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A while ago I read a book about Tuberculosis.

I enjoyed it immensely, I have since discovered I’m the minority amongst my fellow readers.

This is not uncommon or unusual.

Tuberculosis is not a common condition in these parts these days and no longer part of our everyday lexicon, however growing up I heard the obscure, disconnected, unfathomable term regularly.

“TB” sprang forth from my Mam’maw’s mouth an infinite amount of time.

I  really didn’t know what TB was in 1986 when I was around 8 but I knew it was a villain that struck my grandmother so deeply I hated him, or it, or who or whatever TB was.

She always pronounced it “tea-bee.”

It would be years later while in school  that I would learn TB was an acronym for tuberculosis, an infectious and fatal disease of the lungs.

My assessment had been correct in labeling it a villain clothed in the frightening darkness of the unknown.

TB drowned my great-grandmother some 83 years ago on December 21st of 1943.

She was a mere 38 years old yet every photo I’ve ever seen of her she looked a haggard, hundred years old or older. His limbs were shriveled and her body frail.

Poverty, sickness and hopelessness will age a body faster than near anything I reckon.

When I read the TB book by John Green  I expected to find my Great-Grandmother Lillie Odessa within the pages, I did and  I didn’t. It didn’t really answer the question why she died, I already knew the why, she drowned. She tore the skin off her fingers trying to free herself from suffocation, it was no use. She rattled herself to death one winter day. My Mam-maw would never be the same after her mother died, who ever is though?

Grief never goes away, it never gets smaller. Loss is still loss, life just has a way of growing around grief I guess.

Her death on December 21st put in motion a trajectory that would shape the very person I would be and would become.

Decades later I’d have my own immortal December 21st. Another story, another day. For now it’s ten months on to the day today and I’ve found myself pondering some things.

In the pondering I needed to reach back to familiarity and warmth. The almighty algorithm must have some ideas about that because for the last week or so my feed has been sparse of friends’ news and chock full of weird stories, Amelia Earhart, and the random beverage and food recipe.

One of those recipes is a tea that’s being called “Friendship Tea.” I read the recipe, it’s verbatim the Calling All Cooks recipe for Russian Tea.

Years ago with the dawn of new food and beverage items, when Jell-o reigned supreme and cool-whip was a marvel of the modern era, a hot beverage debuted and to be honest and frank we called it “Russian Tea” back then.

From what I remember about  the time in American History the Russians weren’t really our friends and Tang, the base ingredient , was a fully American status-post Space Race invention so I have no idea the etymology of the name “Russian Tea.”

I’ve never been to Russia myself but I can’t imagine the Kremlin has a bunker full of dried beverage ingredients that  when combined gives the same vibe. Maybe it was the exotic and worldly taste that earned it the moniker, maybe Southern Ladies felt a little more cultured drinking hot tea, clove and Tang, I  truly have no idea.

The recipe I follow is found in the Yellow Edition of Calling All Cooks…if you know you know and it is in fact entitled “Russian Tea” I’ve modified it a bit over the years and made notes in my own copy that is presently in 3 separate parts, that particular CAC edition has seen some things. Again if you know, you know.

I try to be culturally sensitive but the original name stuck in my head and I’ve given it to plenty of my friends but “Friendship Tea” just won’t stick.

In the cool hours of the morning I mixed up a batch and I sent pictures to tease my sister who is by far the biggest lover of the spiced beverage. She claims she can’t make it like I can.

I disagree for she is capable of measuring, mixing, and praying over that which will become warmth, nostalgia and comfort in a cup.

To test the rightness of the batch I made myself a cup and headed out of doors for some reminiscing, refreshment, and Bible reading this morning.

Eventually Mama joined me and I abandoned my cup momentarily, when I returned I found a bee had flown into my cup.

I was seconds away from the second oral bee sting in my life, the first happened when I was 6 while swinging with my mouth wide open. My tongue throbbed for days and no amount of Benadryl could subdue the swelling.

