Count Your Blessings, page 21
I began to appreciate the small things, like a warm cup of cocoa on a snowy day all snuggled up in my warm apartment, or the toothless grins and pudgy-armed hugs of my primary students. I was giving up things, and yet I felt wealthier than I ever had. When I gave up my desire for lofty possessions, the simple things in my life became loftier.
While I came to my stay-at-home stint with some knowledge of thriftiness, I realized it was one thing to live frugally when I was single. It was quite another to do it while my husband and I were responsible for supporting our son.
Nonetheless, we were up for the challenge.
I nursed my son for eleven months, alleviating the cost of formula, and we washed cloth diapers, something I wanted to do for the environment anyway. I began comparing prices, buying store brands or using coupons, and rebating. Cashing in on franchise drug store rebates was like finding a gold mine—I got almost all our toiletries and some household items free.
My husband learned how to fix our cars and do repairs around the house, and I continued driving my still-ticking sixteen-year-old Honda. I gladly gave up my cell phone, and began to freelance write and babysit to supplement. We ate out only on special occasions and stopped buying expensive gifts for one another, opting for beautifully written cards and time together as a family. Most importantly, I prayed without ceasing.
When my son happily opened his gifts Christmas morning, my husband and I didn’t need anything under the tree to be content. We already had everything we wanted (and even some clutter that we didn’t), and it was a relief to enjoy the season without the stressful scramble to purchase all the material trimmings. I told my husband, “Staying at home with Andrew is my gift. It’s like my birthday, wedding anniversary, and Christmas all rolled into one.”
We have been living on less for more than three years now. Before we took that leap of faith, I didn’t know the blessings that would pour down on us, and what I have witnessed has been amazing. At this date, we are less than two years away from owning our home and being completely debt-free. We have ample insurance, save for Andrew’s college education, and give to our church, individuals, and donation centers as much as we can.
The quality of my life has not changed; the wealth in my spirit has become an overflowing river. Andrew and I walk to the creek bordering our backyard, his dimpled hand in mine. He throws in a twig to watch it drift away, and I am marvelously aware of how that tiny bundle has grown since that first day when we could only see the first step in the staircase.
With the ever-changing economic climate, there are days when I still feel a little uneasy. But then I realize that my hope and security do not lie in the stock market, the deed to our house, our savings account, or anything material that can rust or fade away. How many people who have lost a loved one to disease or tragedy would give all their material possessions just to embrace that loved one again? My faith and contentment cannot depend on what our bankroll looks like. As for my husband and I, we are glad to climb an ever-lengthening staircase of faith and are savoring the priceless time we have with our newborn.
No, we don’t own an expensive house or drive vehicles manufactured in this decade. We don’t wear the latest fashions or dine out regularly. We don’t buy our son expensive toys or baby gear. And do you know what? He doesn’t notice because he doesn’t know what OshKosh B’Gosh is or what “make and model” means. He just wants time with us. We give him as much time as possible and shower him with learning and love. We read, play, and sing, and the quality of our lives continues to get better every day.
It was when we loosened our hold on material possessions that we realized we were rich. If you are approaching a staircase and you can only see the first step, I challenge you to take a deep breath, have some faith, and leap. You may be surprised where you will land.
~Janeen A. Lewis
Offbeat Jobs and E’s Story
There are no menial jobs, only menial attitudes.
~William J. Brennan
As I sat in my English as a second language class with my two students, I turned to the conversation part of the lesson. I was prepared to resume the topic of “offbeat jobs” that we had started in the previous class. First though, I asked M how he was doing in his new job as a car salesman at a large car dealership in the area. He told me that he was no longer working there but was looking for another job. Then I turned to my other student, an elderly man from Africa, and asked him about his job. “What is your job, E?” I asked.
He explained that he was on the cleaning staff at a nursing home. Then he went on to say that in his country, he had been the owner of an air conditioning business with several employees working for him, including engineers and technicians, whom he had personally trained, being an air conditioning expert himself. Unfortunately, due to political conditions in his country, the economy suffered greatly and it became more and more difficult for him to carry on his business, even though it had been successful for more than thirty years. Consequently, he retired, and decided to devote himself, as he put it, to preparation to meet God. And as is the custom in his country, he would depend on his children to support him in his old age.
However, there came a day when he wanted a change and he came to America. Some of his family already lived here. When he arrived, he realized that here in America everyone was expected to take care of him or herself and therefore, he needed to get a job. His wife had found a job as a cleaning person in a movie theater and he was able to get a job in the same place as an usher. He said that it was very humiliating at first, because his supervisors were young people, the same age as his own grandchildren, and they treated him very rudely and disrespectfully. But he told his wife that this was probably good for his soul. It was very humbling to be sure, but he, after all, had been an employer himself for so many years, directing those under him and now he had been given the opportunity to experience what it felt like to be the person at the bottom.
Eventually, he and his wife were able to find work in the nursing home facility, and he said that they are very thankful because they are able to work together. Also, he told us that he loves his work because he has the opportunity to show love and kindness to the residents of the nursing home, even if it is simply through his smile and kind words.
