Pity Party - Table for One

Just gonna put it out there.

I feel sorry for myself.

There.  I said it.  

Poor me.

Life has rendered its share of ups and downs lately. No one really needs guidance to deal with the up side. We can all get behind that. It’s the struggle…disappointment…heartache that we need help with.

Some things really are unfair. And it seems like when it rains, it pours.    

Sometimes, it’s dust from the past stirring up in a new day. Who hasn’t been there?

Perhaps something we thought we had worked through, needs more attention. Maybe our loved ones have been distant when we need their support.

Maybe we’re left out by a group of friends, lose a job, feel the sting of rejection, or get a serious diagnosis.

And then, some stuff is of our own choosing. Ouch. Yeah. We choose. A misery of our own making.

It’s in those times we choose to point the finger at circumstance…a safe place for blame that requires little personal responsibility. Ouch again.

We’re quick to assign our unhappiness to someone or something else, recruiting others to validate our feelings.

And a look in the mirror after a good cry aides in feeling sorry for ourselves….our puffy eyed, blotchy faced selves.

But pity is risky business.

It begins with a thought.

And then another.

Before you know it, there is a nest making its home in your mind.

It didn’t just happen. Just as a nest is assembled twig by twig, each selfish thought has made its contribution to pity.

If not properly dealt with, it gives way to a negative attitude and a hardened heart.

Please friend, don’t go there.

Things will get better…even if it’s only your perspective that changes.  

The surest way I know how to move forward is by reaching out. Talk to a trusted friend. Not one who will trash and bash with you, but someone who loves you enough to tell you the truth…

...even if it means telling you that you are wrong.

Sing, dance, pray, take a walk, get coffee, buy flowers, rearrange furniture, wear bold lipstick, try a new hair style, read a book. Do something on purpose that replaces pity with a positive.

Perhaps neglecting yourself has given way to feeling sorry for yourself. A healthy balance is just that. Healthy.

Focus on someone else. There is always, always, always someone who is going through something far more challenging who could use a kind gesture.

You’ll be amazed at what taking your eyes off of yourself will do for you. Smile, send a card, hold a door, make a casserole.

Then fill your mind and heart with good things. Someone else has traveled the road you’re on and they have a story to share. It will help you.

Words of Gold is a great place to find just that. The young, the old, and the in between sharing, encouraging one another.

We are not alone. A hand is waiting. Take hold.

The To Do List

She thanked me profusely for taking her along.

Errands. I was running errands.

All day.

And she was thrilled to go!

Two different grocery stores, Target, home to serve lunch and then back out to a wholesale supply store.

Alone, my list would have been knocked out in 2 ½ - 3 hours tops.  Almost seven hours later I rolled into the driveway.

I have to be honest...I didn’t really want to take her with me.

Everything takes so much longer with an elderly person and on errand day, I like to conquer.

Nobody conquers at a snail’s pace and nobody gets through a “to do” list by admiring every single thing on the store’s shelf. But none the less, there we were. 

I wrestled with my thoughts that morning.

I knew inviting her along would mean an all day excursion but I was in get it done mode, and getting her out of the house was long over due.

I felt I owed her.

After all, when the kids were little, she went on errands with me. Back then I needed someone to push the extra cart so that I could contain three toddlers. At least one or two of said toddlers would fall asleep at some point, so she’d stay in the car with them while I ran in and out of stores quickly.

And she babysat.

Made us soup when we were sick.

Gave the kids Easter baskets for years and even let them have peanuts in the shell. Oh how they loved the surprise of peanuts cradled neatly inside! 

So, I drove over to pick her up. Even the short drive was irritating.

There are railroad tracks a couple blocks from her home and I was sure that the longest train in the history of ever would be crossing just as I approached. It wasn’t. No train in sight. 

She was dressed up. Black slacks, fine knit sweater, knee high nylons and patent leather flats. 

Me? Full on errand attire. Faded jeans, long sleeved T-shirt, comfy tennies and a cross body bag.

To her it was an occasion. To me it was a chore. And I felt guilty. 

Conversation was pleasant at first. She’s always been interested in what the kids are up to and like most Moms, I love to brag about my children. 

I loved it, that is, until she asked the same question for the third or fourth time. Likewise, she shared about her granddaughter’s birthday celebration at least that many times if not more. Sometimes she wasn’t sure who the girl was, but it sure was a nice party. Agonizing!  

I wish I could wrap up this post with a warm, fuzzy ending. 

But it was a flat out irritating day. However, she is not the one with whom I am irritated. It’s me. 

Though my intentions seemed sincere, they were self-serving. Spending time with her was just another thing I could check off of my list that day. Owning that realization is not a proud moment. 

So, where’s the lesson? How can I do better? How can we all do better? 

I guess recognizing my selfish impatience is a good first step. 

Knowing that I’m not too far away from the golden years is a decent second step. 

How would I feel if someone offered to spend time with me just to check me off their list? Ouch. Not very special, I’m sure. 

It was an internal struggle. She was quite pleased with the day. She was almost embarrassingly grateful. And I genuinely hope that’s how she felt. I would not want to leave her with the stain of my indifference. 