I looked before I sipped thus avoiding the second possible sting.

“There’s a bee in my tea” was my thought a “Tea-Bee.” I chuckled and then I pondered about the TB I had known, the book I had read.

The invisible villain that took my Mama’s Grandmother and whose death reshaped the very geography of our family, of my very own life.

I thought about the book and the sticky note quote from it that sits atop my bathroom mirror and I wondered if in His infinite wisdom the King knew I’d make this unlikeliest of connections on this day between tea, bees, TB, and anniversaries.

And in and doing so I might glimpse the beauty of redemption, trusting what cannot be seen, pressing in and pressing on with Him.

The year Maggie was born, 2004, a movie debuted with an iconic line. The movie: Mean Girls, the line: “She doesn’t even go here!” 

Like many iconic things the line stuck even if the movie didn’t because it can be applicable to many things thereby making it iconic. 

That line lives rent free in my head. I’ll say it when something simply doesn’t appear to belong. 

I will say it when I find a Q-tip on the coffee cart, a dog in my bed, a potato chip in with a Dorito. 

I say it to myself often. 

I’ll say it when I’m not sure where the supply room is on the floor where I pick up extra shifts.

I’ll say it when I feel like I don’t fit anywhere. I used to be a part of a couple and now I’m not. I will think it when I feel out of place when I contribute what I think is pertinent information to a conversation but others may not.

I say it as I’m driving 70mph down the interstate crying out to Jesus, “I don’t even freakin’ go here! I don’t go anywhere!!” 

I say it when something catches my eye out in the world, and in my opinion, the something simply doesn’t go with its surroundings. 

The aforementioned circumstance happened recently as I was in line for a free pet vaccine clinic. I’d loaded my pups and my girls and off we went for a vaccine adventure. 

The day started with laughter, my Mama’s geriatric dachshund, Grace hardly knows she’s in the world most days, she’s mostly deaf and sort of blind except she could hear the big dogs barking in the line of cars as long as Alabama. She may be mostly blind but she can hunt down a singular honey roasted peanut accidentally dropped in the car floorboard.

Dottie and Axel, our own pets were part of the adventure as well. Dottie likes a card ride and a promise of a treat was just enough to have her cooperation. We waited in the line for our free vaccine and just shy of two hours on the clock we were turned away, no more vaccines left.

When Maggie was reporting to mama I heard her say, “It’s okay, we had fun though.” And we had. It didn’t go here: fun and laughter while waiting in an hours-long line.

We played oldies on the radio and sang “Sweet Caroline” at elevated decibels, we all did the “bum, bum bum,” so loud the other cars undoubtedly heard us. We chatted about things but nothing terribly heavy, and we waited, inching forward toward the unseen front of the line.

When we were approached by the volunteer who had to turn us away I could see her brace herself for a pending expression of anger or disappointment, she was in jeans and sweat was dripping down her brow. I’d seen her make her way to the cars in front of me and they drove away after she had spoken to each one so I hand an inkling what fate awaited us. 

I smiled when she approached, when she started apologizing I told her no worries and offered her one of my car tissues to wipe her dripping face. She accepted and thanked me.

I drove off, thankful for the on hand car tissues, a good time, for extra time and  for the impromptu memories with my girls. I was even thankful for this writing that would come from it.

In between oldies, somewhere around Sam Cooke’s Bring it on Home to Me and Be My Baby by the Ronnettes, I noticed the gigantic fancy chandelier hanging over the red door. I studied it for a bit, fancy tiny lampshades, beading and creative design at its finest. It looked to be better suited hanging in a grand entry way or stately home, yet there it was over a brick building with its previous life written in rusty and faded white text, “P&S Business Machines.” 

My mind went backwards, typewriters, mimeograph machines, ink that’s fumes could make teetotalers tipsy, Remington Rand no doubt littered the sales floor. I imagined desks with ashtrays and smoldering cigarettes, ladies with closer to God high hair-dos and I imagined men in white short sleeved shirts, black slacks with a cuff at the bottom, loafers, and skinny ties walking the sales floor.

