The Bad Day

Friday before last, I had a really bad day.

Any where I went in my little New England town, I came across the same vehicle. Not once in my errand running of 2 hours, but four times. What are the chances? At a stoplight. Twice. Pulling out and driving behind. Across the intersection from.

I know the vehicle well. A silver minivan with a license plate bracket declaring the driver to be a Philadelphia Eagles fan. Yes, I am very familiar with the van. I thought I was familiar with the driver, once upon a time, but unfortunately, it was only the facade I was given that I was familiar with, not the real person.

I made my way home feeling desperately crushed. Anywhere I went that day it seemed I could not escape the past.

Then I remembered that I had to bake a pumpkin bread for my children's school that evening. I am on the PTO Baking Committee, too. And I didn't have all that I needed for the bread. Damn. I would have to go out again. And risk seeing the van. Again.

I thought about not baking, but I felt my responsibility sitting on my shoulder, reminding me, prodding me. So I heaved myself off the couch, and went off to the store.

I bought only what I needed for the bread. Plus a big box of Famous Amos chocolate chip cookies, which I planned to consume most of while the bread baked in an effort to soothe my sorrows.

As I was walking out of the store, and elderly gentleman stopped me.

"Have we met?" he asked. We had not, but not only was he elderly, he was a World War II vet. I have a soft spot for veterans, a thank you to my grandfather. I was only just beginning a true friendship with my grandfather when he passed away when I was 19. Talking with veterans reminds me of him, connects me to him. A connection I could use a hug from every now and then.

The gentleman then asked me if he could just "enjoy my beauty" for a moment, and he gave me a squeeze on my hand. We parted ways and started walking away, and then he said something that stopped me in my tracks.

As he was walking away he said to me that I am a good Christian woman. That people could talk what they want to about me, think what they want to, do what they want to, but they could never take Jesus Christ away from me. That if I keep with Him, we will have everything we need, and those people will be taken care of, too.

That made me tear up. I thanked him, told him I needed to hear that, and told him that I hoped God blessed his day. He said He already had.

As I drove home, of course I cried. What 6.5 month pregnant woman wouldn't? I thought that day of a lot of people.

The friend who used to pray with me for my best friend, over both their cancers, who now blamed me for a church's demise. Had I acted alone?

The friend who once hugged me, expressing her gratitude that my first missions trip was on the very same team as her daughter's first missions trip, who now exiled me publicly on a social networking website.

The friends who once celebrated holidays and birthdays in my home who now walk blindly past me when we meet in public.

The friend who promised me wonderful things, and then covered up those promises with lies.

The minister who let us turn to her in confidence, only to turn away from one and then the other, and what she was told as an avenue for gossip, in a manner most unbecoming.

The six-year-old Sunday School classmate who had told my seven-year-old at a birthday party that her mommy said she wasn't supposed to talk to my children.

The friend who once played a role as work supervisor, who attended not only wedding showers but a wedding, baby showers and visited in the hospital after each birth of a child; attending birthday parties and celebrations, ballet performances and plays, who now shuns with disapproval and judgement.

The friend who felt it right to broadcast her unhappiness with me on the same social networking site by calling me names.

The friends who took part in those conversations, never standing up for me or championing me the way I had hoped even just one of them would.

The friends who do stand by me, beside me, holding my hand and my head high when I can't, or won't, or forget how. My husband.

I've seen the van again since, but, suddenly, it doesn't seem to make my day so bad anymore. And I did eat a lot of cookies that day. Not because I was wallowing, but because they were damn good!