As he spoke, I felt my heart warmed by his story. I never imagined that this quiet stooped old man had had such a life and could share so much to encourage both the other student and myself. I told him that I believed that when he gets to heaven, God will put His arms around him and say, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”
Many people would consider this man’s job to be one of the lowliest in our society and would wonder how a man who had been an educated business owner could find peace and fulfillment in his present job. When he first came to this country, he was told that with a year of study, he could find a good job in his field of expertise, but he decided to choose a different path and he is very happy with the choice he made. He no longer carries on his shoulders the heavy burden of owning a business, and is able to spend his non-working hours in prayer and quiet contemplation or in spending time with his family.
I was deeply impressed by E’s quiet faith and positive outlook. His words touched a chord in my own heart, because as a small business owner faced with the present economic instability, I suddenly felt a tremendous sense of peace. Even if we were to lose our business and our so-called security, there would always be a place for us somewhere where we could carry on loving God and people, in spite of circumstances.
Who would have guessed that the subject of “offbeat” jobs, designed to be an interesting, entertaining and humorous topic of discussion for the improvement of English conversation skills, would lead to the story of this precious man’s experiences and open our eyes and hearts to a new perspective?
~Laraine Paquette
Note to Myself
If she never takes off her high-heeled shoes,
how will she ever know how far she could walk …?
~Germaine Greer
I had just snagged a sharp pencil to jot down some tips the newscaster was listing as ways to “recession proof” my budget. When I started writing, I realized that most of the tips were things I was already doing. The remainder were bad habits that, thankfully, I had never started. And just who were these people anyway who she claimed were splurging every day on those rip-off double mocha lattes?
I had already learned my hard lessons about frugality when Hurricane Katrina careened through east New Orleans claiming everything in its path. At that moment, my world collapsed along with the ailing levees, and unlike the current financial slump, it wasn’t a slow downward spiral—it was an implosion. Katrina struck with ferocity overnight, literally. And for some of her victims, the economic disaster just serves as a double whammy—chapter two in an already painful trek towards recovery.
Prior to Katrina, rebounding from a hurricane was a science most New Orleanians had become quite adept at. It was simple really. We’d just skip town, lay low, and then return in a day or so to continue life as we’d always known it. Pull up some wet carpet, replace a few essentials and keep on trucking. It’s a New Orleans thing. We’d done it countless times before. Not so this time.
Sometimes we’d even make a mini-vacation of it, nestle in a cozy cottage out of harm’s way and joke about scoring a few days off from work. This go-round, we had hunkered down in a Houston hotel sipping margaritas, lazing like tourists. As we watched the news coverage, it became increasingly clear that the situation was more threatening than we had thought. Instead of the usual go-signal to return home, we heard a panicked reporter announce the jaw-dropping news that water was surging up to twelve feet in some places, and we couldn’t re-enter New Orleans for another few months! Can’t go home? Can’t return to our jobs? Well, where will we go?
The day before the storm hit, I had been caught off guard with no time to rush home and pack before evacuating. I had just gone to the drycleaners earlier that day and, thankfully, had several changes of clothes in my car when I realized my options were scant: either head for the hills now or get trapped like a rat in town!
Like the overindulgent latte crowd, I had a few budget busters of my own, chief of which was an unquenchable shoe fetish I had developed long before Katrina. Like most of my girlfriends, I owned a busload of fashionable footwear. When I realized that I wouldn’t be returning home soon, and the only pair I now owned was the one on my feet, I went into a tailspin. In New Orleans, I had grown accustomed to collecting compliments on how stylishly my feet were decked out. I mean I was really working the shoes. In some circles, I had been hailed as the diva of shoes. For me to now possess only one pair surely had to be some cruel joke—one quirky twist of irony I was too shell-shocked to handle.
I rushed to a dollar store to stockpile some bare necessities, my mind reeling. For the moment I hadn’t fully comprehended the scope of all the things I’d need to purchase to stay afloat. All I knew was that I just had to have some new shoes! I spied a little shop right next door, dashed in, and plucked a pair from the shelf. These were quickie shoes—wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am shoes—shoes I would never have given a second glance, let alone permitted near my feet in my pre-Katrina days. In New Orleans, I’d scour the Web for hours in pursuit of the sleekest, most elegant boots. I only frequented the finer, upscale boutiques. I’d linger in the salon, enjoying the indulgence of snagging the latest trends to add to my already burgeoning cache. I loved the attention from the salesmen, laying box after beautiful box of the best the store had to offer at my feet. For me, purchasing shoes had become a drug. I didn’t care about negotiating a sale. I just wanted to look good.
The ones I now held in my hand were “sensible,” non-descript—a strange purchase in a strange store. I shoved them on my feet like a junkie copping a fix. At that moment, a sudden sadness seized me. I realized how my priorities had become displaced, how much stock I had put into getting approval from others. I thought about the countless possessions I had amassed over the years, room after room of excess—stuff I didn’t need or didn’t even remember I’d bought—a garage chock full of eye-candy likely buoyed up now by the river’s swift overflow.
