These days I’m feeling very out of sorts, emotionally raw, on the edge of something, but what?  This morning on my way to work I got past the “what” of my feelings and started chewing on the “why.”

God has a way of nudging me and so I began to wonder why I was feeling nudged and even more important to me is what I can do to use these feelings to make life a little better for someone.  So I wrote my pastor this note:

Hello, Pastor Roger.  Your sermon this past Sunday was one of those "God moments" for me.

For several weeks it has been on my heart that I want to do something along the lines of a senior ministry.  About two weeks ago I came home from Meijer and talked to Joe about the many seniors I see at the grocery, especially older women, who appear to be, at the very least, starved for social interaction, and almost as often scared and nervous.  It just breaks my heart to see these people almost paralyzed by the hustle and bustle, and not knowing how to find what they want, but too afraid to ask someone. 

One time in particular, I recall stopping to help an older woman who could not find an item.  We ended up walking together for a few aisles while she told me her life story and just chatted away.  A couple of people gave me looks as if to say, "oh you poor thing, tied up with that old lady."  How sad, that taking time to talk to a stranger should garner pity for me!

Anyway, now I'm rambling.  Like I said, God has been nudging me for quite a while to do something in this area.  A couple of weeks ago when I spoke to Joe about it I told him that I should call the church to see if there is any program that sets up "telephone buddies" for shut ins, or takes people to the grocery or even shops for them.  Of course, I never made that call.  Now I can just see God up in heaven throwing up His arms and saying, "Geeze, Jeanne, do I have to do everything for you?"  Because He certainly prodded me through your sermon on Sunday.

Would you please keep me in the loop as this ministry takes shape?  I would be very interested in participating.

If reading this helps bring someone on board with some outreach program for seniors...awesome!  Or it might even lead someone to more awareness of seniors’ needs, in the grocery, or – yes! – while driving (thinking of the blue hair as my mom helps me be more patient and forgiving, but I still maintain that some people are a danger behind the wheel...no amount of understanding will change that).  Or maybe reading this will just make you feel good about what you are already doing, and I love to imagine that, too! 

Last night I did the boo hoo thing about my late-onset fear of commitment...well, the pity party is officially over.  A wise woman once told me “Writers write.”  Hmmmm...

Some people who keep track of this blog are held in rather high esteem by yours truly, and so putting myself out here with a commitment to blog at least twice a week means something to me.  You know who you are and I am deeply grateful for your nudges, your outright shoves, and just for caring (and ditto!). 

So, let’s see.  As much as I enjoy telling stories to the bearer of turquoise gifts, she is hereby encouraged to stop me in whatever way suits the situation (a discreet “shhh” or an object thrown at my head, you decide) the next time she catches me trying to waste a good blog entry with a vis-à-vis story.  I may or may not comply, because there are just so many stories! 

Like this one.

When I was 12 years old, my family left southern California for the Midwest, specifically Louisville, Kentucky.  My father made our leaving easier to bear with his promises of horses and a little house in the country...yeah, right!  Four of us five kids were absolutely nuts about animals of any kind and the outdoors in general.  Our menagerie included alligators, turtles, pigeons, dogs and cats, a monkey, gophers, lots of snakes and lizards, and in later years another monkey, a coatimundi, and more dogs and cats.  While in California, I also collected black widow spiders, which was a great source of amusement to me until my parents found my stash and killed my little “Charlottes.”  This happened the week before I started kindergarten, and must have had a lot to do with my from-day-one love of school – which was not home and therefore good.  Sigh.  I also played with rattlesnakes and had a knack for getting lost in the wilderness.  How my mother, at the tender age of 65, remained free of her first gray hair is beyond me – Lord knows we tried her greatly. 

But I digress. Back to the move to Louisville. Moving was such a great adventure, but fraught with dangers and dilemmas from the day the decision was handed down.  My oldest brother was leaving his high school, and only much later could I begin to appreciate how traumatic that had to have been for him.  The next two brothers were probably upset, too, although I can’t recall witnessing any scenes to indicate their angst.  My sister was, as always, just being a perfect angel, probably washing out the suitcases for Mother or scrubbing something from dawn to dusk. 

Being the youngest I was in large part ignored during the preparations.  So no one noticed my frequent trips to the largest brick planter out beside our pool, the one that a child could easily hide in when being called in to dinner.  The one that was plenty big enough to imprison a kitten with plenty of room for food and water bowls. I must point out that the word on the street was that our neighbor was going to drown a litter of kittens in a pail of water, and my only regret was that I didn’t dare steal them all.  As it was, the missing kitten was simply commented on and dismissed, according to my CI, Paulie. 

I recall the morning we left our house, and how easy it was to place Cory inside my shirt before climbing to my designated spot in back of the station wagon.  On top of the suitcases that were laid down to create a loft, I could look out the back window and fist-pump truck drivers and read my comic books (Casper, Archie, Richie Rich, Mighty Mouse, Little Lulu, and anything Disney were some favorites), and there were deep nooks and crannies for Cory to sleep in and explore.

By the time my parents, worlds away up in front of the car, discovered the stowaway, we were far from home and they were too tired to argue with five already traumatized children/young adults who couldn’t bear the thought of leaving the poor little kitty on the side of the road.  And judging from the number of times my father enjoyed relaying this story to friends over the years, I can only assume he is glad he didn’t put up much of a fight.  Besides, he knew that not only were we not headed towards a new house in the country, but the subdivision that awaited us was not suitable for horses, even little ones. 

And what did I learn from all of this?  Several things...sometimes it’s better to explain what you did than to ask permission, especially if you can’t risk being told “no.”  Being caught red-handed can sometimes go down easier in a crowd than in isolation.  And never believe someone who promises you a pony.

OK, so that’s a story.  I am resisting the urge to go over it and edit, embellish, fancy it up.  The important thing is that I am writing, which I know will improve my ability in and of itself.  This blog is going to be my brainstorming, my exercise, and my proving ground.  What is proven remains to be seen....