It must have been a Saturday, because I was home when my mom walked in the kitchen door with a single, small, drugstore-paper-wrapped package in her hand. The strip of sealing tape read: “Wiest Drugstore.” That was all the evidence I needed. I screamed, “My watch! My watch!,” grabbed it out of my mom’s hand, and ran to put it under the Christmas tree.
Last fall, my husband and I were on our way to Minneapolis, Minn., from our northern Minnesota lake cabin. I was driving, since he had hurt his back. Like most people these days, we don’t have an old-fashioned map in the car. Since we’d made the drive many times, who would have thought we needed one?
My husband was resting. I stepped on it. It was impossible to speed. The road was so curvy, it felt like the Grand Prix racecourse. In “good” traffic, the trip to Minneapolis takes three hours. I had planned on four, which included a fast-food lunch.
My pastor concluded his sermon on generosity, reached into his pocket and pulled out a $20 bill. He held it high. “Who would like this?”
His question was met with silence by the congregation. He asked again, “Who would like this? It comes with an assignment. You have to give it away.”
More silence. Once again, he asked, “Anyone?”
I raised my hand. “I’ll see that someone gets it.”
“What’s going on?” I asked. And then I listened. Her problems were not new. She’d been wrestling with these same issues for years. But, I’ve learned that speaking your woes is therapeutic, and sometimes it takes saying them out loud more than once to work through them. I listened and then pulled out much of the same advice I’d given her before. I imagined her nodding on the other end of the line. She murmured, “Yes. I know. I’ll do that.”
