She Left Him With An Angel

The wedding party was underway.  Dinner was over.  Vows were exchanged. Soon it would time to cut the cake.  A couple of great guys just made it official in front of family and friends. 

The Italian restaurant was the perfect backdrop for an informal affair.  The food was excellent.  The space was perfect.  The group represented those who embraced the union fully and those who had a bit harder time with understanding and accepting the new paradigm–but who were there nonetheless…wonderfully stretching the limits of their embrace.

A new beginning.  A life together.  A new start for two committed souls who pledged to become one.  A beautiful expression of love and hope and joy as they officially started their lives together. 

I picked up my vodka ‘ondaroks’ and weaved my way through the crowd, through the restaurant, past the bar and out onto the side patio.  No one else was outside…it was a bit chilly.  Lit my cigarette and sat down for a minute.  I didn’t know many people at the wedding, so I settled in for my moment of quiet, thinking a bit about my friends’ commitment to each other.  How proud I was of them.  I thought about how hard it must have been for some of their family members to accept what just happened.  I thought about how cool it was that these two friends found each other and wondered if I would ever be so lucky. 

Sipped my drink and puffed away.  Thinking.  Looking at the shadows cast on the building next door by the barren branches of the trees moving ever so slightly from the breeze.  It was quiet.

It was then that two young guys popped out on the patio.  There were a lot of tables and chairs on the large empty space.  But, one of the young men asked if I minded if he sat down at my table.  I said sure.  The two of them were sipping their Long Island Teas.  A couple of handsome kids, clearly great friends.  They seemed a bit quiet…almost whispering…pensive.  The one sat down.  The other, at first, stayed standing at the side.  They both lit up as well. 

We chatted for a moment.  They weren’t from the wedding, but had just eaten dinner.  I told them I had never been there before and was surprised I hadn’t since the restaurant had such a good reputation…and it was proven to me during the evening–a dimly lit, warm place just packed with revelers obviously enjoying the good food and atmosphere. 

It was then the young man sitting said, “My wife died a few days ago.”  I reacted in shock.  My mood instantly changed.  I was no longer “at the wedding” or at the restaurant or on the patio.  I was now in a new place…a space that only existed right there where we were sitting.  “I am so sorry,” I said ineptly.

The second guy explained that it was the first night out for his friend…that they needed to get out, eat dinner and try as they might to find some relief.

He was so young.  24 years old.  Whatever happened, of course, simply had to be horrific.  I was dumbfounded.  That’s the only way I can describe it.

He answered every question I had with clarity and grace beyond his years.  I asked if they had children and he said, yes, a boy.  When I asked how old their boy was, he said, “Three days.”  Three days?  Wait.  What?

I discovered that it was more tragic than anything I could fathom.  They had been together since they were 13.  They had been married for four years, I think.  She was a nursing student, thrilled about her progress and impending graduation. They were expecting their first child together, thrilled at the prospect of their growing family.  She was healthy.  There were no problems during the pregnancy.  They were planning for the future.  Three days ago all was well and they eagerly awaited the birth of their son. 

Then, the unimaginable happened.  She died in childbirth.  Something about the amniotic fluid leaking…I didn’t fully understand…still in shock that in this day and age such a thing could occur. 

So, here was this young man…clearly in stress…sharing his story with me about his beautiful wife, their hopes and dreams fulfilled with the birth of their son.  And she was gone.  Just like that.  And now he was a single father with a three-day-old son mourning the loss of his soulmate.  A son who will never meet his mother. And, will only hear the stories of how his mother died after giving him life.  And, this young man is now facing a future that he must embrace through the tears of his loss.  At 24 they had shared eleven years together…almost half of their lives on earth. 

All I could do was try to express my sorrow for him.  I tried to understand but explained I couldn’t.  I could only imagine the pain.  The loss.  The fear.  The anger.  The hurt in his heart.  I started to choke up.  It wasn’t a time to talk about fate or destiny or life’s blows.  All I could muster was assuring him that “She is here.  She loves you and your child and she hurts for you as well.”  Without hesitation he said he knew that, too. 

When asked, they both assured me he has a plethora of support and love from family and friends.  I asked him to honor every single feeling he has now from misery to joy, from lethargy and withdrawal to lashing out.  That no matter what he felt or experienced that it was okay.  It’s all I could say.  I had no other words of wisdom or understanding.  I ached for the ability to share something meaningful with him…something, anything…to help him. 