Above the door a brightly colored billboard advertising the finest Remington Rand had to offer in the way of business machines for the most serious of business needs at a most value driven price point. At Christmas it would advertise junior typewriters awaiting the academic types beneath a brightly lit Christmas tree.

It would be another half century before the Remington name meant just guns, ammo, or razors. If it weren’t for old television shows I would have never known about the line of Remington Rand business products myself. Only the rusted framework of the billboard indicating what it had once been.  

I looked at the chandelier again and I said to it, “You don’t even go here!” 

You’re too fancy, too new, too beautiful to be swinging over this dilapidated building that’s merely a shadow of what it once was.   

“I don’t even go here! I don’t fit here! Nobody else is even like me! I’m like an alien!” 

My mind turned from imagination to memory and to the day earlier in the week when my tear filled sobs declared that very set of statements to my King. Maggie rode silently in the passenger seat, she said nothing but reached for a car tissue and shoved it in my direction.

 I cried and felt the pain of suffering, separation and isolation. 

Because He is gracious and kind the King spoke to me in my despair 

His response came flooding back to me.

“I know you hurt , I know you feel like you don’t fit and neither did I. But because you know me Amy, you won’t ever fit here, you’ll never go here, because this is really not home. 

Sometimes I forget, I forget that Jesus was an outsider, an outcast, rejected and hurt by the ones He was serving. Sometimes I forget that I’ve asked Him to make me like himself and in order for that to be, there are times when I won’t even go here.

And just like it is true for the fancy chandelier, Jesus, and me there will be times we don’t even go here, and it is perfectly fine if we do not.

About fifteen years ago I took part in a grocery survey and as a part of it I was asked to name three people living or dead I’d like to have dinner with. 

With such generous yet vague hypothetical circumstances I needed clarification.

Was this a shared meal? Family style or buffet? Would we be sitting around the table and eating only or was there ample opportunity for conversation? On the off chance in this hypothetical scenario if perchance we didn’t speak some universal language could we all understand each other? 

The surveyor  began to get frustrated with all my rapid fire clarifying questions, it was a grocery survey after all and not a deep dive into my psyche. 

With my questions left unassuaged I blurted out, “Jesus Christ, Martin Luther King and Dolly Parton!”   

The surveyor chuckled and said, “You’re my sixth Dolly tonight.” Her response caught me off guard and I began to ask even more questions. “Dolly really? Sixth one tonight? Do people always pick Dolly? I mean she’s amazing and I reckon I’ve got some things I’d love to talk about with her but the sixth one tonight for real?” 

 I reckon the telephone grocery surveyor training hadn’t covered this sort of deviant behavior and she was clearly flustered. She tried desperately to get me back on track by redirecting me and reframing her questions to me about Butterball turkeys and Great Value Green beans. Eventually we made it back on track but I still remember that tangent about Dolly. 

I reckoned I wasn’t the only one she’d made a lasting impression on enough to want to sit down, share a meal and a conversation with. I’ve often thought about that imaginary dinner party between Jesus The Christ, MLK Junior, Dolly and Yours Truly. 

I imagine the menu would be down home kind of foods, greens, mashed potatoes, fried pork chops, sweet tea, one of those big buttery rolls with soft real butter added and sweet tea, mine with copious amounts of lemon. 

We’d discuss sin and redemption, beauty and ash. We talk about humble beginnings turned to greatness in the end. I sort of think we’d discuss haberdashery and our Mamas, other good foods, good times, and sorrow.

I reckon we’d meander about debating beautiful landscapes and I bet we’d all agree the South is a beautiful piece of Heaven right here on earth and I bet Jesus would confirm He had indeed touched it with a little bit of something extra when He formed it out of the void of nothingness. 

