February 25, 2010
“Every experience God gives us, every person He puts in our lives is the perfect preparation for the future that only He can see.” — Corrie Ten Boom (The Hiding Place)
My birth mother raised my two older sisters and one brother, but placed me up for adoption at birth. From the first time my siblings and I met as adults, I felt outnumbered. Holding tightly onto my birth certificate, my brother informed me at the get-go, “You do know our father is not yours, right?” I couldn’t understand why sharing this unsettling premise with me was so important to him. No matter how much I wanted them to represent a whole part of me, it was too late for my brother to take back his callous words.
Looking at me with uncertainty in her eyes, my one sister, more like a mother to me, wasn’t so sure. I was definitely a spitting image of our late mother, but their father and I shared some similarities in our distinct looks as well. With a bear hug, she choked up and said, “I just don’t think daddy would have given up one of his own; we will make this up to you.”
My sister helped pay for an expensive blood test that proved my birth certificate is incorrect; the man’s name on the legal document was not my father’s after all. If only we could have just left the wrongs alone, I could have passed as his little girl. He wasn’t even alive to ask him in private to explain why his name was listed on my birth certificate. Feeling betrayed by the crushing truth, I moaned, “Oh, God, this hurts too much.”
After putting my heartaches aside, it only seemed right to go in and ask the courts to remove their dad’s name off my birth certificate. Noting I was visibly upset by her answer, the strictly, business-like woman standing behind the counter reiterated, “If your birth mother was married to the man on your birth certificate at the time of your conception, then by law, he is technically considered your father.”
No way, this can’t be true, I mumbled to myself while shaking my head in disbelief. “Great, I’ve had two adoptive father figures, as well as my “real” biological father all walk out of my life since I was born. And now I am supposed to just suck it up that my birth mother’s husband who signed the consent to give me away at birth is one more absent father.”
I wanted to grab that incorrect legal document out of the secretary’s hand and white-out the biological father’s name and say, “Here, I don’t want anybody’s name there.” Instead, feeling defeated I just looked at the innocent woman and said, “Thank you for your time,” as I tried to swallow my pride and walked away.
At this juncture, finding my birth father seemed like my only option in finding closure. I needed his help in persuading the courts to hopefully put his name on my birth certificate. But hearing the comforting words, “You belong to me,” was not how my journey would ultimately end. After leaving no stones unturned, I disappointingly learned that the man who was believed to be my biological father passed away just a few years before I began searching for him.
What I know to be “real” and constant through my life story is my loving husband and daughters, as well as my dear friends. I am blessed that they have continued to stay true, freely offering encouragement and solace through some difficult chapters. Over the years, I have even felt the arms of total strangers wrapping their words of kindness around me with big hugs. One of the most memorable responses I received was in my inquiry letter to see if small-town folks might know the identity of my mystery father. Calling long-distance, such a gentle-sounding voice shared with me that he was a 95-year old blind-man and had asked his wife to dial my phone number. Although, he did not have any answers for me, I felt compassion in his words, “My wife and I just wanted you to know we care and are praying for you.”
It’s when life throws hard balls that I can see God standing up in the bleachers reminding me of His promises.
“The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.”
Deuteronomy 31:7-9 NIV
This week’s theme for Blog Carnival is Kindness. Please go to Bridget Chumbley’s site http://www.bridgetchumbley.com/2010/02/kindness-blog-carnival/ other blog entries and/or to join.
Posted by: JoAnne
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January 25, 2010
I was only 10 years old when my big brother enlisted in the Marines. My memories from back then are not about him being placed in harm’s reach to fight a war in Viet Nam. I was excited that he trusted me to take care of his prized possession while he was gone. Always in the past his stuffed animal had been a keep-your-hands-off gift from an old girlfriend. His adorable yellow dog was big enough for me to sit on. Now, I understand better why his feelings were hurt when I could hardly wait for him to leave. Perhaps I had been sheltered from reality, but I never watched the news. I didn’t see news clips of bombs exploding and soldiers being shot at and innocent people dying. Through a child’s eyes, ”Can they fully grasp what it means to fight for peace in a foreign country?” I didn’t know at the time that my brother might not ever come back.
A number of years ago, I asked my brother, “How come we didn’t talk about Martin Luther King’s impressive achievements in our home?” I would have been in the 7th grade when he was assassinated.