I told him that somehow I knew I would never forget him.  And, that I would say a prayer for him.  Through tears, I told him boldly…unabashedly…assuredly…that I loved him.  I don’t know where that came from or why.  I reached over and just said it.  I felt it.  I knew it.  And he reached out with his hand to shake mine and he unequivocally looked me in my eyes and said, “I love you” back to me.  And, then, thanked me.  

He thanked me.  

I still don’t understand.

I navigated my way back through the restaurant..through the din of conversation…dodging servers as if in a surreal world.  I entered the reception hall where the music had been turned up, the cake had been cut and the guests were standing with each other talking, laughing, posing for pictures celebrating this new union of love…a couple embarking on a bright future together.  A juxtaposition of life’s most incredulous moments of joy and pain merged together in my heart.  

Soon, we all helped clear out the photo booth and the flower arrangements, gathering our cameras and belongings and saying goodbye.  A group of us joyfully crowded into the enormous stretched limousine with music and flashing lights and began drinking the champagne in a roar of heartfelt laughter and joy for our two special friends.  

I knowingly, willingly joined them in shots of Fireball between sips of champagne. Trying to forget…

…trying to numb myself to the experience of the two worlds that were revealed to me during the evening.  All I really managed to do was numb myself even more during the rest of the night.  Desperately trying to understand the beginning of love’s union and the loss of love’s union…as the music swirled around me and the shots kept coming at the dance club where we continued the celebration. 

But, I will never forget.  My heart aches even now.  I will always remember him.  I will always wonder how on earth he could cope or have to face such loss and pain in his life as he raises his son alone.  I try to understand how his and his beloved wife’s souls merged only to be torn apart from each other so tragically.  And, at the same time, I hope for a long love-filled and fulfilling partnership for my newly married friends as they embark on their journey together.

Two other souls came together in an unexpected way that evening…mine with his…a permanent prayer for him etched in my essence. 


The Miracle Of The Ottoman

Don died on Wednesday, the 7th of November, 2001                                                                                                      


Don was one of my best friends.  He moved back from DC…came home to deal with his HIV status…oh, sometime in the late ’90’s.  I think it was 1996 or maybe 1997.

It was a big move.  I drove the big rental truck to DC with him years earlier when he moved to Arlington, VA, to assume his new post at the Department of Energy. So, his return was big.  He was retired.  He was comin’ home.

He found a wonderful duplex on 15th street in Tulsa across from The Sophian Plaza where he used to live.  It was a great place.  It was spacious, a 1950’s style duplex that was very private and provided him a perfect set-up for income property from the other half of the residence.

We ended up overhauling the entire place.  We had it painted, added stereo and lighting throughout and updated the entire interior.  We ripped out and replaced all the old concrete walkways, driveway and front steps and added a raised covered deck so he could see the Arkansas River down the hill.  I remember his saying, “Dark and cool.  Dark and cool.  Those summers in Tulsa can be brutal.”  We were setting it up to be the perfect place for him to adapt to the demanding challenges he faced with HIV.

I remember when he bought it.  And, I remember when he moved in–or, rather, when I moved him in.  It was a great thing he did for me:  “Set it up,” he said, “Do your thing.  I don’t have time.  The moving trucks will be there before I am.”

As a fledgling designer, decorator, project manager…mostly broke…still cleaning houses and handling garage sales and organizing people’s storage units and basements, I relished the opportunity he gave me.  When he arrived, every picture was hung, all the antique furniture and rugs were placed, the black-out draperies were hung and the kitchen was completely functional.

I had the lights set, the music playing, and when he walked in, he was home.

It was quite the undertaking.  A wonderful, creative and demanding experience.

I also remember that when he bought the place, there was one lone piece of furniture left in one of the bedrooms.  A beautiful, heavy round ottoman upholstered in coral naugahyde.  On casters.  From Marshall Field’s…probably made in the late ’50’s or early ’60’s.  “Make sure you get to keep the ottoman when you sign the deal,” I insisted.  It was going to be perfect in my retro-themed apartment.  It was a true find–one of those things that if you had set out to find it, you probably couldn’t.  It was a delightful classic piece to sit in front of my sofa and serve as a cocktail table and leg rest.  What a great color, I thought, to sit on my cream and black zebra-print rug.  It was one more wonderful, unique element to add to the slow, gradual upgrade of my apartment during the transition years.  I loved it.