We would talk and talk until we’d made room for dessert whereupon we’d have Red Velvet cake with real cream cheese icing an inch high and a glass of milk to wash the cake down and cut the sweetness. 

At the end of our meal we’d all hug and recognize how there were threads upon threads that had linked us all together through time, space, circumstance and grace. Dolly might make some bubbly comment about it being a thread that could sew together a coat of many colors. We’d all laugh with her, knowing she was right. 

As we would depart we would do what friends often do at the conclusion of a good evening, we’d get together  like this again soon, for this meeting was long overdue.

And then we’d be on our separate ways, relegated to our respective timelines and places, journeys and things to do.  

I’ve always held Dolly in high regard, I just don’t think I could ever articulate why, it took her departure from this world for me to do that.

I love her when she sings Jolene. I loved her in Steel Magnolias when she was Truvy and hugged Spud as she declared she was “a chain!” I loved it when I learned she single-handedly combated illiteracy and took it upon herself to put books in the hands of children no matter their status, economic background or any other defining factor that so often robs the very ones most in need.

I love the idea that she could’ve established her theme park and legacy anywhere but she chose the most beautiful place on earth to her…Home. 

Back in March of 2024 I was on a road trip with a friend and we stopped at a rest stop somewhere in Tennessee. I insisted on having my photo made with a close to life size cardboard Dolly cutout. I figured in my lifetime it was the closest I would get to Dolly for real. 

The rest stop cutout was the closest I’d get to her humble influence, her incredible wisdom, her infectious laughter, and her infinite legacy, that was until today, Nine-Two-Five when I awoke thinking of Dolly and asking what she would do, a question brought fresh to me via the socials on the interwebs, The quippy Ted Lasso asked the very same question, “What would Dolly Parton do?”

Nine Two Five, the first unofficial Dolly Day, when folks all over, myself included, did just what Dolly would do. 

W.W.D.D. 

What would Dolly do? 

She’d read, she’d take her mama for hotdog lunch and howl with laughter at the spool of thread in the console of the car. “Mama you sewing at traffic stops now?” She’d cackle and talk of old men wearing ankle monitors and young children and parental backfires…specifically the douche definition debacle of 2010. She’d cherish these days of mundane at a slower pace in the twilight of life.

Dolly would smile, be generous and kind. Dolly would imagine and dream, and work hard and be creative. 

But whatI imagine what Dolly would want for us to do, the remember and honor her by looking upon the least with the most compassion and Dolly would encourage us all to give a little more grace to one another and be a bit more kind to ourselves. 

Nine Two Five…W.W.D.D.  She would love.

Portmanteau, pronounced, port-man-toe. The combining of two things to make something new.

I live near the Rickwood Caverns, named from the combining of the owners’ names, Rickles -Rick and Arwood -Wood. Rickwood. I first became aware of that when my son, Shelton, spent several summers being a tour guide for the aforementioned Caverns. It was one such day he came home claiming he was asked what a portmanteau was, it was after he’d given a tour of the caverns when he was asked what the word meant. 

“What’d you say? ” I asked.

In his flat matter-of-fact tone he replied, “I told him it’s when you take two words to make a new word.” I asked what the man’s response was, “He said grassy-ass.”

A couple of summers ago the historic Rickwood Field had been in the news. I had seen it on the television of the local Mexican joint, written on the side of a Chevy I passed on the way to work several mornings.

Rickwood field, also a portmanteau incidentally from A. H. “Rick” Woodward’s name. To my knowledge the Rickwoods aren’t related but in an interesting way they’ve come to intersect in my home, in my mind, and in my heart. 

Two summers ago there was a televised opportunity to watch the opening portion of the Rickwood Field hosting a MLB game. 

I watched as faces of all colors were recognized in a place that once separated them by color, by race claiming equality but separated, an oxymoron if ever there was one.

Same but not the same.

Absurdity at its finest.

I watched and I began to cry, sob actually, at the beauty of the restoration, the recognition of the African- American Ball players who did more for humanity and equality by playing a game than their lighter skin counter-parts were doing in office.

