Facing Forward

One week. Doesn't sound like a lot of time, yet it stretches ahead of me like an eternity. Part of me wants to hurry up and see the specialist and get the details so I can move forward, make plans, take care of things. Part of me wants to delay as long as possible having to face unpleasantness, pain, feeling crappy - let me just enjoy what I have now, like a student hanging on to the end of summer. Part of me wants to focus on putting the whole ordeal behind me as quickly as possible and moving on with life.

I guess it must be similar to what a soldier feels while being transported to a battle zone. You know its coming, though you don't have the details. You aren't sure if you are ready to handle whatever you might encounter despite what you have been told. You know there is a chance you might not come out of it alive. You wish you would wake up and find out its all been just a dream and you are safe from all harm.

One thing I refuse to do - worry over anything that might be. Most of what we worry about never comes to pass. So I don't cross bridges until I have to. I don't allow myself to comtemplate the "what ifs." I have faced many unpleasant situations before in my life. Some of them huge like the death of a child. Some of them small like owning up to having done something wrong. In all of them you learn, you develop strategies for facing forward in the good times and in the bad.

As I think back, some lessons came the hard way early on. One situation stands out in my mind, from when I was in elementary grade. Every year, the church Dad was pastoring at the time held a rummage sale. I loved rummage sales. I'm not sure where the name came from. Perhaps its because people rummaged around in their attics, cellars and garages for things they could donate. Perhaps it came from the huge assortment of stuff that filled every nook and cranny of the church fellowship hall, and you had to rummage through all sorts of things to find what you wanted.

It was fascinating to behold all the oddities, the pieces of the past, bits of history, samplings from lives. They revealed a great deal about people that you otherwise would not have known. We had in our congregation a number of older women who were either never married or long widowed, many of them from families of old money. They would bring their costume jewelry, their stoles and furs, their old fashioned elegant clothing still smelling of moth balls.

There would be a delightful assortment of lamps, puzzles, books, odd pieces of furniture - it was grand to wander about taking in the marvels. We kids never had money for such stuff, just a handful of nickels and dimes - enough to buy 1 or 2 little items of interest. Money we earned usually went for shoes or clothes or a grinder and Coke at the local sub shop.

One year, Miss Keck, a staunch elderly "blue hair" as we liked to call her, brought a kicky little fox stole with a real fox head on it with little black beady eyes that shone brightly from the depths of the reddish fur. I had never seen anything like it, and thought how marvelous I would look in such elegant attire. It was over $5, a lot of money back then. I counted my pitiful handful of change - not even a dollar's worth.

I asked Mom for the money, and she thought about it, but it was just too much to indulge the fleeting whim of an impressionable young girl. She said no. Divide and conquer, I asked Dad. I should have known better. He would never approve such silliness. So I left the sale and wandered home to think it over. I don't know what made me think of it, but suddenly I recalled that Dad always had a ton of change in his pants pockets. Surely he wouldn't miss it if I just borrowed some money from him. I could earn more money babysitting or cleaning, and put it back before he would miss it. I was certain that even if he noticed, he wouldn't mind since I was only borrowing it.

It took less than 30 seconds for me to rifle through Dad's closet checking all his pants pockets. Sure enough there was a ton of change. I carefully counted out enough to make $5 and flew back to the church. Miss Keck herself waited on me at the cashier table, complementing me on my good taste, happy to see that someone young had a bit of sense about things. I put the stole about my shoulders (it must have looked jarring against my dirty tee shirt) and strutted home like the Queen of England.

Mom stopped me at the door, curious to know where I had gotten the money. I told her I had borrowed it and would work to pay it off. She looked suspicious, but didn't question me further. I thought everything was AOK. Until later that night. Dad noticed right away that money was missing from his pockets, and it didn't take them long to put two and two together. I was called on the carpet, and I 'fessed up. They were not willing to let me pay it back. I'm not sure why they decided on the course of action that they took, but the upshot was that I had to return the stole tomorrow AND get Dad's money back.

I spent hours trying to think of a way to avoid the humiliation and embarrassment. Dad had said that I had to tell them WHY I was returning the stole. He was not content to just let me say I had changed my mind. I had to tell stern Miss Keck that I had stolen money from my father, and that I had bought the stole under false pretense. Good Lord.

I spent the entire night dreaming of all the possible scenarios that might play out the next day. The closer I got the the opening of the rummage sale, the more nervous and upset I got. After all, I was the pastor's daughter, and I was supposed to be perfect. I figured this was hot enough to get written up in the local paper. Local pastor's daughter turns bad apple. I had worked myself into a real tizzy by morning, imaging all the horrible things that could happen to me for my wickedness.

You would have thought I was headed for the gallows for a hanging. Dad was not content to let me go in on my own. He wanted to hear me say the truth, so he stood in the hallway, listening. I knew there was no escape. I was going to have to tell those sweet old ladies at the table what an awful sinner I was, and beg not only forgiveness, but for them to revoke the "NO returns" policy clearly printed on the sign.

I hung my head. I spoke in a whisper. I near about cried. I confessed. I waited for the explosion, the tirade, the lecture on immortal sins. Nothing. No one said a word. Miss Keck handed me the $5, a little smile playing around the corner of her mouth. That was it. No one called the police. No one gasped in horror. No one slapped me or called me names.

I turned to leave, head hanging. "Just a minute, dearie," I heard Miss Keck say. "I want you to have this." She held out the stole. I stared in disbelief. How could she taunt me like that. "No thanks," I mumbled. "But I insist," she replied.

Slowly I held out my hand and gingerly accepted the cursed thing, my face a flame of red. I crept out of the church, my Dad watching me go. The message was clear - don't ever do that again. Whether Miss Keck realized it or not, that stole reminded me of my faux pas for a long time.I thought at the time that what I learned was not to steal, not to take someone else's things without permission.

But I learned much more than that. I learned not to anticipate things or get upset over something that might not even happen. And I learned how to face unpleasant things with forthrightness and grace. It was one of those defining moments that you hate your parents for at first, but later on, thank them for caring about you enough to teach you well.

So I sigh, and wait for the doctor appointment and don't allow myself flights of fancy about what might be. I will face this as I have faced other things - with peace that whatever comes, God will see me through. Too bad I don't still have that old stole. It might be just the thing to wear to my appointment!