do, but it is always fun and special, because she devotes her time to me, and doesn't allow the distractions of her busy life to get in the way for that one special day.

I am really looking forward to the day tomorrow, when she and I will spend the day together. I don't know if the day means as much to her, right now, as it means to me, but I am very aware of how much that day will mean to her when I am not here any more to celebrate with. I think she will someday look back at those special times and be comforted by the memories she will hold in her heart. I am glad that my sensitive child will have those memories to hold on to, because she knows how happy those times make me, and she will never feel guilty about whether or not she showed me how much I mean to her.

I, of course, have my own mother, and I have my own memories. My lovely mother has received more tacky jewelry and salt and pepper shakers than a woman should have to contend with in a lifetime, and always managed to look thrilled and surprised about it all. More importantly, she wore the tacky jewelry in public, where other people could see it, which was a sacrifice I didn't fully appreciate until I had children of my own.

Which reminds me of a funny story, that has a point, I promise. When he was very young, my son proudly bought Christmas presents for each of us. He was then, as he is now, very insightful and thoughtful about his gifts, and he gives a lot of consideration to what gift would be appropriate for each person. This particular year, [as every year,] he was on a pretty small budget, so he had to make each penny count, and he did a superlative job of finding just the right thing for each of us.

I love music, and I love Christmas, and his perfect gift to me, in his mind, combined the two. He gave me a large gold colored plastic bell that played a Christmas carol, a big, shiny decoration that could last forever.

What looks spectacular to a six year old evidently loses its lustre when you are 20 something, because each year, when I pull that bell out of the box, the same thing happens. He groans, he says, "Seriously, mom, you do not have to put that out any more. It's embarrassing. And looks awful." And I laugh, and lovingly put it on the shelf with the other cherished decorations, tacky all, but filled with memories I wouldn't exchange for all the money in the world.

That is, in fact, one of my favorite decorations, of course, something he may never understand (he is a guy, after all.) That plastic bell was the symbol of his love and his desire to show me how much I mean to him, and he gave me something that went straight to my heart. He didn't just pull the first thing he saw off a shelf. He thought about what meant a lot to me, and impractical as it was, he bought me the best of its kind that he could afford. That is love in its purest form. Who could resist?

That is the secret to what makes Mother's Day special, and why most of us love our mothers so much that a day which could be a hokey holiday instead is filled with such meaning. Our love for our mothers, and her love for us, is not about the big stuff. It's about the tiny, everyday moments where she put herself out there for us, and gave us the gift of herself.

My own mother has faced hardship and trial her entire life, and yet, she is probably the most optimistic person I have ever known. Nothing, and I do mean, NOTHING, seems to bring her down off her perch in the clouds. She has endured the unthinkable several times over, and yet, she continues to assure me, whenever anything goes wrong, that it will all work out in the end. She is, in a word, amazing. Some other words might be inspiring, angelic, shy, quiet, beautiful, hard-working, dedicated, loyal, and genuine.

I abandoned all hope a long time ago that I would ever live up to my mother's standards where optimism is concerned. I couldn't possibly face life with the sort of determination that she has shown to the adversities that she has faced. It is seriously ridiculous how upbeat she remains after 82 years of hardships and set-backs.

Her response, when I say something about it, is that you can't just give up, you have to keep on going, because that is what you do. You can't waste your time bemoaning what you don't have, what hasn't gone right. You take each thing as it comes, do your best, and somehow, it will all work out in the end. She is my hero, for a lot of reasons, and I am most grateful to have her to turn to at the end of each day when I am beaten down by what life has thrown my way.

So, on this Mother's Day, as always, I am most grateful for the wonderful grace and faith that my mother has not only talked about, but lived, her entire life. She is the perfect example of Christian hope, and although I don't do it as well as she does, she inspires me to keep my head up and my feet on the ground, putting one foot in front of the other until somehow, some way, I reach the end of the trail.

My mother was truly a Mother's Day gift to me, because I didn't start my life with this particular model as my own. My biological mother gave birth to me, then gave me life by giving me to the mother that I call mine. While I rarely think about the woman who gave me that life so long ago, I am grateful to her each Mother's Day, because she gave me the chance to have the mother and the family that I have today. I am grateful that she recognized her own inability to be the mother I deserved, and gave me to someone who could do the job right.