I also remember that he got a ‘built-in roommate’ for the other half of the duplex. She was already a renter, and she was perfect.  She worked nights.  She was quiet.  She was responsible.  She didn’t throw parties.  So, Don was set.  He didn’t even need to find someone to lease the other side.

It was so many years ago.  There are so many stories.  There was so much drama and intensity.  Yet, there was so much life in that duplex.  That was Don–brilliant, troubled, intense, full of life and love.

In what seems now like a flash, he was gone.  Like so many others of the time.


I started training at Fitness Together in south Tulsa in late 2009.    Heather, a friend in the design business, recommended them.  It was located on the opposite side of town, but I thought I’d give it a try.  I’d been doing my own program for 20 years…it was time for a change. It’s now been almost six years that I head out south three times a week.  Every week.  Aaron, the owner, trained me for years.  When he and Bethany, his wife and also a trainer, decided to free themselves of the franchise, they opened their own studio and Bethany took over the business and my training while he started his new career.

I was there when their two kids were just a thought.  Now, one of the kids is a toddler and the other, entering school. They were there to hear my tales of my parents slipping away into dementia at the retirement center.  I shared stories of my journey through independence after leaving corporate life so many years ago. There’s an intimacy and friendship that develops over time as you work with someone who helps you maintain your body and your health.  Bethany is a Taurus like me–like most of my friends, actually–and we get along as if we’ve known each other all of our lives.  We share the stories, frustrations and details of our lives as we go through the weekly, monthly, yearly sessions every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning.

Bethany would also share stories of her single life before meeting Aaron.   In fact, she bought her first house in a neighborhood near my old house…the one mom and dad bought way back in 1979…during my entitled years.  But, it was after I had already moved away.  “Isn’t that funny,” we thought, “that we both lived in the same neighborhood.”   It was at different times, of course, but out of all the places in town, it was neat that we had familiar stomping grounds in our past.

Now my design work is full time…with some great years and some not so great years.  But, my little sole proprietorship sustains me.  Many times I wondered if the training ‘had to go’ in order to make my budget work.  And, every time I considered it, I somehow managed to keep it a priority.  I always felt like it was the first thing on the ‘must do list’…not a luxury, but a necessity. Bethany, Aaron and now, Harper and Hayes, their kids, are a regular part of my life.  And, there’s pretty much nothing we don’t tell each other.  Or, so we thought.


It’s been a summer of renewal and awakening.  I took my first trip back to Wisconsin in eight years to visit relatives and to disperse mom and dad’s ashes in the waters of Green Bay.  It seems as though all I’ve done is read and do research and soul exploration this summer.  I have some nice small projects going, but it is the first time in ages that I haven’t been wrapped up in an intense design project or two.  I’m just going with the flow as I’ve done all these years.  It’s an interesting, albeit challenging summer at the same time.  Fortunately, last year’s incredibly intense triple project workload afforded me this year’s summer break.  Now, mind you, I do experience some moments of worry and I wonder what’s next.  As the coffers empty, it’s natural for me to go through my ‘fear stage’ about the future once in awhile.  My head asks the questions, “What are you going to do?”, and “Should you do something else?”, and “Was this a good idea to be completely on your own…should you have a connection with a support mechanism?!”  My soul says it’s okay, go with it.  It’s all part of my journey which, actually, has sustained me nicely regardless of my worries.


One day in the middle of summer, I decided to hang out a little longer than usual at the studio after my workout.  I had no pending meetings or obligations so I figured, heck, why not chill and take my time.  Bethany had already started training Karen, her next client.  I remember Karen from the other studio.  We hadn’t seen each other in a long time…her scheduled appointments are on a different day than mine are.  Today, her schedule had changed.  I took my time putting on my street shoes, getting ready to leave.

We’re all talking and laughing–just carrying on–when it hits me that they seem to be talking as if they’ve known each other for a really long time.  So, I finally just ask them, “Wait.  How long have you two known each other?  It thought you just met as client and trainer.”

“Oh, we go way back,” Karen said.  “Bethany lived in my family’s duplex on 15th Street before we sold it.”

“Wait,” I said.  “Where on 15th Street?”

Bethany and Karen both say, “Across from the Sophian.”


