Ordinary angel…

“When she first saw him across the room of an old Victorian mansion, she says he stood there like Rasputin or John Lennon, and he stopped her heartbeat for a split second. He wanted to take her to the opera and, though overcome by what passes for love at 42, she agreed. When at last she confessed that this love was impossible with 15 years between them, he told her the strength of their love and not the distance of their years would determine the authenticity of this love. And so they wed, and moved into an old home in San Francisco, one room wide and four deep, wrapped in art, opera, and symphonies. He found peace there where he could no longer hear the taunts of childhood or the screaming of his father.  Years later when they had to make peace (they refused to call it a battle) with the cancer that overtook his bones she often said, “With fifteen years between, I always assumed he’d tuck me into my grave, and I worried how he would survive. Instead, it is she who nursed him into quiet death in his sleep.”     From “Fourth Watch”

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My eldest brother, Will, died far too young, leaving his widow, Anne, at sea. My younger brother and I stayed in intermittent touch with her for decades but noticed over the years that Anne seemed more confused and a little paranoid. Then it seemed all of a sudden, she disappeared from any communication from us, and we did not know if it was by choice or circumstance.

But I continued to try, and after years of failed attempts, I decided to go old school. I sent a postcard to the only address I knew to let her know that I was concerned about her well-being and wondered how she was doing. A week later when I got home, there was a voicemail message from a woman who had been given the postcard by the new owners of Anne’s home in San Francisco. The woman, Sandra, had been a neighbor and friend of Anne's for decades, and it was from Sandra we learned that Anne had sunk deeper and deeper into dementia, nearly setting the neighborhood on fire and wandering on several occasions through her neighborhood, lost and alone. Because we were not blood relatives, there was no record of us for anyone to contact.  Sandra was unaware of our existence.

Through Sandra, we found out that Anne had first been placed in a lovely facility where her neighbor visited her almost every day just to feed her a meal and let her know people still cared about her. But a tragedy befell my brother's widow that sadly befalls many elderly: she ran out of resources, and as a result, she had become a ward of the state and moved to a facility where her needs were barely tended to.  That is when neighbor Sandra truly stepped in with the gift of her friendship.

Sandra loved Anne, and noting the spartan nature of room, purchased a cozy, beautiful comforter to keep her warm and did other little things to make life more bearable for Anne. Even though Sandra had her own family and obligations, she devoted herself tirelessly to visiting nearly daily, feeding Anne meals and chatting with her as though she were still present in her mind.

As I listened to her painting a picture of Anne’s life circumstances, I was brought to tears by her great kindness towards Anne, the woman who had saved my brother. Will was in his late 20’s when they wed and in his 40’s when he died. Anne was in her sixties then. But in their short years together, she had loved him into becoming his best self, allowing him to shed the thick armor his life circumstances had demanded.

And it was now nearly three decades later that she was getting ready to join him. Decades of setting a place for him at the dinner table each night.  Decades of missing his presence, his love and his touch. Decades of waiting.

Had I not sent the postcard… had the new owners not given it to Sandra, I would never have known what had happened to my sister-in-law, nor would I ever have known that there was someone standing in the gap for her in her time of greatest need and vulnerability.

Sandra did not do it for money. As a matter of fact, she turned down all our efforts to pay her back in some way for her kindness. She needed no thank you from us - this was just a gift of love, neighbor to neighbor, friend to friend, given simply to ease the transition from this world to the next.

When the phone call came a few weeks ago, announcing Anne’s death, I could hear the brokenness in Sandra‘s voice. A woman of faith, Sandra knew that Anne was now free of pain and together again with Will, but she was torn up, nonetheless. As we ended our call, I felt a need to tell her one last thing.

“Well done, thou good and faithful servant.”

During this season when pine trees are crowned with shiny tree toppers cradled between delicate wings, and the air is filled with songs and stories of angelic hosts, I just wanted to take a moment to honor Sandra – the most ordinary and extraordinary of angels in my life - the woman who selflessly loved my beautiful sister-in-law to the other side.

The lost phone

Whenever a storm arrives, there’s an uptick in “panic” grocery shopping. I forgot that trend when I told my husband I would drive to Fred Meyer, grab a few items, and be back in time for him to go to his doctor’s appointment. I won’t say that I ran through the store, but I was certainly in a hurry to get everything done so I could honor my commitment and be home before the storm hit.

One of the aisles was blocked by a personal shopper and an older bearded gentleman wearing a biker leather vest. They were having an animated conversation as he pointed to her phone. She made some dismissive gesture, and he walked up to me and asked if I would call his phone, explaining that he thought he left it on one of the shelves while he was shopping.

I took a deep breath trying to corral my rushed spirit as we wandered to the bread shelf. I called his number to no avail and then asked him where he had been previously. He thought hard and then motioned to the milk case. So, I walked to the milk case with him and called, again to no avail.

I noticed as he turned away momentarily that the back of his leather vest had John 16 imprinted on it, and when he turned, I said, “John 16,” and smiled. He looked at me with absolute earnestness and said, “Jesus is all I’ve got.”

“Buddy, it’s all any of us got,” I replied, and he smiled broadly.