My mother did many ordinary, and yet incredibly special, things for me over the years. The things that really stand out for me, it will probably surprise her to learn, are the things where she left her practical self behind, and did something unexpected, just because she loved me and wanted to make me happy.

The most important gift my mother gave me was the gift of her undivided attention after school. Each day, when I arrived home, she would listen to me talk about my day. But it wasn't the sort of half-listening thing that a lot of moms do, she wasn't just acting interested, she actually cared.

When the weather was nice, she would have packed up a little lunch, [which if you live in Minnesota, you will understand means an entire meal to sustain you so you can make it to supper in an hour,] and we would go for a walk along the railroad tracks behind our house. She would point out the birds, we listened to the rails for the sound of the train, and we talked [or I talked] until it was time to go home and work again. I will treasure the memory of those days until I take my last breath, and it didn't cost her a thing.

My mother was eminently practical. She rarely indulged either herself or me with things that weren't necessary, not because she was mean, or even just naturally thrifty, but because we had very little, and she had to be a genius at making too little money go too far. So I grew up wearing my cousin's hand-me-down clothes, and shopping wasn't something that we did often.

On one notable occasion, however, we went shopping for a dress. I have no recollection what the occasion was that prompted the shopping trip, I only remember finding the most beautiful dress I had ever seen. When I tried it on, I fell in love with it, and wanted it more than anything I have ever wanted in my whole life. It was a Hallmark moment, right up until my mother realized that it needed to be dry cleaned. [I'll be honest, the words "Dry Clean Only" still bring a little shock wave of horror every time I see them on a label.]

It was immediately obvious that I would never own that spectacular dress. My mother, thrifty and practical soul that she is, would never consent to a dress for a child that required dry cleaning under any circumstances, and I knew it without even asking. I remember standing in the dressing room, understanding the reality, even understanding the reason why, but my heart broken over this silly dress.

The tears welled up in my eyes unbidden, and before I could stop them, rolled silently down my face. And that was when my mother did something so out of the ordinary, I will never forget it. She looked at my face, and she said I could have that dress. She didn't complain, she didn't talk about how expensive it would be, she didn't discuss the impracticalities. She just said yes, and it felt like a miracle to me.

I got a lot of mileage out of that dress, by the way, as did the two cousins who wore it after me. I feel certain that my mother got her money's worth, so hopefully that helped her practical nature feel better about the whole thing. But now that I am mom myself, I have a feeling the look of wonderment on my face when she said yes was probably all the thanks she needed.

As I have mentioned, my mother was a practical woman, and not usually given to fanciful impulses. Shortly after my dad died, I decided I simply could not live without a parakeet. I don't recall how I got the bug in the first place, nor do I have any recollection of harassing her for one, although I suspect I did. All I remember is the excitement of driving down to Rochester to Woolworth's to buy that bird she ultimately consented to let me have.

We got the cage, we got the food and treats, and finally, we got the bird. I remember driving home, so excited I got a migraine, but elated over having this bird. I don't know how my mother felt inside about adding another mouth to feed to the menagerie we already had, but I know that bird brought me a lot of comfort over the years. And I also know that I never think of that bird without thinking about that trip to buy him, and how much that meant to me that she gave me that gift.

The most special moments with my mother are about her and me, time spent, not on the important things of life, but on each other. They are about playing scrabble, her reading me to sleep when I had a migraine, going for walks, making crafts, and her delicious donuts. They are about her doing dishes while I practiced piano, and about getting through some of the hardest days of our lives with each other. We were a team, she and I, and I could not have asked for a better captain.

The most special moments with my daughter are about her and me, time spent, not on the important things of life, but on each other. They are about singing along to musicals, going to museums, making crafts, and buying new shoes. They are about sitting in her room talking about life, and about getting through some of the hardest days of our lives with each other. We are a team, she and I, and I could not have asked for a better player.