I watched through my tears as beauty danced and sang and honored those gone, and those that remain, like a 101 year old Greason, baseball player turned preacher.

I watched as the late Willie Mays was honored and I cried when his son acknowledged that Willie was watching and encouraged the crowd to cheer. I told my people that maybe Willie knew he could go to Heaven knowing that Birmingham was getting it right this time. 

As I watched I looked to my left and saw my own brown skinned beauties smiling and dancing and I gave thanks again, for it has not been lost on me that in another time in this very same place they could not have been my children.

And I sobbed out of gratitude for all those unknown and unseen people who paved the way for the combining of two things to make a new thing, my family.

My very own portmanteau.

Recognition, reconciliation, redemption and Rickwood at its finest. 

IIt is rainy, I am (or was) sitting on the porch of a small cabin that has been rented and borrowed for a working retreat. The kind of place that is comfortable and creaky, or whose toilets are not my responsibility to keep in working order.

Outside tree trunks are a black and bold contrast to the lush green of the damp leaves. It is a serene moment yet in the peace-filled quiet as bird chitter and flitter, the squirrels scamper and the rustling deer scare me so that nearly make me saturate my old comfortable yoga pants, I am taken in my mind to a place as far from here as Mars. 

Galveston Bay, Texas 1865. 161 years ago, I imagine it was hot there, hot as Satan’s armpit as a group of unreached people, slaves, worked day in and day out for nothing. Their skin made darker by the sun high in the sky, their backs made sore from years of toil, their hearts sick by hope deferred. 

In my imagination the longing and waiting for something, anything to change can be felt within my own chest. In my imagination I see them boiling and begging Texas unaware of what had already transpired a solid two and half years before. Nine hundred days of waiting, hoping, and  longing for something, unbeknownst to them, had already happened. them. I imagine General Granger riding in, parchment in hand, announcing to those broken bodies and long before brokenhearted souls that their prayers had been heard and then I imagine him turning his horse around, heading back north. and that group of people looking around trying to figure out what most of us do in the same sort of situation; what’s next?

 In my imagination I hope they celebrated but I reckon they did what I often do when my prayers are answered; I doubt.

In my imagination that day, June 19, 1865, that would become known as Juneteenth, fell into obscurity as many dates do and I imagine that as the clock of time inched  forward reconstruction waned, pride and arrogance took hold, that grip gave way to Jim Crowe, segregation and the perpetuation of the continued carrying out of inequality. So much so that on the hundredth anniversary of Juneteenth Birmingham, Alabama was the very epicenter of the fight for Civil Rights. 

That summer of 1965 would mark time and eternity itself. 

But for those people who had just learned for the first time that slavery had ended a solid two and half years before, in a time and a place so distant from today I reckon I have no real frame of reference with which to compare my own experience, or at least I thought I did, that was until three years ago when the Lord taught me a lesson through Juneteenth that warrants a retelling, a resharing, and a remembering. 

January 1, 1861, The Emancipation Proclamation, slavery was made illegal. If a person was once a slave the minute that executive presidential order went into effect enslaved people were made free persons. Abraham Lincoln did a lot of things in his lifetime but giving freedom to 3.5 million African-American people is pretty significant. 

I liken it to salvation really. “Can you imagine being so entrenched in something that there is no way that you can get your own self out of it? Someone else has to do it for you?” Throughout their lives, those are the kind of questions I would ask my children. 

When we studied the Emancipation proclamation signed in January 1, 1863 I made sure they understood no matter how much those slaves wanted to be free the chains of the law made it impossible, if you were born into slavery, you became property not even of the one who bore you but of the one who owned your mother. 

Born into slavery and kept that way until that proclamation was made. Too many years spent chained up, locked up, denied humanity. 

When we would talk about that I would remind my children we are like that even still, born into a slavery or sorts, we are slaves to sin and try as we may we are incapable of freeing ourselves from it. We become so entrenched in it, it becomes a part of who we are in our humanity and the King alone has the ability to free us. 

