Giving and Receiving

Karen and I saw side by side, desks abutting, at our job. She is petite, reed thin, blond, a charmer, a natural salesperson. I am her near opposite. Short, round, dark, aloof. She is also one of the most intelligent women I know. I mean, she could take her checkbook and at a glance could balance it in her head. Me, I need a calculator, pencil with eraser, and loads of uninterrupted time. And then only after some struggle could I make the numbers balance.

Unfortunately, she was involved in a serious head-on collision in her car and she and her sister were seriously injured, Karen suffering some brain damage. She lost part of her memory (not knowing her family), her ability to do balance her checkbook just by looking at it, and the ability to tell if she were hungry, couldn't remember how to grocery shop or dial a phone. She had to set her the alarm on her watch to remind her it was time to eat. Before that she was literally starving to death because she didn't know she was hungry. It was only after serious weight loss and fainting that the doctors realized she lost her sense of hunger.

What she was left with, however, was the ability to see auras. I suppose that sounds very "new age" and reeks of women in long flowing gowns, draped in clunky semi-precious and precious jewels that represented their chakras, reading tarot cards, and casting spells. Karen was not like that and she took umbrage at being compared to pseudo psychics. She showed up to work every day in her business suit, wearing closed toe pumps, flesh toned hose, and blouses that were buttoned up to her neck. Her long blond hair was pulled back into a neat, low, pony tail, and her gaze was direct and her smile, when given, was sincere. The only difference was that she could look at you and see fogs of colors swirling around you and the colors had meaning. She could look into your heart and know your character.

Colors had positive and negative aspects and it was only if you had situational knowledge that you could know the color's significance. Without even being aware, we speak intuitively of color's meanings. For example, green was a nurturer or a healer; it could also mean someone who was "green with envy;" red meant passion or anger as in "seeing red" ; blue was peace but it could also mean depression, "feeling blue." And black had only one meaning, evil, a soul devoid of any light.

She could see if a person had guardian angels or spirits about them. She could see into the future. She saw past lives, but because it went against every religious precept she was taught, she reviled the idea of past and future lives and refused to lift the curtain to see what was there. She would become physically ill if images appeared in her mind.

"It's a burden to know so much about people," she emphasized to me. "I don't want to know how shallow and mean people are or how they are not living up to their potential if they only had the courage to follow their dreams. God must cry every day. There is nothing I can do with this knowledge. It is too painful and too awful to bear. I don't want it. I want the doorway that gives me this ability to close and never open again. I don't care what else I have to forget as long as I don't have to have this anymore." She gave me a woeful look. "Your angels, or spirits, or whatever you want to call them, talk to you all the time and are frustrated that you don't listen."

"I don't know how to listen, and I'm not sure I want to learn to hear what they're saying. Don't want a chorus of angels telling me what a screw up I am. I think that's why God made my mother," I quipped.

Karen, undeterred, pressed her point. "Wait, you need to know something important. You have an angel over your shoulder who wants you to know something."

"I don't want to know that I'm going to Hell. I'd rather wait and let that be a surprise."

"One of your other angels is laughing. He says he's the one who shares your weird sense of humor." Karen looked beyond me, nodded and smiled at nothing. (I know because I turned to see what she was looking at.) Nothing there that I could see anyway.

"OK, I'll listen and if it's something I like, then I'll think you're right. If it's something I don't like, I'll think you're making it up."

"It's a lesson you need to learn."

I felt my resistance rising.

"Don't shut me out," Karen admonished. "You need to hear this. Do you believe that God blesses us?"

"Yes, of course."

"Do you think He's like Santa Claus and makes personal visits to everyone's house?"

"Well....sort of. I don't think He wears a red suit or has a long white beard, though I could be wrong about the beard. I think He says "let there be light" and the lights come on. I think He answers prayers. Don't tell me He has a prayer committee."

Karen smiled. "Your angels are laughing again. They want me to hurry up and get to the point. Okay. Sometimes God uses people to bless others. Do you know what I mean by that?"

"Baptism? Confession?"

"Quit being a smart-mouth." Karen crossed her legs and faced me straight on, looking grim and proper. "No, let's say you needed $5,000 and you won $5,000 in the lottery. Would you say that you were blessed and would you accept it?"

