I was a young single mom with a four month old baby the first time I met my future husband. To his eternal chagrin, he doesn’t remember. We met at one of my good friend’s parents’ house for Easter dinner. We sat across from one another during the meal. At some point during the day, he showed me a photo of his girlfriend, but I don’t think we talked much.
I remember hearing him discuss philosophy with my friend’s dad in the next room later on. I liked the sound of his voice.
Three years later, my friend was getting married to his good friend, and we were both invited.
(Sometimes, when we are stuck inside on cold days, it is dreamy. Other times, not so much.)
It had been an icy cold day, a frustrating day, when my husband got home from work. He took one look at my face, and told me to get out of the house for a while. I started to do one last thing – putting laundry away – then stopped myself, put my coat on, and left.
I saw the glowing light when I got into the car telling me I needed gas, but I figured I wasn’t going far and I could get some on my way home after I ran a few errands. I drove to my first stop and headed into the store.
I let my mind wander while I picked up the things we needed, along with a few things we didn’t.
When I got back out to the car, it wouldn’t start.
I almost texted my husband an SOS.
(My Not Kidding Face after a night shift)
I don’t consider reading people one of my gifts. When I need to, I can really tune in – and as a nurse, I have to tune into my patients in order to figure out things they won’t or can’t tell me with words.
With friends and acquaintances, I pull it together for conversation as often as I can. But I find this type of interpretation exhausting.
Sometimes, especially when I am tired or distracted, I can’t muster the energy needed to read folks and so I wind up feeling like I’ve missed something, without knowing quite what. I can sense a disruption in the Force, so to speak, but can’t tell what is causing it.
That happened this morning.
Black History Month is a great opportunity to introduce yourself to some new literature, and these books are good as read-alouds or for silent reading.
The People Could Fly: American Black Folktales by Virginia Hamilton, illustrated by Leo and Diane Dillon.
Why is it easier to respond graciously to criticism when the person dispensing it isn’t close to us?
The ones who are most qualified to criticize, and do it with our best interest in mind, aren’t those acquaintances and even strangers who feel the need to make known how they feel about us and the way we choose to live. They are our loved ones, and if it isn’t safe for them to speak up when we’re not doing something right, then it might be time to re-examine priorities.