Before Katrina, I’d occasionally sort through my shoe collection deciding which ones to give to charity. I’d rank them and concede only the well-worn ones—not the chic Italian slingbacks—those were keepers. Giving little thought to who might receive them, I just wanted them out of my way to make room for newer, more expensive styles. I even patted myself on the back for being so “generous” to the less fortunate.
That was four years ago. Now my “storm shoes” hold a special place of honor in my new home, mounted on a frame on my nightstand. They are the first thing I see when I open my eyes in the morning. They serve as a stark reminder of where my feet have trod. Those shoes carried me through a difficult time, kept me centered, somehow providing me enough breathing room to figure out what my next steps would be. But more than that, they remind me that I don’t need material things to affirm who I am in the world. On that fateful day, I had written myself this mental note with one indelible stroke: Girlfriend, be thankful for what you have—because it can all be gone in a flash. Cherish everything and everyone in your life. Share all you have with others. That simple advice is emblazoned on my heart. To it, I’ll scribble one additional caveat: Don’t wait for another hurricane or economic crisis to remind you of that. Now, there’s a note worth taking.
~Elaine K. Green
The Skid Row Float
Yet they are thy people and thine inheritance,
which thou broughtest out by thy mighty power
and by thy stretched out arm.
~Deuteronomy
When I was a kid, accepting cast-offs from well-intentioned friends and relatives was a recurring event for my family of seven. Used sofas came and went with regular frequency. Not so surprisingly, the acquisition of a new couch usually coincided with the passing of one of my lovely old great-aunts. In fact, the really old aunts avoided us completely if word got around that our sofa was truly on its last legs. I think these grand old ladies had a secret pact to remain ignorant of our current couch crisis, and that was the key to their longevity. As a child I believed whole-heartedly in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and that receiving the sofa of a deceased relative was actually part of the funeral rite.
I remember vividly back in the summer of 1964, the good Lord called Aunt Alice home at the ripe age of eighty-seven, and somehow our dear old camelback, larger-than-life sofa knew it. Secure in the knowledge that a replacement sofa waited in the wings for us, the “Cranberry Queen of Velveteen” as we fondly referred to it, slipped from the two brick makeshift legs that supported her rear, breathed her last soft sigh and thumped to the floor right on schedule.
A few days later, as we all gathered to pay our last respects to Aunt Alice, a somber cloud of silence hung heavily over the congregation. Until my annoyingly squeaky yet perfectly audible voice punched a big fat hole in it. “Mom,” I said. “Is Daddy going right to Aunt Alice’s house now to pick up the couch or do we have to wait until the cemetery part is over?”
In one fell swoop my mother stretched one arm clear across my four older siblings, clamped my lips shut with one hand, airlifted me back past the four siblings with the other, and plunked me down at her side. Time elapsed: three-tenths of a nanosecond. While in flight I caught my dad clamping his own mouth shut and I wondered what that was about. After all he hadn’t uttered a word. I knew something was up though because a series of muffled giggles rippled through the crowd at the precise moment I became airborne.
Personally, I saw no humor in the situation at all, let alone any reason for my mother to physically button my lips and pluck me from my seat. Obviously not having anywhere to sit when it was time to watch The Flintstones panicked no one but me.
After the funeral service was over (including the cemetery part) Dad headed out to collect Aunt Alice’s sofa and Mom’s task was to dispose of the wreck in our living room. Because of its deplorable condition, her goal was to haul it to the Goodwill donation station at the end of our block. Frankly, all the good will on Earth couldn’t have resurrected this hunk of junk, but the anonymous donor option trumped leaving it for the trash pickup. If she was going to do that, she might as well hang a neon sign on it with a blinking arrow pointing to our front door.
The problem: four daughters and one son all under the age of sixteen make a mighty sorry-looking moving and hauling team. Especially when pursuing an incognito operation.
The solution: With limited options and dripping with anxiety, Mom summoned the courage to recruit my brother Bobby and three of his teenage friends. A decision so immediately followed by regret a NASCAR stopwatch couldn’t have clocked the time in between.
To Bobby and his band of merry men, carrying an oversized, threadbare, broken down, ugly (from its moment of birth) sofa the length of one city block spelled, P-A-R-T-Y. Wise to the antics of teenage boys, Mom suggested they wait until dark. They laughed. She insisted. They picked Mom up and moved her out of the way.
I can still picture those boys lumbering down the alley in single file with that clumsy old couch carcass raised high over their heads, chanting some quirky made-up rhyming verse throughout the whole ordeal. When they finally reached the end of the block, Bobby looked back at Mom and shouted, “Hey, look, Mom. It’s a parade and we own the Skid Row Float!” Even the long arm of Marie Tait, mother extraordinaire, couldn’t reach clear down to the end of the block to lock his lips shut.
The echo of his remark floated down the alley, rustling the curtains of every open kitchen window it passed. By the time his words reached Mom’s ears, she couldn’t resist laughing out loud as all hope of our anonymity disappeared.
An antique mahogany-trimmed Georgian style sofa stands in all its regal splendor in my living room today. Mom passed it down to me, but it belonged first to my grandmother who was the last surviving sister in the circle of delightful ladies known to me as my great-aunts. This sofa is not a modern assembly line version. It is a grand tribute to an age when crafting a sofa took several months of a man’s life.