His disturbing answer left me speechless. The gist was that my parents had made allegations in the past about his moral character and they were not color-blind. At that moment, I felt ignorant and ashamed that African American history had little significance in my life. It was as if I had been kept from any information or experience that might contradict my parents’ view of the world. How could I have learned love and respect for all individuals without knowledge of racial segregation, bussing, and Martin Luther King’s dream for peace?
From my limited experiences as a young person, I’ve learned how important it is to have open discussions in our families about what is going on in the world around us. I thought it would be interesting to see how kids today would define the word “peace.” With the technology advancements, let’s face it; they are saturated with vivid images of tragic news stories that just won’t go away.
One of my passions is helping children see they have voices that truly matter. My good friend asked his second grade class to write down, “What peace means to me…?” Their answers were fun and very enlightening. Here are some of them to ponder:
1. Peace means like Peace on Earth. Respectful people.
2. Peace is another way to say Hi.
3. Peace means love, like, and other nice things. LOVE!
4. Peace means like peace and quiet.
5. I want some peace nobody bother me. Peace means I want peace. Martin Luther King Jr. wants some peace.
6. It means peace you sign with your hands. It means peace out and Martin Luther King Jr. made that word and God made that word up to and his mom made up the word to.
7. Martin Luther King Jr. wanted peace not violence. He also wanted love and for everyone to be equal.
8. Peace means being calm and having freedom.
9. Peace out Dude.
I am positive-children can help make a difference in finding peace in this world as I am reminded in the verses from the popular Whitney’s Houston’s Song, “Greatest Love of All.”
I believe the children are our future
Teach them well and let them lead the way
Show them all the beauty they possess inside
Give them a sense of pride to make it easier
Let the children’s laughter remind us how we used to be.
I am excited to be a part of the Blog Carnival “Haiti” Challenge this week. I will donate $1.00 for every comment left for my “Peace” article to go towards Samaritan’s Purse. http://www.samaritanspurse.org/. Please go to Bridget Chumbley’s site to read other blog entries and/or to join http://www.bridgetchumbley.com/2010/01/peace-blog-carnival/. Thanks for stopping by!
Posted by: JoAnne Posted in Uncategorized 35 Comments »
January 10, 2010
Tags: covetousness, envy, giving back to society, glass houses, Goodwill stores, inheritance, less-fortunate, little rich girl, material possessions, second-hand clothes, selfish, spoiled, wealth
I was thrilled about my first solo-shopping experience in junior high. After returning home to proudly show off my carefully spent purchase, my parents wanted me to return the bathrobe back to the ritzy department store and buy one that was not on sale. “Come on, get in the car, I am taking you back to the mall,” insisted my stepfather.
To this day, I still remember my parents scolding me for buying an item that was on clearance.
My stepfather was a medical doctor. One Christmas, back when I was in high school, my adoptive mother surprised him with a brand-spanking-new Mercedes as a present. Yes, it didn’t quite fit under our tree. For them, everything had to be nothing but the best, with all the bells and whistles. Sitting in our driveway for a period of time until one of the vehicles sold were then three showy Mercedes. I was of driving age. However, it was clearly spelled out that I would not ever be putting my foot to the gas pedal in any of their expensive cars. But the honest truth is I wasn’t even interested.
While growing up, mom made sure I had a beautiful wardrobe, but there was always something missing. I loved being a girl and wearing pretty clothes, but I felt like Cinderella running away from the ball. The glass slippers just didn’t fit.
I am sure my parent’s lust for material possessions has made me the way I am. Ever since I was a little girl I have always tried to give away practically everything and spend as little as possible on clothes and gifts for myself. I have never had a pair of designer jeans and my favorite store to shop is Goodwill. My parents would cringe if they had ever known that I like second-hand clothes that have to be washed first.
I certainly don’t think anyone would label me now as once being a spoiled, little rich girl. But sadly that’s where I came from. To me, it seemed tragic that in the end, my parents both went to their graves with nothing. Some have said I must be crazy to have walked away from their million-dollar-inheritance. The emptiness I have felt from living in glass houses has taught me there has to be much more to life than flaunting our wealth. I never heard the words “less fortunate” or “giving back to society” until I was out on my own, but I am determined to make a difference in this world, with God’s help, to continue being a caring, unselfish human being.