My children have always understood that, like their mama, we are more grateful than anything of His sacrifice for us, the exchange of His righteousness for our sinful selves.

 It was an unfair trade. The most unfair trade actually. 

In our family observances we try to keep that understanding and reality  at the forefront, Reese’s eggs, springtime frocks, baskets, while they are certainly memorable, they are secondary to the acknowledgment and recognition of that exchange. 

Easter, Resurrection Day is the sinner’s equivalent of the Emancipation Proclamation, Juneteenth is the walking out that salvation, that freedom. I’ve often wondered how those Texas slaves continued to live for nine hundred days not knowing they’d been freed. How did they continue in the slave life even after their freedom had been granted? And then the reality of Juneteenth hit me: 

I  am them in a manner of speaking. 

When I came to know the King, by executive order my freedom was granted, yet I continue, even to this very day, to struggle and wrestle with the slavery, the sin, the bondage, that entangles me. Despite having been set free, I continue to live in slavery. I have a mindset of being a slave to sin and I refuse to believe that can be overcome. 

On this day, Juneteenth, I used to move through the day oblivious to the significance of it, unmoved by the symbolism and allegory that lives within its moments, now I do differently. I choose differently, I choose to transport myself to another place and another time and to muster within me the empathy that I previously lacked. And not just in my imagination, the world is a better place because of it. 

It was in the wee hours of the morning I was watching a PBS documentary on my handheld cell phone. Its backlit screen, despite having had the brightness adjusted, shone bright in the darkness of my bottom bunk. I was at camp serving as a nurse. I was in shared sleeping quarters and in an effort not to disturb anyone else I opted to watch the documentary in low lighting, low volume and with the aid of subtitles.

The subject matter, Agatha Christie. I admire and adore writers of all kinds, mostly because I aspire to be one myself. I had seen the documentary before, a British production, I had not watched it previously with the subtitles on, hence perhaps why I had previously missed what profound thing was found in the darkness of my bunk that morning.

I was already feeling a kinship with Aggie, I had determined that must be what her friends call her, Aggie. Here we were with more in common than not, despite being separated by nearly a century of time and space. I was watching before me a woman in her middle age, a broken marriage, newly divorced, a lackluster writing career, a mental health crisis of sorts, a series of circumstances and choices not necessarily her own having landed us both squarely in the same spot.

Square one, starting over, figuring out who we are in the dawn of the twilight years of our lives. Aggie and Amy, two ol’ broads who love words and writing but couldn’t seem to put voice to the train wrecks and trauma our lives had become.

I knew how Aggie’s story ended, what would become of her, after all I had watched the show before, read her books, and Googled her on occasion, I knew what would become of her and that in those twilight years she would find love again, fulfill her purpose, and would become one of the most prolific, well known writers of all time. Her contribution to the literary world would garnish her a royal bestowed title and a meeting with the Queen.

I knew she would live a life of fullness in that second half and that if I had the opportunity to speak face to face with Aggie over a proper cup of British tea, she’d likely tell me to hang on, press on, things will get better. But hindsight is twenty-twenty as they say, and I am looking forward to my own life as she would be looking backward.

I know not my own future anymore than she would have known her own exactly a century ago when she was in the throes of illness, sorrow, despair and heartbreak but I know how her story goes and it was in this unfolding of the documentary I saw a glimpse of myself, a glint of what I am discovering and a promise of hope before me.

Things were beginning to look up for Aggie, she had begun traveling, visiting far and exotic places that would later serve as backdrops for some of her most famous writings, she was meeting people and gaining experiences that would positively influence her and her writing for the rest of her days. I have no doubt that some of the most beloved characters she gave to the world were an amalgamation of real people and her imagination coming together to produce unforgettable individuals.