I proclaim, “There’s only one duplex across from The Sophian…it was my friend’s…” and I started to say Don, when Bethany chimes in, “Yes, Donald’s.”

And, Karen adds, “Yeah, my family owned it.  We sold it to Donald.”

In disbelief, I said, “What?”  Here was the renter from the other side of the duplex? Here was the perfect roommate that Don talked about?  I’ve been in her side of the duplex when we had to fix the kitchen counters.  I’ve been in her space while she was at work.

“Do you mean we crossed paths years ago?  Literally?  Did we meet and forget that we met?  Did we miss each other as I arrived and you left?  Was I sitting in Don’s kitchen while he was talking to you on the patio?  And, now you’re my trainer?”

Oh, my, I thought.  How could this be?

After all these years, we were all stunned that we shared such a significant connection in our past. We made the typical ‘what a small world’ comments and ‘six degrees of separation’ observations.  We all thought it was odd, though, because we did not share any network of friends, family or workplace relationships.  We were just three people in South Tulsa discovering our connection years after it was made.

You know, what may not seem that important to someone else, to us became something special and important.  How on earth could Bethany be the very person that ‘came along with the property’ way back when?  It was such a significant turning point in my life back in the ’90’s–one of the first really big projects I had undertaken…and I’m now hearing stories about the ‘girl next door’ from so many years ago that has been part of my life the last five years?

And Karen is the daughter of the guy who sold it to Don?  Are you kidding me?  My stories that day were from Don’s perspective.  He would carry on about the negotiating process when acquiring this ‘perfect place’ for him and was thrilled he didn’t have to find a renter.  Karen’s stories were about her family finally deciding to sell it, her dad handling the process and that they wanted Bethany to be able to stay in her home.  More details revealed that the first house Bethany bought…over in our old shared neighborhood…was the house she moved to when she finally moved out of the duplex.

It was so cool to realize that there’s a thread throughout life that connects us when we’re not even aware of it.  It was just so cool.  We three were a bit dazed, surprised that this particular day of changed schedules, this particular conversation, this particular moment was given to us reminding us that there are no coincidences.  There is no randomness.  There was an odd sense of ‘knowing’ and comfort that we all experienced.

The feeling is subtle, but it’s there.  It makes for a great story.  It makes for a wondrous thought.  And, frankly, the whole experience was oddly calming.  After the ‘wow’s’ wore off, during the ensuing weeks, Bethany and I would often stop for a moment, look up and ask, “Wait, you knew Don?”  But routine and normalcy eventually take over and you go back to the regularity of Monday, Wednesday, Friday.


Weeks later, one day Bethany tells me that Karen had a question for me about a piece of furniture Donald had ‘since you were his designer.’  I thought it funny.  I never considered myself his designer at the time, more as a person who put the puzzle pieces of his home together.  It was his furniture, his art, his collectables.  It was his taste.  I remember laughing and telling her, “Oh, my, I have no idea what happened to all of his stuff.  His family took over.”  I do remember Bethany showing me a picture of an antique recliner he had given her.  But, the rest of it?  I had absolutely no idea.

“What a funny question for Karen to ask,” I told Bethany.  “I can’t imagine I can help her.”

Bethany responded, “Well, apparently it’s a pink…no…I think, coral…ottoman. She wondered if you knew anything about it.”

“Say what?” I’m thinking.  Did she seriously just ask about the coral ottoman from Marshall Field’s?

“Yeah, apparently her dad wasn’t supposed to let Donald have it.  It’s from a matching set of retro furniture they had at their lake house.”

Come to find out, it had been a running joke in Karen’s family throughout the years.  Her dad wasn’t supposed to have given the ottoman to Don…it was supposed to go back to the lake house.  The family was upset with him when they found out.  They had the sofa, the chairs, the tables and were missing the ottoman.  They inherited the set from one of their relatives.  It had all been in the family a long long time.  Original matching vintage sets in good condition are not easy to come by and they let their dad know it!

The next time I saw Karen, she explained, “Oh, we laughed about it so often. We’ve given dad so much trouble through the years about that darn thing.  We’ve got all the original pieces except the ottoman and we never let him forget it!”  She said periodically a relative would ask about it and they quickly replied, “Oh, the ottoman?  Dad gave it away when he sold the duplex!  He wasn’t supposed to!”

