Category Archives: Thankfulness

Good Hope

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In my quest to fly home from England yesterday, it was all bad news. Traveling on a Buddy Pass given to me by Nelson’s friend Kevin, I’d flown to England on a flawless connection. Kevin had assured me I’d get on, and I had.

When Hans and I pulled up to the Manchester airport early Tuesday, we hugged our goodbyes, and I walked into the airport with confidence. There had been 20 open seats on my flight, one of two daily Delta departures for the States. The queue was long, and as I stood with literally hundreds who were ticketed for the same plane, my nerves came awake.

The friendly agent saw my Buddy Pass status and said, “Oooo, ma’m. It doesn’t look good for you today. The flight is overbooked, and you’re at the bottom of the standby list. We won’t check your bag, because more than likely you won’t fly today.”

I’d stayed up till 1:15 am packing and had disrupted Hans’ work day needing a lift to the airport. To call an hour after he’d dropped me with a request that he return was unacceptable. And would it be any better tomorrow?

“Take your bags and find a place to wait,” the agent said. “Come back in an hour, and we’ll let you know.”

“Is there any hope?” I said.

“It’s always best to hope,” he said.

I wheeled my bags across the airport in search of an empty chair and plopped down next to a young woman who had an even bigger luggage pile than I did. The tags on her suitcases matched mine, iridescent green with block letters: DELTA STANDBY TAG. We were both after the same empty seat on the same crowded flight. With a friendly smile she said, “None of us could have predicted British Airways would go on strike this morning…”

So that was where the seats had gone. Feeling powerless, I sat and stared at the passing masses, each one anxious to fly away to someplace. I prayed for those walking by and also reminded God he’d promised to go ahead of me and prepare my way, too.

An hour later, I took my bags back to the counter, “Mr. Hope” was gone, but the woman in his place had surprising news. “Put your suitcase on the scale. You’re listed on the flight.” I didn’t even ask.

As I rushed through the airport to find my gate, loudspeakers were urging passengers to heed “the final call” for boarding. My last stop was to receive a seat assignment, worrying me I could still be plucked from the passenger list. But the agent handed me my boarding pass with a smile. “Here’s your seat now, love.”

I didn’t look at it but lined up behind the last boarders, heeding earlier counsel: “It’s always best to hope.”

With six minutes until push-back, the staff was urging people to find their places quickly. The stewardess at the door glanced at my boarding pass and said, “Oh. You’re right here.”

First row.   First seat.   First class!

Mine was the last empty seat on the plane, and as I sat down, anxiety melted. The cross-Atlantic flight was the most pampered ride of a lifetime with a bed-sized pillow, a down blanket, gourmet meals chosen from a menu, my own TV and a snap-shut travel bag filled with goodies. The other woman had made it on, too, neither of us knowing how it had happened. I have a hunch, though.

Kevin’s email yesterday (giving me the Buddy Pass data) had ended with this line: “We’ll be praying for you to get on, and to get a seat in first class.”

When there had been no way, God had made a way, proving the ticket agent was right: it’s always best to hope.

”Many that are first shall be last; and the last shall be first.” (Matthew 19:30)

Missing Him

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This morning before church, Louisa and I found ourselves sitting at the dining table talking about health care reform and the new tea party movement. I had a TIME magazine in front of me, searching for answers to her questions, and suddenly I missed Nate terribly.

Nate was our personal professor. He never forgot a thing he read, and he was more than delighted to talk history, politics, government, current events. As Louisa and I tried to separate fact from fiction without much success I said, “Papa would have the answers without needing to page through TIME for them. If only he was here.”

“Yeah,” agreed Louisa, sad all over again for missing him.

I was proud of Nate’s intelligence. I leaned on him for it whenever I came up short, which was often. This might have been cause for embarrassment on my part or hurtful teasing on his part, but he delivered answers without judgment, always hoping for more questions.

I remember well the first “stupid” question I asked him. He was in law school, and we were newlyweds of two month’s time. I didn’t know any lawyers on a personal level and knew very little law-related vocabulary. One night when he was studying late, I asked what he was reading. His answered, “A dry, boring sentence that goes on for an entire page.”

“Let me see,” I said, taking the three-inch-thick text to try my luck. I couldn’t understand the first phrase, let alone the entire sentence. I’m not sure what prompted me, but right then I asked my question.

“Is an attorney the same thing as a lawyer?”

Nate looked up and, without pausing, said, “Yes.”

I apologized for my brainless question, fishing for approval or disapproval, and he said, “Don’t ever criticize your intelligence. You’re a smart girl.” I didn’t believe him, but it was a magnanimous response. Forty years later I haven’t forgotten it.

Today Louisa and I felt dim-witted as we asked each other questions. The void left by Nate’s absence at the table seemed cavernous, and that emptiness attached itself to me like dew on grass.

