A decade-plus six years ago, I had an encounter with a sweet lady who'd recently moved into our neighborhood. We were a close neighborhood, mostly because our children were growing up together, and there is no greater bond than women who socialize because their children are friends.
I wrote about the encounter and it was published in the newspaper column I wrote at the time.
Our children grown, and 20 years since I've lived in the neighborhood of my children's youth, the sweet lady of long ago who is now a friend, contacts me. She is teaching a lesson and needs the piece I wrote about our encounter so long ago.
I first check the files on my computer. The piece is listed, but it's turned black. I'm not sure the file can be recovered. I turn to the box of saved newspaper columns. Including the actual columns cut from different newspapers and the hard copies I made of the originals, there are hundreds of scraps of paper. Hundreds.
I dig in. I go to dinner. I come home and dig in again. I take a break to read. I put my nose to the unorganized pile again. Somehow, I know, this column is the needle in the haystack; I just need to be patient. Towards the bottom of the bin, it surfaces.
My friend is grateful. I am grateful to her. She has helped me realize my own need to preserve my writing for my daughters. This is why I keep this blog.
For my beloved daughters.
Yet, they are too busy to read what I write now. Too independent. The years between now and when I disciplined, directed, and even forced them to do the dishes, to write thank-you notes, to be home by midnight~~are too few. They heeded my advice for too many years, and there were too many years when I was right and they were childishly wrong. They deserve their own years to follow their own instincts, to build their own confidence from their own hard earned wisdom.
Therefore, they don't read what I write.
But someday they might.
And for that someday, I will take the old columns, and add them to this collection~~ for my beloved daughters.
I stand in a kitchen with a group of young women learning how to make pies. When we finish, there are enough pies for each girl to take one home to her family and three extras.
It seems like a good idea to share the abundance with some people in the neighborhood. There is a family with an ill parent and another family that could use a boost. There is one pie left and we decide to prayerfully consider who needs it.
We are directed to a new neighbor who has just moved in. We stand huddled together on her porch and ring the doorbell. we introduce ourselves and welcome her with a pie. She is gracious, thanks us, and we are on our way.
I don't think anymore about it until a week later when the new neighbor hands me a note. The first part of the note compliments our pie-making skills and includes a general thank-you for our efforts. The second paragraph reads:
"It had been a difficult day for me. The diaper service lady told me our check had bounced. At the bank, the teller told me we were overdrawn. My four-year-old told me I was getting too fat. My husband called to tell me he wouldn't be home until late. There were also a couple of other interactions that left me feeling inferior, inadequate, overwhlemed and lonely. I was trying not to cry. l asked Heavenly Father to please give me just one 'positive stroke,' and to let me know he cared and that I was worth caring about. Then you arrived."
Postscript: while preparing this story over a two week period, I received two phone calls. The first was from a neighbor who asked me to help make 20 apple pies for the Food and Care Coalition. It was very busy morning. The second call came asking me to teach a class on pie making, a skill for which I am hardly qualified and would have liked to refuse. But I said yes to each request because I had learned the power of a pie.
I wrote about the encounter and it was published in the newspaper column I wrote at the time.
Our children grown, and 20 years since I've lived in the neighborhood of my children's youth, the sweet lady of long ago who is now a friend, contacts me. She is teaching a lesson and needs the piece I wrote about our encounter so long ago.
I first check the files on my computer. The piece is listed, but it's turned black. I'm not sure the file can be recovered. I turn to the box of saved newspaper columns. Including the actual columns cut from different newspapers and the hard copies I made of the originals, there are hundreds of scraps of paper. Hundreds.
I dig in. I go to dinner. I come home and dig in again. I take a break to read. I put my nose to the unorganized pile again. Somehow, I know, this column is the needle in the haystack; I just need to be patient. Towards the bottom of the bin, it surfaces.
For my beloved daughters.
Yet, they are too busy to read what I write now. Too independent. The years between now and when I disciplined, directed, and even forced them to do the dishes, to write thank-you notes, to be home by midnight~~are too few. They heeded my advice for too many years, and there were too many years when I was right and they were childishly wrong. They deserve their own years to follow their own instincts, to build their own confidence from their own hard earned wisdom.
Therefore, they don't read what I write.
But someday they might.
And for that someday, I will take the old columns, and add them to this collection~~ for my beloved daughters.
The original column: The Power of a Pie
I stand in a kitchen with a group of young women learning how to make pies. When we finish, there are enough pies for each girl to take one home to her family and three extras.
It seems like a good idea to share the abundance with some people in the neighborhood. There is a family with an ill parent and another family that could use a boost. There is one pie left and we decide to prayerfully consider who needs it.
We are directed to a new neighbor who has just moved in. We stand huddled together on her porch and ring the doorbell. we introduce ourselves and welcome her with a pie. She is gracious, thanks us, and we are on our way.
I don't think anymore about it until a week later when the new neighbor hands me a note. The first part of the note compliments our pie-making skills and includes a general thank-you for our efforts. The second paragraph reads:
"It had been a difficult day for me. The diaper service lady told me our check had bounced. At the bank, the teller told me we were overdrawn. My four-year-old told me I was getting too fat. My husband called to tell me he wouldn't be home until late. There were also a couple of other interactions that left me feeling inferior, inadequate, overwhlemed and lonely. I was trying not to cry. l asked Heavenly Father to please give me just one 'positive stroke,' and to let me know he cared and that I was worth caring about. Then you arrived."
Postscript: while preparing this story over a two week period, I received two phone calls. The first was from a neighbor who asked me to help make 20 apple pies for the Food and Care Coalition. It was very busy morning. The second call came asking me to teach a class on pie making, a skill for which I am hardly qualified and would have liked to refuse. But I said yes to each request because I had learned the power of a pie.
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