So, I’ll try again. 

Next time I will give her my undivided attention. Fully present! And honestly, she might not be the only one I need to focus on. I mean really focus…all in. 

No errands, no clothes folding, no Instagram scrolling, no dinner making while I’m supposed to be “listening”.

In the Bible we’re taught that love is patient. The very first definition of love in First Corinthians, is patience. I suppose it’s first because it’s so important. And difficult. 

I’ve got some work to do in this area. Do you?  

The Gift of Groceries

There was no mistaking that voice. It was loud and twangy….perfect for those country songs he was always singin’. He called out my Mom’s name as he walked through the back door. Nobody locked their doors back then. At least not during the day.

He was a big man, the only son of my parents’ good friends. He was around the same age as my older sister. It was odd that he came by. He was a young, married guy and visitors that “stopped by” were usually older. What was he doing here? And why was he using the back door?  

“Glen? Is that you?” Mom called from the kitchen table. She was reading the newspaper…more than likely the Help Wanted section.  

“Yuuuupp, it’s me, he drawled. Just thought I’d swing by with a few things.” By now he was in the kitchen setting brown paper bags on the linoleum counter.    

“What?  What in the world?” Mom was so taken back she didn’t even get up. Instead, she sat at the table and cried. She cried deep, heavy sobs that hadn’t been released since Dad lost his job.  

Glen made several trips to his car and back to our tiny kitchen. Cereal boxes peeked from the top of a bag. Celery stalks stood tall from another. A doubled bag was laden with heavy packages of wrapped meat. Canned goods, boxed dinners, macaroni and cheese….

“How? How did you know?” she sobbed some more…overwhelmed by his kindness. “Glen, thannnnnk you. Thaaaank you”, she whispered as he set down the last of the bags. Her voice now faint from all of her tears.

“Ok, time to run on home now.” And with that, he was gone.  

I had been standing in the hallway near the kitchen table. I wasn’t sure what to do. So I just stood there.

Mom slowly rose from her chair and stood before the bags on the counter. She looked through them as if they held precious treasure. I stepped into the kitchen and helped her put everything away. We said nothing.

Years passed, decades actually, when the memory of those groceries came to mind. I was a married mother of three young children and mature enough to realize how that generosity touched Mom’s heart. I understood her tears….completely.

I wrote him a letter. I wanted him to know what an impact he made on me and thank him for his selfless gesture. He and his family had long since moved away, but I found his address in Tennessee and dropped the letter in the mail. Some time had passed when I received a card back from his wife.  

Seems an act of kindness such as his takes wing. And in his golden years, blessed him full circle.  It’s never wrong to do the right thing. Do something. Today.

The Living Room

I crawled around the floor on my hands and knees. It was a nightly ritual after the kids were in bed. That sounds so tidy…after the kids were in bed.  Bedtime was anything but a tidy process.  After dinner, also not so tidy, it was bath time. Times three. We were past the ages of just making sure they were clean. They wanted to play in the bathtub. I’ve always been task oriented, getting the job done without much lingering, but three preschoolers overruled my determination.

Every. Single. Night.

So after dinner and dishes, baths and playing, teeth brushing and pajamas, stories and blanket tucking, prayers and kisses….and one last request for a drink of water…I’d tip toe out of sight. Of course, like any mother of small children, I’d wait those crucial few moments to witness their gentle little puffs of breath ease into the rhythm of sweet slumber. If even one woke up or worse yet cried, the other two would waken and we’d start the cycle all over again. It was such a relief when three sets of tiny little eyes seemed closed for the night. I’d check on them one more time then continue with the clean-up mission downstairs.

The living room and its sprawl of toys patiently waited. I approached it with a sigh sometimes, but most nights a sweet peace washed over me. This is where they played. This room was where they discovered, sang songs, counted numbers, learned colors, read books, played patty cake, took first steps, finger painted, squished playdoh, twirled in circles, clanged instruments, toppled towers, and served tea parties. Shoes were welcomed on the wrong feet, dress up tutus were more beautiful inside out, cowlicks fabulously stood hair straight up on end and the Little Tykes kitchen was always open for business.  

I gazed a moment before lowering my tired body to the ground. By the end of most days, that room resembled the after effects of a ticker tape parade. So I crawled from here to there stacking, arranging, straightening, all to be repeated again tomorrow. I’d wince as a Lego left its imprint on my knee cap and note that washable markers are well worth the extra cost. Cheerios were discovered in corners and couch cushions, while fruit snacks turned super glue were imbedded in the carpet. Missing socks mysteriously presented themselves in the middle of the room, while a battery operated toy chattered from deep within the toy box. I stepped back to admire the completed work before trudging upstairs to bed. 

Then all too soon, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, that phase of their lives was over. No more “look at me mommy” giggled from pig tailed girls, and no more superhero capes worn by an adventurous little boy. The years have given way to three wonderful young adults. Ones that make their dad and I proud. It seems so cliché talking about how fast the time goes. And yet it does. So I whisper a prayer of thanksgiving for the blessing of my family and wait patiently for the season of life that will bring the pitter patter of tiny feet to our home once again.