"Of course! Are you telling me I'm winning $5,000?"

She ignored the question. "Let's say you needed $5,000 and your mother offered you $5,000 and you knew that it was important to her to give it to you would you accept it?"

"Probably not. I know how hard she would've worked to save it, all the sacrifices she made to be able to offer it. She's worked hard her entire life; her life has been difficult at best. I want her to enjoy her money and to do something that's important to her. No way could I take her money. I'd find another way."

Karen nodded in understanding. "You would turn it down, knowing full well how much she wanted to give it to you and how important it was to her that you accept it?"

"Absolutely. No way could I accept that kind of money from my mother."

Did it occur to you that God might be using your mother as His envoy or courier to bless you? And now you have turned away His blessing and gift? Also did it ever occur to you that when someone tries to do something nice for you, it may not be about you but it may be that they have to be a blessing to others so that they can be blessed in return. By turning them down you are postponing a blessing that they might need."

"I can't possibly accept every gift that someone tries to give me. I don't have the means to return the favor. It's much easier for me to thank someone for their kindness and not have that feeling of obligation."

"You're not supposed to accept every gift that comes your way. Not every so-called gift is from God. You have to have your eyes open to see the difference." Karen shifted in her seat. "Your angel is saying that when it's right you need to learn and develop a sense of gratitude and graciousness." Karen looked hazily past me again. "Not everyone expects something in return you know." Sometimes people just want the good feeling that comes with being kind or generous or knowing that they've somehow helped a friend, or maybe they are repaying a debt by helping you. But by refusing them you are not allowing them to advance spiritually. Also you're telling God that His blessings aren't good enough for you."

"Maybe," I said as noncommittally as I could.

Karen smiled. "And then sometimes you have to gift in return because you are supposed to provide the greater good. It's confusing. That's all I know."

That conversation took place years ago, and it's one I've long remembered and thought on. I've since switched jobs a half dozen times perhaps, meeting new people, making new friends. At my current job I have a friend named Sharon. Sharon is a Gardener. We are talking a couple acres (or more!) of gorgeous flowering plants that she tends with a loving eye. Flowers of all kinds everywhere blooming everywhere.

She came to work one day, and said, "I have too many flowers. They are crowding each other out. I'm digging them up to thin them out. Do you want them? If you don't take them, I'm throwing them away." She is very direct and succinct like that.

Well, if she's throwing them away.... "Oh, I'd love them! I've been wanting flowers for the house since I bought it. I buy one or two plants a year, but my flower "garden" seems to be confined to window boxes."

"Bring your Jeep. We'll fill it up."

Silly me, I thought she was exaggerating, but I should have known better. By the time she stuffed my Jeep full of plants, (roses, phlox, iris, heather, bee balm, clematis, lamb's ear, to name a few) there was barely room for me to sit in the front seat. I couldn't see out of any of the side windows and I was being stuck in the back of my head with rose stems. My car smelled earthy and flowery and heavenly.

For the longest time I had envisioned flowers growing in my yard, and now, Sharon has blessed me with her kindness and generosity. She says I did her a favor by accepting the plants.

Honor Among Thieves

Keith looked across the chasm of our adjoining desks, leaned across his desk into my workspace, and blurted in a whisper, "I've spent time in prison." He threw himself back in his chair, crossed his arms in front of his chest. He gave me his five-front-teeth-only smile and his deep brown shone in a perverse humor intended to shock me.

It worked. I tried to repress my knee jerk surprise, but I knew my eyes were wide and my face frozen in a stupid look with my mouth gaped open. Finally, I was able to utter, "Oooooohh..." I had long before surmised that Keith was likely a recovering drug user, someone who had lost his way and was struggling to get back He had a saunter and a chip on his shoulder; he was quick to anger, and just as quick to laugh. He had his own set of ideas about right and wrong. He could look you straight in the eye until you looked away first. He was emaciated looking, smoked too much, could be crude in speech and manner when it struck him to be so, could be gentle and kind if one were gentle and kind with him. He was a drifter, had been homeless. He was a loner in a room full of people. He sat at his desk with his headset on, listening to talk radio, occasionally blurting out answers to quiz questions and political opinion polls.