The most special moments with my son are about him and me, time spent, not on the important things of life, but on each other. They are about attending concerts, reading during asthma treatments, playing horse in the driveway, going to Disney, and arguing philosophy. They are about learning to lean on him, just as he leans on me, and getting through some of the hardest days of our lives with each other. We are a team, he and I, and I could not have asked for a better player.

When all is said and done, most of us honor our mothers every time we do the right thing, whenever we help someone out, when we are good friends and citizens. But it seems right that one day a year should be set aside to show the person who taught us, in the beginning, what love is really all about, just how much we cherish her.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. And Happy Mother's Day to Adam and Erin, without whom I would not be a mother myself. You give meaning to my life, and a reason to be.

The real race.....

Over the last week, I have had an opportunity to confront, up close and personal, prejudice at it's root. It has slapped me in the face, pummeled me in that part of my psyche where I make the most basic decisions that guide my life, and turned my ideas of who am I and what I stand for upside down. It is a shock, it saddens me, and I am left wondering what I really stand for, if, when the chips are truly down, I can't stand for what I know in my heart and mind and soul is right.

This brief, but compelling experience, made me understand, perhaps for the first time, just how deeply we are divided, what an extremely arduous task it is to overcome the basic life experiences that serve to separate us, and just how far we have to go in order to achieve anything like fairness and equality. It took a brief phone call, which forced me to step out of my personal comfort zone for a few minutes, to open my eyes to my own flawed thinking, and my own instinctive personal biases, setting off a crisis of conscience in my soul that I not only didn't expect, but didn't even realize I could have.

Most people who know me well would probably say that I am fairly color-blind. I have never been, or so I thought, especially aware of skin color or racial or ethnic background when meeting people. Like everyone, I make snap judgments when meeting someone new, based on a list of mostly nebulous criteria. But I judge most people, or at least, so I believed, on the same set of criteria, even if I don't have it strictly laid out in my mind. I have been intolerant, in fact, of people who looked at ethnicity and made judgments based on that alone.

At times in my life, I have been friends with people from a variety of ethnic backgrounds, and I always found it interesting, rather than an obstacle or a drawback, that we had different backgrounds and life experiences. At one point in time, I was even married to someone from another culture, and whose ethnicity is a part of my children's heritage, even though he is long gone.

I thought I had experienced the worst side of racial bias, not only in the way my marriage was viewed by other people when we were out in public, but also with friends from other backgrounds. I have been close friends with women who wouldn't allow me to get out of the car when I drove them home from work, and who refused to go shopping with me for my own safety. I have seen intolerance, I have felt the sting of it against me, and I thought I understood it from the inside out.

I now realize, belatedly, that I foolishly prided myself on my ability to overlook what is, after all, a basic human characteristic. I now realize the reality - you cannot overlook it, because it is part of each person's life experience, and goes into making up how they act and react to the world. That reality is part of each person's life filter, for better and for worse, and to try to ignore it means you are ignoring something fundamental in a person's understanding of the world.

This earthquake in my own psyche occurred in the most innocuous of ways, as they so often do. Last week, in the course of my business day, I had the opportunity to converse with someone from a totally different background - not only the color of our skin was opposite, but our life experiences were clearly a world apart as well. It was an eye opener for me; one which, although clearly needed, turned out to be pretty uncomfortable.

This person called asking for assistance, and my job was to provide that assistance. It is something I do many times a day, for a large variety of people, and I don't generally think about their ethnic background, unless there is a language barrier that makes it difficult to converse.

The woman I was speaking with had definite ideas about the help she wanted, and how she wanted it delivered. And that is where the disconnect began for me. Because she wanted me to come and call on her in her home, to speak to her in person, and to help her sort through the complex maze of information she had received, so that she could make the best decision for her.

The details of where and how I went wrong with her are really not important, because one reason is as bad as another, when it comes to doing the wrong thing. Ultimately, I agreed to meet with her, but reluctantly, and with a certain amount of trepidation, not because I thought I couldn't do the job, but because I felt afraid to go to the part of the city where she lives.