16 For all that is in the world—the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life—is not of the Father but is of the world. 1 John 2:16 (NKJ)
This week’s theme for Blog Carnival is Lust. Please go to Bridget Chumbley’s site to read other blog entries and/or to join. http://www.bridgetchumbley.com/2009/12/love-blog-carnival/
Posted by: JoAnne Posted in Uncategorized 24 Comments »
December 29, 2009
After reading Peter Pollock’s most recent thought-provoking post, “I am NOT OKAY,” http://su.pr/1DSgQP I thought to myself: I have truly conquered those “real” feelings that Peter is experiencing at the moment.
With the help of many kind and loving human beings, thankfully, I don’t feel overwhelmed anymore by sadness and grief for the losses in my life. I have been amazed by the outreach from even total strangers that have kept reminding me to trust Jesus through the hard stuff. Not only did my estranged adoptive mother pass away from old age in early November of 2008, but on December 29, 2008, my long-time close friend died. On the anniversary of her death today, I can say with a confident smile, “I am okay.”
I feel blessed by a deep friendship that was indeed a gift of love. Here’s a fond memory I would love to share with all of you that I put on my blog at the first of last year. To each of you, thank you for showing you care and being a part of my journey!
Yesterday I was searching frantically for a fond memory from way back when I was only 15 years old. As I kept looking everywhere possible, I tried to reassure myself, “There is no way I would have tossed a book of prose written by my classmates.” Starting as a very young child, I had loved collecting poem books.
Before my close friend, Cathy’s recent death from a brutal cancer, she let me know that it was okay if I didn’t like her nickname for me and besides she said, “I haven’t been calling you Annie Jo for that long.”
Hearing the fragileness in her voice, I didn’t ask her for an explanation why she would even think that. Instead I said with certainty, “No, you are the only one who has ever called me “Annie Jo.” I even have proof where you left me a love note in one of my books when we were in high school. I still have it you know.”
Surprisingly, it wasn’t her gaunt body withering away from such a horrible disease that scared me, but rather I so much wanted to see that sparkle in her blue eyes once more, like a beautiful sunrise glistening on the gentle ripples of the clearest blue lake. In the same visit to say my last goodbye, I talked about how I had hoped to rent a movie that the two of us and her sister had seen together as teenagers. We both laughed as I mentioned the tear-jerker that I had been teased unmercifully for a long time after.
Seven weeks later my dear friend tragically passed away at only 56 years old.
I haven’t found that poem book yet, but I wanted her know that she had written this in my yearbook over 38 years ago on a page ironically titled, “IT’S OVER.”
Dear Sweet Sis, Annie Jo,
What a sweet, but sad page to write upon. Well, once we realize that it’s not over, but that instead it’s “forever,” we’ll both be better off, right?
BLEEP! Didn’t know yer Kookie sis’s at it again, did ya Pumpkin? Well, yelp! I’ll never forget Love Story, will you, soggy-eyes? Nooo Way.
Thank you for being.
And remember:
Sisters are forever
Love, Cat
Dear Cathy,
I know that poem book will show up one of these days when I need a sweet reminder of your years of love and encouragement in my life. And oh yes, it’s okay if I cry when it truly has been a love story. I haven’t quite figured out how I want to honor “my cherished nickname” in your memory. Whatever I choose, I do know that “Sisters are forever.”
I loved you with my heart!
Your,
Annie Jo
I am enjoying being a part of the Blog Carnival. This week’s theme is Love. Please go to Bridget Chumbley’s site to read other blog entries and/or to join.
http://www.bridgetchumbley.com/2009/12/love-blog-carnival/
Posted by: JoAnne Posted in Uncategorized 10 Comments »
December 15, 2009
I was once the child who was made to feel that I did not belong.
As a young girl, I spent a summer vacation with my mother’s relatives. While staying with my aunt and her family, I felt lucky to get a small part in their church play. I loved practicing “my one line” with my new friends from the youth group.
One day, as I was washing my hands, two mothers who were helping with the play rehearsals came into the restroom. Walking towards me, both of them chimed in with a friendly, “Oh, hi there!”
