The Saturday after Thanksgiving is festive: shoppers, diners, and small talk with friendly strangers. As is the case for so many, I love this time of year. As my husband and I took a little time out over a late breakfast in a local hole-in-the wall, we ran into one of my former students as she works there part time. She’s also an undergraduate who happens to be engaged. We chatted pleasantly for a few minutes as she enthused about her wedding plans.
As Neal and I walked out into the cold, faintly sunny day, I was warmed by more than two cups of coffee. Decades rolled back. I was in Nyack, New York in Rockland County during the 1970s. We lived in what was called then, a garden apartment, complete with a balcony. The fall of 1974 stands out. I had completed an undergraduate degree in English and was working on my Teachers’ Certification (grades 7-12). At the same time, I was holding down a hectic 30 hour a week in a local emergency room, 4-12 p.m. On the occasional slow nights in the ER I read everything from educational theory to practical manuals on classroom management. I recall the freedom I felt during my nights off from the hospital.
Nyack is a picturesque town filled with eclectic shops and cafes. I spent many hours basking in the beauty of pretty streets strewn with the red-gold leaves of October. There was a small French restaurant I frequented often. The owners/chefs were a middle-aged couple from France who began my education with wine. I developed a fairly decent palate as a result. Many Friday evenings our friends joined us there. What usually followed were lively dialogues that included commentary on the political climate at the time, discussions as to what constituted good wine (we viewed ourselves as young sophisticates), and our respective family drama stories.
On the work filled evenings, I’d crawl into our cute apartment and unwind with Cat Stevens’ raspy voice. “O Very Young” was a favorite. I used to keep the volume low not to disturb my sleeping husband. I was “very young” during those days of work and school, of shared dreams and goals. A frequent occupation of mine was spent rhapsodizing about my future. I looked ahead to decades that today, fall behind. In the words of Emily Dickinson, I “dwelled in possibility”. Teaching, writing, traveling all would be a part of my future.
On this day more than 50 years later, I feel humbled by goals that seem hubristic. I have taught and continue to as a volunteer (adult classes at our very active church), and a local mission. I have a history of writing, particularly while in graduate school. My Master’s essay was published. I have also published a few banal articles in the local newspaper. Obviously, I blog and keep a journal (the latter I’ve done most of my life). Nevertheless, the best-selling collection of brilliant essays has yet to materialize. While many regarded me as a first-rate teacher, I’ve never received any awards for my efforts. In short, I look back at years of stops and starts. I remember a lunch I had with a Nyack clergyperson years ago. At the time I was searching for a position and the priest was assessing my resume. He observed, “This (resume), is a patchwork quilt.” This was not meant as a compliment. I recall too, another observer who cried enthusiastically, “Patchwork quilts are filled with color!” Her description made me realize how differently I could perceive my life at that point in time.
As a retired older adult, I realize the time ahead is far shorter that what lies behind. While this true, something else is equally true. In Joel 2:25 we read, “I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten…”. We human beings are composites of the past and present as we move into the future. I believe God is not done with us on this mortal plain until He calls us to our heavenly home. We are to live day by day in possibility, provided our hands are held by our Lord.