I told her, “Why, gosh, yes, I know that ottoman and it was my pride and joy.  A treasure I loved.  It adorned my apartment for years!”  We laughed and I added, “In any event, you can know that the darned ottoman was loved!”  Her dad died recently, so it was too late to share the story with him, but her family now knew the ‘rest of the story.’  Maybe he’s laughing at us from the other side, “I knew they’d get it back one day.”

I was amazed, of course, that out of all of the questions I could be asked, it was about the coral ottoman.  Gosh, our story just got better by her asking about it. What a web we weave!  I wondered whatever happened to the thing.  Did I give it away?


So, I decided to check out my storage closet in my old brick apartment building built in 1928…closets tucked away for the residents in the recesses of the basement.  I don’t remember seeing the ottoman.  I only hit the closet once a year to grab holiday decorations.  It’s dark down there.  The closet is crammed.  I wasn’t about to tell Karen or Bethany that I was going to look for the ottoman.  I didn’t want to get their hopes up.  I honestly couldn’t remember if it was still in there.

I finally found the key to the lock, opened the door, and using my phone’s flashlight started looking.  Well, by God, as if peering out to see me, I spot a bit of coral naugahyde.  Tucked in the corner with boxes stacked high on top of it.  It was there.  The ottoman was there.

“Of course I didn’t give it away,” I thought, realizing that I surely planned to use it again someday if I ever moved–and, of course, that I really don’t get rid of anything that’s cool.  I was so happy it was there.

I removed all the boxes, pulled it out, cleaned it up, took some pictures and loaded it into the car.  Anticipating Karen’s response, I only let Bethany know it was coming.  I placed it close to the window next to some exercise equipment at the studio.  It’s a bit time-worn.  I prefer to think it has character.  But, the overall shape is pretty good and the color is good.  There it sat in its aged glory waiting to go home.  The next time Karen had a session, she loaded it up.  Beaming.

Karen and her family finally got the coral ottoman from Marshall Field’s back where it belonged…with its matched set of furniture.  Her mother is overwhelmed.  “What do you mean, you found the ottoman?” she asked Karen.  The family stories continue.  The last chapter to their unfinished story is written.  They never thought there would be a last chapter or that they would ever know what happened to the ottoman.   Their only regret is that their dad was already gone, but we all agreed that something tells us he knows.


Let’s think about this for a moment.  What are the chances?  What does it mean, if anything?

18 years ago my friend bought a duplex that came with a roommate.

18 years later I realize the roommate is my trainer and that I’ve met the daughter of the man who sold the duplex to him.

18 years ago my friend gave me a piece of furniture from that duplex.

18 years later, I return the piece of furniture to the family who left it in the duplex.

And, it all started on a day when the schedules changed and the moment of sharing a story unfolded because I didn’t rush out of the studio.

Let’s pretend I had a conversation with Don all those years ago while we were finishing up the move:

“Gosh, Don.  That roommate you keep talking about?  Well, I’m going to meet her in about a dozen years and it will take another five years to finally realize that she was your roommate and friend, too.  We’re going to tell stories about you and the duplex and that time of our life that we shared with you.  It’s going to bring back all the memories.  And, on top of it, you know that ottoman you gave me?  Well, I’m going to meet the girl who’s dad sold the duplex to you and I’m going to return the ottoman to her.  We’re going to find out that he wasn’t supposed to let you have it! I’m not going to think about this for the next 18 years.  I’m not going to go searching for your renter or the family that sold you the duplex.  They are just going to magically appear in my life at the right time.”

Yeah, right, it sounds pretty crazy.


The significance does not lie in a small piece of furniture… a funny story of coincidental occurrences–random luck and unfathomable circumstances that lead to a simple “Gosh, that’s weird” reaction.  Instead, it shows us that a seemingly unimportant event, decision or choice made many years ago can come back to us to remind us and teach us that nothing is random.  It reminds us that all things are connected–we are all connected–that the connections are very real and that there really are no coincidences.  The storyline we create is like a thread of life we all sew together to create a wavy, gauzy blanket wafting in the wind, light flowing through it, wrapping itself in itself and unfolding when the breeze is just right.  The blanket gently folds over itself and connects to other points on itself depending upon that soft breeze.  It is in motion at all times regardless of time.