One of the nice ladies asked, “Are you new in our church? We’ve never seen you before.”
“No, I’m just visiting, I got to fly all by myself from California,” I bragged feeling very big at that moment.
“You must really miss your parents; that’s far away,” the concerned women remarked.
“Ya, kind of, but I’m having so much fun with my cousins. I’ve never been in a play before,” I said proudly.
One of the women handed me a paper towel, as she asked, “Not even in your church?”
Looking down I said, “I don’t go to church.”
She assured me in a motherly tone of voice that I was doing a great job in the play and that my parents would be very proud of me.
That night, my aunt got a call from one of those “nice ladies” saying I couldn’t be in the play because I wasn’t a member of their church. As I recall, my aunt was rather upset after she got off the phone. When she shared her thoughts with the youth leaders, I did get to perform in my first play that summer. But it didn’t mean nearly as much to me after the woman brought down my carefree spirit, like a kite falling from the sky. Even as a child, I knew that the adults’ painted smiles hid the fact that the church was bending its rules for me. It made me feel singled out and uncomfortable.
From my own unfortunate childhood experiences, I have felt judged and punished for being raised with no religious upbringing. I wonder if “all God’s children” applies to everyone, or if being accepted comes with invisible strings attached. As we draw new people into our churches, I pray that we will share His love sincerely, and with sensitive, caring hearts. I want to still dream with the faith of a young girl and ease the pain for all the children this world that don’t feel like they belong.
Thank you for me making me welcome as a part of the Blog Carnival. http://su.pr/7Xj49l This week’s theme is Church. Please go to Bridget Chumbley’s site to read other blog entries and/or to join.
Posted by: JoAnne Posted in Uncategorized 23 Comments »
November 30, 2009
Tags: abusive relationships, anniversaries, blog carnival, death, facing deepest fears, grief
I was sure my first traffic ticket in over 16 years was a sign. After all it was about that long ago since I had last seen my adoptive mother, an estranged relationship that I couldn’t fix. Trying to hold back the tears, I mumbled, “It figures that it would happen tonight.” My To-Do List that day was to race through the 1-year anniversary of my adoptive mother’s death by running errands and keeping myself busy. I am sure if I looked on her death certificate that the exact time of her passing would be the same as that speeding ticket. And I don’t even consider myself superstitious, only jinxed.
The pain in my heart snuck up on me like the white, unmarked van hiding in a speed-trap on the side of the road. I felt tricked, no reader-board warning me from a distance that the speed limit had abruptly changed from 45mph to 30mph, but only a blinding white flash lighting up a particularly dark, rainy night.
“You just got a ticket,” my husband informed me. “No way,” I sighed. Looking quickly down at the speedometer while grabbing the steering wheel tighter with both hands I shot back defensively, “Great, I knew I couldn’t make it through November 7th unscathed.”
Finally, I had resigned myself to the fact that I had totally blown it. With a hint of defeat in my voice, I apologized, “I am sorry Sweetheart. The cost of a speeding ticket couldn’t have come at a worse time with you losing your job in only a few short months.” He wasn’t upset with me; I was mad at myself.
Grief seemed to come from out of nowhere as well. Staring intently out at the wet pavement, I cautiously made my way home. But just as it had all day, the forecast of intermittent showers turned into another wicked downpour. Even the windshield wipers couldn’t stop a flood of my own emotions. Barely able to see out the car window, I wanted to pull over and cry for all the “What if’s?”
“What if I had not dragged my husband out to shop with me in this bad weather, only to end up with some lousy traffic fine? What if I had just slowed down and faced my deepest fears, instead of trying to run away from the painful truth? What if my adoptive mother had not been abusive much of my life and I didn’t have to grieve in darkness for my loss?”
I am a part of my first Blog Carnival, a welcoming group, hosted by Peter Pollock http://is.gd/58D4f This week’s theme is Grief. Please go to Peter’s site to read other blog entries and/or to join.
Posted by: JoAnne Posted in Uncategorized 11 Comments »
October 15, 2009
Tags: caring for children, fond memories, importance of talking to our children, positive role models, significance of a Christmas tree, starting school
Jack and I go way back. We have been the best of friends since I first cradled him in my arms almost 6 years ago. At the start of preschool last year, I am sure I felt almost as proud as his loving parents did of their little man. With a chuckle, I enjoy fondly reminiscing about memories of his younger days.