Later I prayed about the problem, and God put a fresh thought into my mind. I believe he wants me to bridge the gap between missing Nate and being thankful for him. As I was longing for his physical presence, his voice, his intelligence, his answers, I should have been able to hop one step further to see the blessing of having had those things in him. It’s not really that big of a stretch.

Scripture says the key to developing this skill is prayer, a powerful force in establishing any new habit. My first and frequent prayer will be, “Hit me over the head with reminders, Lord, so I won’t wander down the path of missing Nate without quickly thanking you for him.” I have hope this will help me and will mean less missing what we don’t have and more appreciating what we did have.

”Devote yourselves to prayer, being watchful and thankful.” (Colossians 4:2)

Scent or Smell?

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Have you ever stepped into an elevator with a woman who’s wearing too much perfume? It’s enough to make you step out and head for the stairs. That’s the way Nate wore cologne. His preference was Aramis, a pricey scent introduced in 1965. He was wearing it in 1966 when we met as college seniors and was still wearing it on our wedding day three years later.

I liked Aramis, even lots of it. The problem came when I was expecting baby #1, in 1972. Funny things happen to normal women when they become pregnant, and my hormones birthed a hatred for Aramis. It no longer smelled good; it just smelled. I couldn’t stand to be in the same room with it, which presented a major problem for our marriage.

“Pour it down the drain,” I insisted, but Nate loved his Aramis and didn’t understand my turncoat behavior. By baby #3, I’d done so much complaining, he finally surrendered, and I know why. Desperate to get my way, I’d told him, “If you keep wearing it, I can’t kiss you anymore and risk that stuff rubbing off on me.” That did it.

Trying to remain calm amidst the churning emotions of his pregnant wife, he asked, “So, what cologne can I wear?”

“Old Spice.”

I saw him turn up his nose and tip his head as if to say, “Are you kidding? That’s what our fathers wear!”

But he didn’t say it, and soon a stopper-topped, milk-glass Old Spice bottle appeared in our bathroom. The familiar ship on the front was comforting to me, and the scent was pleasing since it reminded me of… my father.

Nate saved his bottle of Aramis for years, hoping I’d eventually warm up to it again. I left it there under the sink, thinking I might enjoy it after we finished having babies, which took 17 years. In the mean time, he got plenty of kisses while wearing Old Spice. Sadly, though, my distaste for Aramis never went away.

But 2005 was a banner year, because something happened that opened the door to Aramis. Our golden retriever had a mental snap, and though she loved me, attacked me with an intent to kill. Snarling and growling, she bit me repeatedly, tore my skin open and shook me like a captured rabbit. Two days later, admitted to the hospital with a serious infection, I was given “the atomic bomb of antibiotics.” It was a last-ditch effort to save my hand from amputation.

“You’ll probably smell something terrible inside your head for several weeks,” the doctor told me. “It’ll be the medicine. And more than likely it’ll take away your sense of smell. But which would you rather have, a hand or a sense of smell?”

I picked my hand, and the doctor was right about my nose. After those antibiotics I couldn’t smell anymore, not even Nate’s Old Spice. So one day I told him, “Guess what. You can wear Aramis again, because I can’t smell you anymore.”

He immediately got rid of his Old Spice bottle, but rather than resurrect the Aramis, he experimented with other colognes. I bought him a bottle of Brut, thinking Elvis Presley’s choice would make cologne-wearing fun again, but amazingly, he settled on Mennen Aftershave, a mild scent bought at Walgreens for $1.99.

Today at the cottage I found three bottles of his bright green Mennen under the bathroom sink. I opened one to sniff deeply, wondering if I might be able to smell Nate, but nothing came. Since our boys had no interest, I simply poured it all out. As I watched his Mennen swirl down the drain, I realized in a new way what a great love Nate had for me.

It’s the refusal to give in to the whims of a spouse that can one day become the spontaneous combustion of divorce. Nate didn’t want to give up his Aramis, and he held on for three babies trying to convince me. But when he saw I wasn’t going to bend, he did the bending for both of us and put it away. At the time I didn’t appreciate the significance of what he’d done. I probably said something like, “Thank goodness!” or “Finally!”

Today I say, “Shame on me.”

My objection to Aramis was valid, but my mistake was in failing to honor my husband for his willingness to give up what he’d wanted to keep. More and more I’m realizing that much of the reason our marriage worked was because Nate acquiesced to my desires. I wish I would have looked for more ways to give in to him, and oh how I wish I could thank him now… for putting away his Aramis, way back in 1977.

“Keep fervent in your love for one another, because love covers a multitude of sins. Be hospitable to one another without complaint.” (1 Peter 4:8-9)