The narrator of the documentary pointed out that while she traveled she kept notes, continued to write and pressed forward. Later in life about the time of the second World War she would again find herself in a difficult place and would once again repeat and continue the process. She never let her writing cease despite the circumstances she was in. It was this time in her life the narrator was referring to when she made a statement I had to snap in the form of a screenshot for my own remembrance, to encourage me along in my own difficult times.

“She [Agatha Christie] was in a bad place emotionally but when [she was writing] she was writing herself better.

I let the statement roll over itself in my own mind, I allowed the words to sit and marinate for a moment more.

“She was in a bad place emotionally but she was writing herself better.”

Those words resonated into my very marrow, into the depths of my bones, echoing within my soul. “She was writing herself better.”

It was then that the joy of writing was crystal clear to me, for the first time in months that had been fraught with fogginess and clarity is a precious commodity, I realized that the joy of writing is in the healing that it ushers in.

From the beginning of time words have ushered in healing, comfort, calm and clarity and yet that truth became clearer when I observed as an outsider, the life of one whom I hold in regard, one whom I highly respect. It was in Aggie’s life that I saw bits of my own broken self. It was in the declaration of the truth I have long known that I began to understand how joy can be found in tragedy and joy felt in the midst of heartbreak. Joy that can be found in words and The Word. The joy of writing is found in knowing we are indeed writing ourselves better.

In the last several months life has taken me some places I never thought I’d go, never wanted to go, didn’t think I’d have to go back to, or couldn’t have predicted I would go. 

It was on one such throw back trip I was confronted with something from my past. 

It was in the days when Covid was still super scary, an N-95 was my most donned accessory.

 In the days before my life seemed to slowly and simultaneously suddenly implode, it was in the days when my world at work revolved around three-twelves, relief charge, a constant achy body and depletion was my baseline.

It was in the days when I questioned my very purpose in life and asked the King regularly if He wouldn’t mind letting me know. 

I had picked up a local publication and was perusing it in the break room. I came across something that stopped me in my already exhausted tracks, it was an advertisement for the very place of my employment. 

“We work tirelessly to help kids get well because the world needs to see what Natalie dreams up.” 

It stopped me cold. I had asked the King for a purpose and here before me in my favorite mediums, newsprint, ink, and words was the answer to why…I promptly tore the page from the publication and made some edits.

Heading: “When you need a reminder why..”

“We work tirelessly (underlined twice for emphasis) to help kids get well because the world needs to see what (Natalie crossed out) they all (inserted above) dream (“s” crossed out) up.” 

I then hung it on the break room refrigerator. That was October of 2021.

My nursing life would later take me to another place and I’ll admit I completely forgot about the message on the break room fridge until recent weeks.

I am in need of funds that can be supplemented by the picking up of extra shifts, extra shifts that had landed me right back from whence I once came. It was a sunny Saturday, the DT as I’ve long called it was moving on up to “The BR” and like any family that moves things were being sorted and situated all around. The break room was no exception.

Maybe it was the sparsity of it all that made me notice that clipped to the side of the fridge was a yellowed piece of paper,  I wondered what it was. It was familiar but hadn’t yet registered. 

I read the edited advertisement and I knew the handwriting at once. 

I remembered, the why…and I’d left it and there years before and there it had stayed. I wondered how many eyes had seen it in the nearly half a decade since. I wondered if it had served others like it had me, and I wondered if that small act had been like so many other small acts in that very place, rippling through time growing bigger and outwardly as time went on. 

I wondered and I marveled at how I found myself in the same spot, doing the same thing, asking the same questions and here by my very own hand, in a previous time of desperation was the answer preserved on the break room frigidaire. 

Life had turned sideways but it wasn’t without purpose, the pain wasn’t being wasted and the gifts of grace that were being shared and were to await would serve as confirmation.

The Lord is not bound by time or space, paychecks, living arrangements, moves to different places or returns to previous ones. He is not surprised or caught off guard by anything, he is not afraid of the future and what it holds. The posted newsprint from the past affirming that  He is already there and has been the whole time.