One year, after taking down my beautifully decorated Christmas tree, I hurried outside dragging the 6 ft. cumbersome object awkwardly behind me through the slushy-snow. Just as I reached the curb, the garbage man tossed it quickly into the tree-eating contraption before promptly continuing on his route. Walking back into my house with a feeling of accomplishment, I noticed Jack sitting on the couch somberly staring at the empty corner where the Christmas tree once stood. With not even a chance to ask him what was wrong, he pointed his finger sternly at the front door. “Go out and get it,” he insisted, like he had lost his favorite stuffed animal. If my young friend could have had his way, I was to bring the recycled tree back in my home, set it in the same place all dolled up with colorful lights and keepsake ornaments, and that was where it was to stay put indefinitely. I tried to convince him that it was an impossible request. But I didn’t have the heart to tell the little guy that the tree was now a soggy-wet crushed Noble. His sweet compliment was a reflection through a child’s eyes that sometimes the gifts Santa puts under the tree are not nearly as important as the tree itself.
I sure miss my side kick, as my young friend Jack started all-day kindergarten this fall. He helped me keep my daycare in perfect order. It was as if his high-achiever brain had mentally a piece of paper in hand at all times with a gentle reminder if I was slacking on our daily routine.
Trust me, I am really not a matchmaker for 5-year-olds. When Jack was in preschool, I asked him about his new friends and if there was anybody he would like to meet. He shyly answered back looking up at me with a twinkle in his eye, “Yes, but I can’t remember her name.”
Like an old pro I suggested, “Just go up to her and say, “Hi, my name is Jack, what’s yours?” A couple of days later, I checked on his progress. This time he did know her name and informed me that they had met. No wonder the little guy couldn’t remember. Arianna is such a beautiful name, but it would be hard for anybody to spit out the four-syllables on the first try. Hey, I concluded, he has this, being a lady’s man, down to a tee.
Arianna’s name didn’t come up again in conversation until this year. Jack’s mother had shared with me that his class had 10 girls and 5 boys. Wow, what were the odds that his pre-school crush was not part of the ratio of where girls outnumbered the boys by such a wide margin?
Curiously, I asked, “Jack is Arianna in your class this year?”
“No, she is in the second grade” he stated matter-of-factly, as if being a kindergartner had made him much more knowledgeable.
“That can’t be, Arianna couldn’t have jumped from preschool to 2nd grade, that’s just not how it works” I replied. “Are you sure Jack?” Having known this boy for such a long time, he didn’t even flinch when he said that he was telling the truth.
Shaking my head in disbelief, I didn’t bother to explain that you don’t usually skip more than one grade at one time. But when his father came to pick him up that evening from my home, I hoped he might clear up this little mystery. As he jumped in his vehicle, in a rush that particular day, he hollered out, “No, Arianna is actually in the 6th grade.”
Oh my, this girl has not only has a beautiful name, but she is extremely bright I thought to myself.
The next morning, I cornered Jack’s mother and had her tell me what I must be missing from this story. She informed me that Arianna is still his love-interest, and really she is in the 6th grade, however, Jack met her last year before school in extended day. If only I had known he was going for an older woman, I would have changed my whole approach—as we are still best friends forever you know.
Posted by: JoAnne Posted in Uncategorized 9 Comments »
September 4, 2009
Tags: Add new tag, brides, formal attire, mother-daughter relationships, non-traditional, pink, wedding gowns, weddings
As far back as I can remember I have loved the color pink. Mom had the painter paint my very own first bedroom at the age of 10 in the most beautiful pale pink with perfectly matching flower wallpaper. Don’t tell anyone; although I was a girlie girl, my secret passion was to be able to still climb trees too. But this was a time in my life that I truly felt like a princess.
At the age of 21, while away at college, I went window shopping for my wedding dress. In a few short months, I’d be marrying my prince who would eventually be the wonderful father of our three daughters. This love is still going strong over 34 years later.
In the small college beach town, my choices were limited on stores exclusive to brides only. Glancing in the window one day as I passed by what appeared to be an expensive shop with formal attire, a floor-length gown hanging on display caught my attention. I was a little apprehensive about walking into a store where your footprints are left as you walk across the plush carpet. I decided to venture in anyway just to take a peek at such a beautiful dress. No, most wouldn’t consider it the fairy-tale princess white flowing gown we dream of as little girls for our weddings. But for me, it was more than my heart’s desire.