I can make plenty of excuses for myself which sound convincing, if I don't look too closely at the underlying assumptions. The crime rate is high. She wasn't particularly cooperative on the phone. It's a long way from my office, and will waste my time, because she probably won't go with me in the end, anyway. Valid excuses all, and most people wouldn't fault me for using them to escape from a situation that makes me uncomfortable.

But the actual truth, deep down inside where it doesn't normally get exposed to scrutiny, was that I made assumptions based on her location, economics, and the way she dealt with me on the phone, which were more about stereotype than my experience with or knowledge of her.

Because I didn't have any.

I had one brief phone call, and from those few minutes of fleeting conversation, made all kinds of assumptions to justify what I wanted to do, rather than what I needed to do. Or more to the point, what she needed me to do.

I am ashamed of myself, in a way I do not want to be. I know better than to make assumptions based on where someone lives, or the type of car they drive, or how they dress, or the language they speak. I am a more tolerant, more understanding, more compassionate, more enlightened person than that, at least in my own mind. I find it almost unbearable to realize that, in the moment of trial, instead of following the example of Jesus, reaching out to the disenfranchised, I became a Jonah, attempting to run away from the responsibility that had been placed upon my shoulders.

Like the Biblical Jonah, I considered the options for reneging on the agreement. I asked for someone else to be assigned to the job, giving the reasons, all legitimate and valid, why I was the wrong person for it. I thought about simply not showing up, my own personal storm raging around me all the while. I worried and wondered and fretted all weekend about what I should do, how I should deal with this situation that had so unexpectedly arisen, and which made me so nervous and reluctant.

It is humbling to be smacked in the face with one's own wrong minded thinking. To be forced to own the wrong is difficult, uncomfortable. But after some time to think over my initial response, I realized that this woman needed my help, she had asked for it, and I had no excuse not to give it. So I determined that the correct, and only, course of action for me was to simply keep my word and fulfill the promise I had made to her. My own conscience ultimately led me to realize that I could only do the right thing, which was to show up and do what I could to help her sort out the various options available to her, and to assist her in choosing the one that was best for her.

And that is where this story takes a different track, becoming one of redemption and grace. I received a phone call from her the morning I was to visit, asking if I would still be coming. I could hear the mistrust in her voice, and when I told her I would, indeed, be coming, her whole tone and approach to me changed. Suddenly, she was worried about my ability to find her home, whether or not I could make it on my own, if it was, indeed, convenient for me to visit her that day. I assured her I would be there at the appointed time, and she sounded happy and relived.

When I arrived, she was waiting for me in her driveway, waving and calling out to me, happily anticipating the arrival of someone who not only agreed to help her, but who actually carried through on the promise. It was bittersweet for me to be received with such graciousness and joy, when I had started out so begrudgingly.

At that moment, I realized how the difference in our life experiences was the real chasm that divided us. Because she has lived where she lives, and grown up as she has, she has learned never to trust anyone, and that everyone will let her down. It is not the color of her skin that makes her different, it is her whole experience, of which that is a part, which has affected her approach to the world, and other people in it. She can no more ignore that reality which she has lived than I can ignore the realities that have shaped my own skeptical approach to the world. The chasm that divides us is also one for which we can find a bridge, because, in the end, the very differences that divide us also have commonalities.

I had a delightful visit with her, helped her decide what was most important for her, and ultimately, as I knew it would be, we decided that she needed something other than what I could do for her. But the real story, the payment of my commission, came in the moment when I understood that the life experiences that divided us were also what make each one of us vulnerable to the mistakes and rash decision making to which I almost fell prey.

Sometimes, when you take a chance on someone, it pays benefits you never imagined. I have carried that experience with me all week, and pondered the lesson I learned. I hope I now understand how much more complex my own decision making process is than I realized. When I am talking with someone, I know I need to reach them where they are, not where I am, because that is where understanding begins.

That old commercial told us to "Reach out and touch someone." The lovely woman I met this week reached out to me and touched my heart unexpectedly, and I will carry that with me for the rest of my life. The only regret I have is that I ever hesitated in the first place.

Don't be afraid to find a bridge to someone different. You never know until you reach across just how narrow the chasm might be. And you might find a bridge is already under your feet.