He was my work mentor. I was in a job that was a poor fit. Map making required someone with strong analytical and spatial skills, measuring and recording roads, time and distance using instruments and published resources. To me, time and distance is measured by feeling and intuition. A road is a journey. My heart is my instrument that guides me. An odd friendship and respect bloomed, Keith was spatial and I was, according to him, spacey.

Keith roared with unrestrained delight, and disapproving faces turned to see who was laughing in this grim place called The Workplace. He stared them all down one of his F* You looks until everyone turned back to their work. I secretly admired that and wish I knew how to do it, too.

"Sooooo, why were you a guest of the state?"

"For starting up my own church."

"You're a minister?" I was dumbstruck. I never would have taken him for a man of the cloth.

"No, that was part of the problem." Keith was clearly enjoying dragging out the story, his smile wider and his eyes glittering. "I ain't no altar boy."

"So, I'm beginning to see. How could you ever end up in jail for ministering a church?"

"Well, I seemed to have "ministered" to myself with the church's money."

"Keith! How could you ever conceive of doing such a thing? That's just not right!"

He pulled out the front of his tee shirt and buried his laugh into his chest at my naivete. " Seems like others agree with you. I can't believe people got so mad about it when you consider how pretty stupid and trusting they are. I only gave them what they wanted. They wanted answers and I gave them answers. I don't see anything wrong with that. They wanted to believe in what I said and they wanted to give me money to say it. So I let them. It was simple. I used to drive a white Cadillac in those days."

"You are a very bad man!" I decreed, disgusted with him. He smiled sadly at me and I gave him an apologetic smile in return.

Changing the subject, he said, "Know how I got this job?"

"I am afraid to ask."

"Remember on the job application they asked if you spoke any foreign languages?" I nodded my head. I had written "some Spanish" on mine. "I don't speak no foreign languages, figured they wouldn't hire anyone like me, so to be a wise guy I wrote "Ebonics. Do you know what Ebonics is?"

"Yes, it's commonly called "black" English."

Now it was Keith's turn to be surprised. "Not too many white people know that word. Well, the human resources person didn't know, and when she saw it, she was impressed that I could speak "Ebonics." She went on and on about I was the only person she ever met who could speak such a little known language."

I didn't mean to, but I started to laugh. "You correct her?"

"I needed this job. My two dogs and I were living in my car. We needed to eat. That HR lady and me were both bluffing each other. She tried to show off by letting me know she knew that Ebonics was some dead language like Latin and she needed someone who could speak another language. We both got what we wanted."

I begrudgingly acknowledged his point. "Giving up on the church founding business?"

A huge grin. "I never did look good in a white robe. Miss that white Caddy though...."

"Keith!" I admonished. I looked at my watch, it was the dinner hour. "Look, I'm starving. Want to go to lunch?"

The invitation surprised us both and for once Keith was the one who was dumbstruck. "That is very nice. You are the only one here who has ever asked me to lunch in the whole year I've been here. " I started to say something but he cut me off. "But I cannot go with you. You are a nice lady and I would damage your reputation if you were friends with someone like me. I am a bad man, but you have been kind. Go find some nice friends." Keith put his head set on and shut me out.

At the same time my regular lunch pals came over to gather me up and go to lunch. As we were headed towards the cafeteria, one of them leaned over and whispered, "Be careful of that one. He's no good, hasn't got a decent bone in his body."

A Ride Uptown

My youngest brother, Grant, is very attached to our mother and he extends great kindnesses, far more than I do. Our relationship with her is individual and distinctly different, resulting in our different views on her as a mother. Irregardless, the one thing he and I agree on is our mother's lack of a social filter, that quality that prohibits you from saying outrageous (even if they are true) observations.

Some of her forthrightness is attributable to having an English-speaking family and a society of friends who were rough in nature and language. There was certainly little elegance or eloquence in manner or speech, and when you mix that someone who elicits only the bare bones of a foreign language, you're up against some pretty stark and startling conversation.

Everyone who knows her has been on the receiving end of one of her truths. We've learned to laugh it off, but when we introduce someone new to her, (say a new boyfriend or girlfriend) we always start with a warning, "Brace yourself, don't be hurt, don't be angry. She's going to say whatever is on her heart, whether you want to hear it or not. She doesn't mean to be hurtful..."

