Everybody Talks

Have you ever listened to yourself or someone around you say just one line of dialogue and wondered what other people would think of it if they heard it, with no context or backstory?  I have.  These are a few lines I heard recently, along with their backstories.

“I don’t know what all is ‘up there.’  I just know you need to write them down.”

I was talking to my mom last night about the asthma specialist I’m going to see today.  I told her that I had several questions to ask him.  Mom asked me if I’d written the questions down, and I said, “I don’t need to.  They’re all up here.”  I pointed to my head.  Mom looked at me with extreme skepticism and said the above line, followed by “Did you forget what happened last time?”

I had forgotten.  The last time I went to the doctor, Monty and I left at six o’clock in the morning to get to my appointment on time, since the doctor is a two-and-a-half-hour drive from us.  On drives that long, I don’t wear shoes; I’m much more comfortable in bare feet.  So when we got to the doctor’s office, Monty got out of the car to get my shoes from the backseat.  He looked around for a minute, then said he couldn’t find them.

I got out, gingerly stepping on the asphalt in my bare feet, and both Monty and I looked for my shoes.  Then we looked at each other.

“I think I forgot my shoes,” I said.

“We have about ten minutes to find you some,” Monty said.  The closest option was Walgreens, so we went there and Monty bought me some flip flops.  Enormous, bright turquoise flip flops that looked like they were part of a scuba diving ensemble.  But I was in no position to complain—I’m fairly certain that most doctors have a “No shirt, no shoes, no service” policy.  So I had to be grateful for anything on my feet.  When we got home four hours later, I found my shoes—in our driveway, right next to the passenger side of where the car had been parked.

“Hey!  Stop having fun when I’m punishing you!”

Yesterday, our cats were having one of their knock-down, drag-out brawls, so Monty stood between them to break it up.  It didn’t work—they used his legs as forts to hide behind, then darted out and started fighting again.  Which is when Monty said the above statement.

Monty’s words reminded me of when I was a little girl, and Mom or Dad would send me to the corner.  My sisters and brother and I all had a designated corner somewhere in the house.  Over the years, I became quite familiar with my corner in the living room—I did some serious time there.  And I didn’t mind it.  Sometimes Mom and Dad forgot I was there, and I got to listen to their conversations.  One time when they were talking, I turned from the corner and asked them a question.  They looked at me, startled.

“What are you doing here?” Dad asked.

“You sent me here to think about my behavior,” I said.

“And are you?” Dad asked.

“I was,” I said.  “But it’s more interesting to listen to you.”

“It’s not supposed to be interesting,” Dad said.  “A person thinking about their behavior doesn’t need outside entertainment.”

“Okay,” I said, turning back to the corner.  “I’ll think about my behavior now.  But you can keep talking.”

“Wrong,” Dad said.  “You’ll come back later when we’re not talking, and then you’ll stand there and think.  And it won’t be interesting or fun.”

I didn’t go back later.  Dad must have forgotten.  But I’d blown my cover, and I never did hear anything interesting again while I stood in that corner.

“I forgot I had a job!”

Over this past Labor Day weekend, most of the family came to visit.  I was talking to one of my sisters who was visiting, and she asked me if I had work to do that night.  I responded with the above statement and heard this from right behind me: “How does a person forget they have a job?!”

I jumped.  I didn’t know Dad was standing there—Dad, who also happens to be my boss, since I work full-time for our family business.

“I didn’t actually mean that I forgot I had a job,” I said.  “I meant that I forgot I still had a lot of work to do tonight.  Which I’m really looking forward to.”

“You’re right you are,” said Dad.  “Because—“

I interrupted him.  “Because I love my job, and I’m lucky to have it.”

I think if Dad could have sent me to the corner then, he probably would have.  And I wouldn’t have minded it at all.  There were so many people around—I was bound to hear something interesting.

“Look!  It’s just us—the originals.” 

My sister Lisa said that on Saturday night.  All of the family that was visiting was scattered around—most were playing corn hole across the street.  But my two sisters and brother and I were sitting around the fire pit in our parents’ backyard—just us four “originals” and our parents.  I don’t remember the last time that happened.  I looked at those beautiful faces as the firelight flickered across them—at my dad, who challenges me daily to be my best and never fails to make me laugh while he’s doing it.  At my mom, who is my own personal prayer warrior and encourager.  At my sisters, who love and accept me despite my differences.  And at Adam, my best friend.

Looking at my family, I was overwhelmed by the enormity of the gift God had given me—to have grown up with them and still get to love and be loved by them.  I doubt I’ll ever forget such a perfect moment.  Then again, I did forget my shoes and my job.  So I’m writing about that moment here just in case I need to be reminded of it on some future day when my own fire is burning low and I’m in need, in my dad’s words, of something fun and interesting.  Of some outside entertainment, as it were.