I explained to him that I was in a little bit of a rush because I had to drive back to Ferndale, but that I would keep calling his number as I wandered through the store and maybe he would be nearby and hear it. He thanked me, and I felt his hand touch my shoulder gently.

I ran into him again at the front door, and he was still looking panicked and a little lost. I came up with what I thought was a great plan. He could go to his car, and I would drive my car to his car and call his number in case his phone had fallen between the seats.

‘It’s not there, I checked.”

“Well let’s try again.”

Rushing through the wind and rain, I arrived at my car, and I did something I rarely do: I started talking to Jesus out loud.

“Jesus, I know it’s just a phone, but this man needs a miracle. It’s not world peace, but it would give him peace.”

When I came around the corner to his truck, no one was there, so I called again hoping that he had leaned over a seat to search. But no, the car was empty. I saw that he was still in front of the store, so I pulled up and let him know I had tried.

“I remembered why I went in,” he said. “I bought milk and bacon, so I’m going back to the bacon aisle.” His eyes and spirit invited me back in.

“I’m sorry - I have to go, but I will keep calling until I get an answer, and maybe you will hear your phone ringing somewhere.”

When I got to the first stoplight before the freeway, I realized that my whole body had become obsessed with a need for a miracle for the old man who lost his phone. I called over and over and over and over still to no avail. I called my husband to let him know that I might be running a little late, and as I began to relay the story to him, I began to weep uncontrollably. I was broken.

In a world, turned upside down by cruelty and violence and small mindedness, I just desperately needed a win for a vulnerable person in a tight spot. I was so desperate to do one kind thing against the avalanche of unkindness all around me.

I called his number all the way home. I have been calling since.

And I will continue to call,

because I promised him that I would call until somebody answered, and I will not be able to sleep if I don’t keep that promise.

The Coat Closet Dilemma

When I walked into my new second grade classroom following yet another military transfer of my family, Benjamin “Benny” Ostrello was the first person who greeted me. He was a chubby kid with a bright, happy smile, a good sense of humor and a welcoming spirit, probably all the direct result of the fact that even in second grade, the kids that were in and the kids that were out were already firmly established. And Benny was not cool enough to be in. So, he became my new best friend on that first day because, well, friends are hard to find when you are not “in” with the right crowd.

He was a source of constant hilarity to me. And he was he was a source of constant consternation to our teacher, Miss Nyman. In even just a few weeks, I could see that it took a lot to get to her because she was literally one of the kindest, most patient souls I had ever encountered in a school. She wore acetate dresses with big belts and bold patterns, and a cloud of perfume always arose from around her when you got close. Even if she wasn’t hugging you, you felt embraced by her presence. She felt like coming home.

Her nemesis, Benny, was always trying to be friends with everybody during instruction, and because I knew this and I valued his friendship, I tried to give him every opportunity to practice his social skills. One day, Miss Nyman snapped. She turned to Benny and, with a stern voice she rarely used, sent him to the infamous coat closet in the back of the room and told him he had to stand there because he was keeping the other kids from learning.

I was mortified. That coat closet was a dark, dark room in the back of the classroom, and if you were sent there, you carried the weight of shame and dishonor. You were the kid who was keeping other people from learning, and that was a huge crime those days in any public-school classroom.  It was literally only one step away from a swat with a paddle in the principal’s office.

The problem was, Benny didn’t initiate the distraction- I did.

After he marched himself into “the abyss,” I remember sitting at my desk working on the assignment and literally wrestling with whatever moral conscience a second grader might have.

Should I confess the distraction was my fault?

I hated the thought that a confession might send me to the coat closet and saddle me with the reputation as a disrupter of learning. But I hated more that my new friend Benny might be standing there in my place - Benny, who had not professed innocence, but simply took the heat because that’s what he always did.

There was only one thing to do.

I felt like I was marching up to a guillotine when I went to Miss Nyman‘s desk. The other kids were working quietly. She looked up at me, her perfume drifting up in the slight breeze the movement created, and asked me if I needed help. I think I started to cry, and then I whispered to her that I didn’t need any help. I just needed to let her know that Benji was not the one who was causing trouble. It was me who should be in the coat closet.

And then I waited in the silence for the punishment I knew would come.

Miss Nyman pushed her chair back loudly and stood up. She put her arm around me and faced me toward the class announcing she needed everybody to listen. She went on to explain that I had told her that I was the one who had caused trouble in class and not Benny, and I had confessed because I didn’t want him to get in trouble for something I had done.

I don’t know what I expected her to do after that, but I most certainly did not expect the next sentence. “Class, this is what honesty looks like, and I can’t tell you how much I value the fact that Vicky came forward and told the truth.”  She did not send me to the coat closet - she brought Benny out and welcomed him back to class.

I don’t remember the students’ reaction. But I think when Benny was let out of the coat closet and freed from his imprisonment, he was probably grateful. I don’t even remember how I felt in that moment.  But I will tell you this: I have never forgotten that day. I left her classroom knowing that no matter what the consequences might be, it was better in all circumstances to just tell the truth.

It is a lesson I have carried with me for 65 years,

and for that, I have Benny and Miss Nyman to thank.