When I called my mother to describe to her how much I loved this particular dress, I didn’t expect her to say she didn’t approve. Looking back, I must have been disappointed that she never suggested driving the three and one-half hours to meet me in the big city for wedding dress shopping. Instead, when I said the dress was cream-colored with some pastel pink velvet ribbon, her less-than-enthusiastic response was, “What would the relatives think?”
Each week toward the end of my last term of college, I would check to see if “my dress” was still there. Even though I knew my mother would not miraculously have a change of heart, there was still something that kept bringing me back to this store. On one occasion, the same friendly woman standing behind the counter asked if she could hold the dress for me. “Nah,” I said, “My mother won’t let me have it.” The store clerk never pried about the reason why. It would have been embarrassing if she had. Rather we would make small talk about my hometown and details about my upcoming wedding.
I never talked again about the creamed-colored gown with the pink velvet ribbon with my mother. It was pointless to even hint at what store I had found the beautiful dress; she just wasn’t a woman who one could get to easily change her mind. I hadn’t even looked yet at the traditional wedding dresses to see if there was a perfect compromise.
One afternoon, I received a phone call from my mother saying she was in town by herself and would like to see me. Oh, my, in all the time I had lived away from home, my parents had only made the trip once for a visit. That time to “inspect and approve” of my future husband.
Can you imagine how stunned I was when my mother got out of her car with “my heart’s desire” draped over her one arm covered in plastic? With tears of joy, I just looked up at her mouthing the words, “Thank you.”
I wish I could say it was the perfect ending to a Kodak mother-daughter moment and mom shared with me what had changed her mind or if her feelings were much different. However, it was when my mother handed me an eloquently hand-written description of my beautiful wedding gown that I suspected the truth. I didn’t recognize the writing. But each time I checked on my dress I believe that the friendly clerk’s small talk and questions had a hidden agenda. Somehow she had persuaded my mother that the color pink wasn’t all that bad. I believe it’s never too late to thank that kind-hearted woman for helping me make my dreams come true on my wedding day.
“Some people come into our lives and quickly go. Some stay for a while and leave footprints on our hearts, and we are never the same.” Author Unknown
Posted by: JoAnne Posted in Uncategorized 10 Comments »
August 4, 2009
Tags: airport kiosks, birth mothers, black and white photos, blessings, crocheted blankets, handmade gifts, middle names, resemblances, snapshots
I may never know who named me or if I have a namesake, but JoAnne with a capital A, all one word, and an e at the end of my name can’t be all that common of a spelling. Because… quite often, no one gets it right, even on official documents. I guess computers have a hard time deciphering a capital letter just stuck in the middle of my given name.
I can appreciate the part in the book, Anne of Green Gables where Anne says to Marilla, “If you call me Anne please call me Anne spelled with an e. A-n-n-e looks so much more distinguished.”
I like the way that spunky girl thinks, “JoAnne with an e sounds so much better don’t you think?”
Thank you for your thoughts on my dilemma at the airport. Someone wondered if it’s because I don’t have a middle name that raises a red flag. He even went on to suggest that terrorists use fictitious names with no middle name. I didn’t ask him how he had first-hand knowledge of this information, but it clearly made sense.
After tossing around ideas with my oldest daughter, Tracy, she put her whole heart into coming up with the perfect middle name for my no-name birth certificate. “Mom, Chelsea’s middle name is Jo and mine is Anne after you and then Kacey’s middle name is, “Alyse” which kind of broke the pattern. But, what if you were to use your birth mother’s middle name and your favorite aunt’s name as yours?”
Like a teenager’s first crush, I smiled picturing in my mind, how the names would sound so perfect together. I miss my late aunt, who wasn’t even technically related to me. She was my birth mother’s sister-in-law, but it didn’t even matter to her that I was born from an affair.
With fondness, I still remember when I had been searching for my birth mother for some time when a curious-looking envelope arrived in the mail for me. Standing in my driveway, I studied the handwriting. The return address was from a person who lived only hours away from my home, but it wasn’t anyone I knew. Carefully, I opened what appeared to be a greeting card, and a black and white photo dropped to the ground. For the longest time I looked down, staring in amazement at the well-worn picture.