Mother is 81 years old, lives independently in a senior housing community. She's irascible and strong-willed. When she needs something done she will just casually toss out, "I need to have the air conditioner put in and go to the bank." Long silence. "It would be nice to have the air conditioner put in; I suppose I could ask one of the old men here to do it for me but they're not so good anymore. Can't count on them; they don't move too hot. I'll just sit in this hot apartment until one of them can come." Long silence while she waits for the guilt to seep in.

And my dear brother, with his friend, Paula, volunteered to drive the 150 miles to put in her air conditioner and take her to the bank. There are a number of two story brick buildings in her complex and after driving around a bit, my brother was able to find a parking space close to her building; the plan was they'd help her get her outside with her walker, go and get the car, and come back around to get her, take her uptown to do her chores, go back home.

Grant dropped Paula off at my mother's building while he parked the car. As he was walking up the sidewalk, an elderly lady approached him. "Are you the one going uptown?"

"Yes," he said hesitantly. He did not know this woman.

"You're here to see your mother?" He nodded. "She said you'd take me uptown. I need to go to the grocery store."

Grant, irked at being a chauffeur, but not wanting to embarrass Mother by refusing her friend a promised ride, helped the old woman into the front seat of his car, explained he'd be right back. The old woman shuffled in and sat comfortably while he went to escort Mother to the sidewalk and bring the car around. He rolled the windows down so she wouldn't suffocate in the car as she waited.

The old lady was still in the front seat, politely waiting. Paula and Grant helped my mother into the back seat. She is round as a strawberry barrel and weighs about as much. She is stiff with arthritis, but is determined to go. She grunts heavily as she sits, all smiles and gushing with delight at the thought of a car ride. Paula took the seat beside her. My mother, oblivious to the fourth person in the car, said "I want to go to the bank. Do you know how to get there?" Grant assured her that he did and the four of them set off.

It's a short ride made interminable by my mother who focused her entire attention on Paula, filling the silence with chatter about the "old people" known only by her who lived in her complex. As Grant later told the story, Mother continued roughshod over any interjections the old woman offered, not unusual as my mother will be heard, waving away any interruptions to her stories. Mother thought she was conversing with Paula the entire time. As they neared the shopping mall, the old woman said, "I want to go to the grocery store." Grant pulled into the Shaw's parking lot.

Mother in the backseat said, "Why are you here? I told you I wanted to go to the bank!" She was thoroughly miffed at his memory lapse. "The bank is not here!"

"I know, Mom," Grant says patiently. "Your friend wants to go to the grocery store. I thought I'd drop her off here, we'd go to the bank, and swing back and get her."

And that was the first moment Mother saw the old woman. She stared in amazement at the back of the woman's head until the old woman turned around. A staring contest ensured, broken by my mother. "Who the hell are you?" Mother fiercely inquired.

"I live in the same complex as you; I need to go to the grocery store."

Grant, alarmed, "You don't know this woman? She said she was a friend of yours."

"No, I don't know this old woman! She's just some crazy old bat getting in your car. She's an old fool!" (Pronounced Old Foo by my mother, the worst insult imaginable.) "What are you doing letting that Old Foo in your car? Why do you want to take her to the grocery store when I need to get to the bank!"

Quick glances were exchanged between Grant and Paula as their panic deepened. Now what? "We still have plenty of time to get to the bank." Looking at the now so-named Old Foo, "Look, we can't just leave you here. I'll take Mother to the bank and we'll come back and take you home, okay?"

It all worked out, of course. Mother was able to get to the bank on time, the old woman who wandered haplessly into their lives was delivered to her front doorstep. As Grant related the story to me in agonizing detail, I laughed and laughed. I laughed until I cried. It could only happen to him.

Several weeks later, I was uptown, coming out the RiteAid, of one of our little city's drugstores, a scruffy man, smelling of old cigarettes and sweat looked me up and down. He was leaning against the building, leg bent at the knee, foot pressed against the wall. I pretended not to see him. "Hey!" he yelled at me. I stopped, weighed the fight or flight response in me. "You going uptown? I need a ride."

I thought of Grant, smirked on the inside of myself. "No. Sorry. Going in the complete opposite direction."