The timing was just right for all of us involved in the ‘miracle of the ottoman’.  For me, during a summer of awakening it helped me let go of my fears and worries about what’s next.  It has helped me trust that the decisions I made long ago and even now are the right ones, that I am exactly where I need to be in my life–that trusting my instincts will lead me to the right place and people in life.  The timing was impeccable and important to me this summer in particular.  At any other time, it might not have left such an indelible impression.  It also reminded me to remain calm and to chill once in awhile.

It is also a story for all of us to realize that everything will be revealed when the time is right.  It is a story to remind us that each choice we make, each decision we make–even the small ones–fit into a much grander picture beyond our wildest imaginations if we open our hearts to feel it and we open our eyes to see it.  It is a story to remind us that we have no need to worry or to control everything in our life because there is something much much greater happening all on its own–without our help or machinations.

I hope all of us are lucky enough to see our stories unfold in that ‘random’ occurrence–the unlikely ‘coincidence’ of a friend, a chance meeting–a memory–that reminds us of the connection to the big picture with an assurance for us that all is well in our lives.  Each thread we sew in the blanket of our lives is interwoven with everyone else’s threads at the same time.  And, we are all using thread from the same spool.




When I shared this story with some friends, here’s one of the responses I received from my friend, Molly…something I had forgotten:

“I love this, Gare!  What a great example of how the connections we make continue to leave their mark.  To add a little thread to this amazing blanket:  That beautiful coral ottoman was also at my house in Tulsa!  You brought it, along with some other cool pieces, over to our house the day we moved in my junior year to help decorate.  It served us well over the next year and a half until we graduated, and was a great piece that truly made our little rental house at 9th and Oswego feel like a home.  What a full circle that ottoman has made!  Coming to your house when you needed it, your bringing it to mine when I needed it, and your sending it home to join the rest of the set so many years later.  Thank you for being a beautiful, continuous thread in the weave of my blanket!”

The coral ottoman


The label

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Karen getting ready to take the ottoman home

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The Book

Okay, funny little miracle story…the guardian angel kind…


So, I write almost every day.  Most of you know that.  Just a thing.  Gets all the shit out of my head.  Anyway, when my little composition books get filled up, I go through a mini-ceremony and rip up all the pages and throw the pile away.  Purging, I call it!

I figure, what…1986 through 2015–29 years–365 days a year…pick a random figure to reflect an average number of pages I write each day…low, at 3.  And, oh, lawdy, what about those phases when I write 10 or more pages without thinking about it…wow.  I’m either wasting a lot of paper …or I simply have a ton of shit in my head, ay?  Probably both.

Whenever I’m at the Dollar Store…always a protracted plan to hit one, oh, every three months or so…I make sure I pick up my composition books because they’re only a buck.  Plenty of them.  They always have ’em.  Then, I always have ’em.  It’s a habit.  You know the kind:  they’re black.  They’re not too big.  The cover has “Composition Book” printed on it.  Ruled pages.  Soft cardboard covers.  The kind you use in school.  Great for writing journal stuff without having to buy real journals.  Been part of my daily life for years now.

Nothing extraordinary here.

So, this last week, I went looking for an empty book at home and couldn’t find one.  Are you kidding me?  I was surprised…I always have extras.  Oh, hell, I thought….use a legal pad.  Whatever.  Nah, I don’t like writing on legal pads….I prefer those darn little books…where everything is in order and protected by a cover.  But, heck, why not…gonna throw it all away anyway, right?  Because I just did NOT want to do a “Dollar Store Run”.  Not one more special trip for something I can live without.  Not on a holiday weekend.  I have everything else I need…all that stuff you stock up on at those stores…and just didn’t want to make a special run.  I figure, “No big deal.”

Been a week.  Legal pad is half full.  Forgot all about it.


Today, on the way to the laundry, I decide to pick up a few things at the Walmart Grocery Store.  You know…extra charcoal for the weekend.  A pork roast to smoke on the grill.  Odds and ends.  I needed milk.

Do my shopping.  Get everything  I need.  Finally navigate over to the checkout lines.  Always fun at a Walmart Grocery Store.  Start pulling into one…”No!…back up!…Too many people!”  Check out another one.  “Shoot, that lady must be shopping for two months…,” I’m thinkin’.   Another one, “Oh, no.  I just can’t stand behind that lady.”  Parts of her back were hanging over the sides of her scooter…her pink sweater looking like pink water balloons.  I just couldn’t stare at that today.  Nah, not today.  “Dang…I don’t want to hit the self-checkout area…”  So, I finally find a line and pick my spot…only three people…relatively light loads in their carts.  Whew.