Through my tears, the old photograph was like seeing a reflection of myself looking back at me in a crystal-clear pond. Her features, so like my own; the family resemblance left me awestruck. There was no mistaking who this beautiful woman might be. For the first time in my life, my birth mother, who passed away when I was little girl, had become this real person, if only in a precious snapshot. The “short but sweet” sentiments were from a kind stranger—my Aunt Mae.
On one of her first visits, my Aunt handed me a beautiful blanket that she had crocheted in two shades of turquoise-blue accented by a rose-pink color with a white trim. “I made each of your siblings’ blankets when they were born and I wanted you to have this one,” she assured me.
Tickled that a piece of her handiwork was mine to keep forever, I unfolded the sweet, flowing-patterned blanket that was almost the size of me.
My Aunt was truly making a statement that we can find the good even through our heartaches. She gave me what I believe matters the most in this world—a sense of belonging.
As you can tell from reading my posts, my blessings in life sometimes come in unusual ways, but I am grateful to God for those special gifts with the deepest significance. I will let you know what happens next time when I come face to face and conquer my fear of the dreaded self-check-in kiosk at the airport with my new middle name “Mae.”
JoAnne Mae Frank-Bennett
Posted by: JoAnne Posted in Uncategorized 36 Comments »
July 20, 2009
I dread those little self-check-in kiosks at the airport. Never fails when it’s my turn—there will be a long line of rushed impatient passengers standing behind me. Trying to not look too suspicious, an overwhelming panicky feeling comes over me as I hurry to push the right keys to retrieve my coveted ticket. Just as it flashes on cue across the screen, “Go to the counter,” I am sure one of these days that this modern-technological contraption is going to be complete with very loud whistles and bells.
Hmm, “Why does the agent standing behind the counter never seem to make eye contact with me when asking to see my driver’s license?” Politely, I hand it to this person who quickly disappears into the back for what seems like more than just a few minutes. It gives me a lot of time for my mind to wander, “Am I on some list for being a terrorist? Or, maybe they know something about my “missing” birth certificate that I don’t.”
Have you ever noticed that it’s not “Fly the Friendly Skies With Us” anymore? Some employees even act as though the customer isn’t the one paying for the flight. But this extra hassle makes me wonder if they have caught me being too friendly to everyone on the plane in the past, except the Pilot. Usually, I only smile at him as I walk by the cabin hoping he can hear my whispered prayer, “My life is in your hands; please keep us safe.”
Over the years, I’ve met some nice people on my flights. One man’s story stands out in particular. We sat next to each other on our red-eye flight from Georgia to Oregon and immediately started conversing. As it turns out, he was meeting his wife and twin daughters for a softball tournament. My new friend was from the Louisiana area, close to New Orleans. Through the wee hours of the morning we talked about an array of different topics from how proud we were of our girls to, of all things, hurricanes. As a West Coast girl, it was foreign to me to hear him say back in high school that some of the teenagers would party while they waited out the wicked storms. What an eerie feeling—several weeks later Hurricane Katrina hit his home state with massive force. I was eventually able to get in touch with the American Softball Association to find out that my traveling buddy and his beautiful family were miraculously safe.
Just as I start to get lost in thought, the agent returns, “Mrs. Bennett here’s your driver’s license back.” Interestingly, this time the person is looking directly at me; I guess hoping I will answer to my name like a stray puppy. As he fiddles around with the computer for a few minutes longer, I am finally given my boarding pass. Curiously, I get brave before heading off in the direction as his hand points to the gate, “Could you please tell me the reason why I am repeatedly getting flagged each time I check in at the airport?” The agent described it as if it’s an everyday occurrence as an American citizen that my personal information could possibly be similar to another individual’s identity on the “No Fly List.”
Guys, I can’t win here, but maybe I can. Stay-tuned for my next post as I share how I am hopefully going to conquer, not my fear of flying, but a fear of the dreaded self-check-in kiosk at the airport. If anyone has had a similar experience or could pass on some helpful hints, I would love to hear them.
Posted by: JoAnne Posted in Uncategorized 20 Comments »
