I Am This Woman

Christmas Eve. The day has gone by in a blur of sleeping late, nibbling on tomorrow’s goodies, wrapping presents for the neighbors and finishing laundry. The Kid has been depressed - the wait is proving to be too much for him and he wants it all NOW. I told him not to rush the day because that would rush tomorrow too, but he’s not buying it.

What is sticking with me today, though, is something I read on a church sign yesterday. It was attributed as “an Applachian Maxim.” I wondered if the people of Appalachia know what a maxim is (and my mother’s people are hill people, so I’m talking about my peeps here!). They may not know the word but they do know hardship, joy, loss, struggle and simplicity, and the wisdom comes from that. I admire and love that part of me. Mountain people – we are flinty, dour, deeply silly and scrappy.

Back to the maxim: “If you need a helping hand, look at the end of your arm.”

When I first read that, I thought, “how stupid. What a slap in the face for people in need!”

But then, something happened to show me the truth of this. Here I am grieving the loss of two family members this year, and my mother a few years ago… the passing of an era. I am trying to get through the holidays a little too fast too. Wishing them over, hoping that no new fresh hurts happen.

But yesterday, in front of me with tears in her eyes, a strong stiff upper lip and a real bravery was a widow with two young children - someone I met at a weekend church workshop. (Somehow that weekend, I missed the fact she is a widow). But upon learning of her now year-long status as single parent, something in me moved toward her, quite naturally.

I am a single parent, a experienced one. I know scrappy. I know loneliness. I know grief. I know kids and Christmas, and I know her! This I can deal with. I don’t want to mull too much on my stuff, but for her, I have something to offer. For her, what I’ve been through means something. So I held out my hand. We have a phone call planned and maybe more, as the spirit moves both of us. There are some Christmas lights to enjoy, some simple quiet ways to pass the day without calling on the memories and the losses too much.

By looking at the end of my hand for the little tiny miracle I hope for each year, I found a new friend, and I found new reserves of hope within my flinty, scrappy dour Scots heart.