I start unloading onto the conveyer belt…still waiting, of course, for the second guy ahead who waited until everything in his cart was already loaded into bags…and THEN he started punching the little credit card thingy.  Oh, well…can’t do anything about it.  Just have to wait.  Be calm.  Sigh.  Just a little time.

So, my eyes wander over to the candy displays.  “No!  No, I say to chocolate!”  Already looked at the magazine covers.  Apparently Kim caught Kanye with his ex.  A shiny one stood out:  “Understanding The Bible Today”….oh, there’s one, I thought—“Only in Oklahoma…wonder if it explains understanding what the Bible is not.”

Yes, I’m wandering in thought.  Distracted.  That daze in the store when you’re almost out…you’re almost free…but ya just have to wait a little longer…thinking about nothing in particular…just biding your time. 

And, then my eyes wander on up to the top of the candy racks.  Smooth stainless steel.  Must be the top of the cooler behind the rack–you know, those mini refrigerators with lemonade and cokes.  Nothing on it but one little thing.  Just one little thing.

“Hmmm.  Is that a composition book sitting there?”

No…it can’t be.  I look again.  I step over just a couple of feet and realize that, yes…it’s a composition book.  I pick it up thinking someone must’ve decided they didn’t want it.  I wonder if it’s marked up or dirty or something.  Maybe it’s got food smushed on the back cover.

Usually, the only things people leave behind are, you know, a package of cheese sitting on top of the Ice Breaker Mints.  Or, a can of soup shoved into the beef jerky slot.  Never anything I want or need.  Or, want to touch.  Kinda cool that out of all things, there’s this black composition book just sitting there.  All by itself.  And, it’s clean!

I actually entertained the thought that maybe I shouldn’t get it…it’s probably three bucks…darn it…”I’m not gonna pay extra for that book when I can get it at the Dollar Store.”  It was my mother channeling through me.  I laughed to myself…and, decide, “Of course, I’m going to get this book!”

I’m smiling now, thinking it’s pretty cool.  How convenient.  I add it to my grocery pile.  Glance up when she scans it.  A whopping 62 cents.  I’m thinking, “I didn’t even know they had these here…hell, and it’s cheaper than the dollar store, too?  You’re kidding me!”

All of a sudden, I find myself in a brilliant mood.  I’m just feeling remarkably content.  Noticeably so.  This is not a feeling I normally associate with while grocery shopping at Walmart, believe me.  Anyway, I smiled…and all the way to the car couldn’t help but thinking…

“No…seriously…you just found a composition book sitting there as if it were meant for you?  Didn’t even have to look for it?  Forgot you even needed one?  Just sitting there waiting for you at the checkout line?  The random checkout line you picked after inspecting all of them?  Wait.  That’s cool.  That’s WAY cool.  A little thing, yup…but it really IS as though…”

And, that’s when I decided it WAS my guardian angel…no doubt.  Or some grand connection of energy I can’t explain that somehow placed this composition book right there…for me…no one else.  A little gift.  In front of me.  A little something I needed but had forgotten about.  Did I somehow know it was there?  It left me with an outstanding feeling of protection…that my needs will always be met–and, in fact, I don’t even have to worry about or remember what those needs are…that someone is looking out for me.  Coincidence?  Nope.  I don’t believe in coincidences.

Okay, no grand miracle here.  Yeah.  Yeah.  It’s not like I was saved from a  car wreck or something dramatic.  It’s not like I saw bright lights and floating clouds in the Walmart Grocery Store.  It’s not like some magical event with angels singing and Jesus’ face appearing in the macaroni salad behind the deli counter.  I get that.

Nope.  Just a composition book.  Just a little thing.  But, for me, a reminder.  A big reminder–that when you really do ‘let it go’…sometimes you get a gift, a little message…that can make you smile and remember that everything is going to be okay–if you slow down, open your eyes and see.

That little composition book was meant for me.

So, I said, “Hey…thanks!” out loud.  In the car, of course–yes, after I shut the door.  Not sure who I was talking to.  But, said it anyway.  And, I cruised home…still in my great mood…and felt like writing out this little story for you.  Doesn’t take much, does it?  Now, especially, I’m kinda looking forward to the weekend!

And, I know where I’m going to get my next Composition Book, too.