It's Always Darkest Before the Fridge Door Opens: Enjoying the Fruits of Middle Age

by Martha O. Bolton

  You’ve excused yourself from the table and walked to the refrigerator, fork in hand. You’re not even going to dirty another plate. You’ll just eat it right out of the pie tin. You open the fridge door and what do you see? Cheese, butter, eggs, six jars of jelly, some leftover pot roast, but no pie! What happened to your pie?! You turn to ask your beloved family, the family you work forty-eight hours a day for. The spouse you pledged your love to. The children you birthed. Even your mother-in-law. But no one is ’fessing up. At least not at first. Then your three-year-old confesses. You’re impressed with her honesty, but that was your piece of pie. She was the only one you hadn’t been emphatic with. You didn’t think you needed to be because she can’t even open the refrigerator, right? Apparently she can, and apparently she and the dog enjoyed your piece of chocolate cream pie together. You know this because of the whipped cream you find in the dog’s ear.

  Disappointment. Life is full of it. Being denied your piece of pie is sad, but there are far sadder stories that have to do with disappointment.

  A second grader watches as everyone else in the class gets Valentine’s cards, but his bag remains empty.

  A bride gets left at the altar.

  An old man gets dressed up for his birthday and waits all day for someone to show up to celebrate it with him, but no one comes.

  Disappointment can sure rob us of our joy, can’t it? What hurts so much about disappointment is the negative self-talk we go through after it:

  ‘‘Why’d I get my hopes up, anyway? I should know by now that nothing goes right for me.’’

  ‘‘Of course no one gave me a Valentine. Who’d give me one?’’

  ‘‘I should have known I’d get passed over for that promotion. What was I thinking to even apply for it?’’

  What makes disappointment so bad is the gnawing notion inside of us that says we wouldn’t have had so far to fall if we hadn’t built up our expectations so high in the first place. If we hadn’t even tried out for American Idol, we wouldn’t have known what it feels like to be rejected. If we hadn’t told everyone we know about that new house we were going to buy, we wouldn’t be so embarrassed now that the loan didn’t go through. If we hadn’t told them we loved them, it wouldn’t hurt so much to hear them say they don’t love us back.

  Disappointment.

  But even disappointment can be a good thing. I (Martha) remember one of the toughest afternoons of my life happening when one of the ‘‘cool kids’’ at my junior high school invited me to a party. She gave me her phone number and told me to call and find out where it was going to be. But later that night when I went to call, I couldn’t find that phone number anywhere. I remember looking all over the house and crying, feeling like my big chance was passing me by.

  My mother was sympathetic, but looking back I wonder if she also hadn’t protectively ‘‘misplaced’’ the number herself. This was back in the sixties, and a party with a bunch of teenagers that she didn’t know probably wasn’t her idea of a safe environment. My mother is gone now, so I’ll probably never know what really happened to that phone number. I do know, however, that I got over my disappointment and went on with my life. I also found out the next day that the party had turned into something I wouldn’t have wanted to be at anyway.

  There’s a wonderful old poem written by Edith Lillian Young. Think through the words carefully:

  Disappointment—His Appointment

  Change one letter, then I see

  That the thwarting of my purpose

  Is God’s better choice for me.

  His appointment must be blessing,

  Tho’ it may come in disguise,

  For the end from the beginning

  Open to His wisdom lies.1

  Disappointment . . . sometimes it’s for our own good. But now, being cheated out of the last piece of a chocolate pie? Well, that’s just too sad for words!

  Disappointment is the nurse of wisdom.

  Boyle Roche

  1Public domain.

  Sometimes the Answer

  Is Right in Front of You

  When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us.

  Helen Keller

  Have you ever stood staring into the fridge wondering, Where on earth is the blue cheese dressing?1 To make matters worse, someone else comes along, looks over your shoulder, and says, ‘‘It’s right there beside the milk. Are you blind?’’

  We heard a story about a young boy named Pedro who kept riding his bicycle across the border between Mexico and America, lugging two bags on his shoulders. Every day the border patrol would stop Pedro to ask him what was in his bags. Pedro would say ‘‘sand,’’ and they would still make him empty the bags onto the ground to prove it. But Pedro wasn’t lying. The bags were filled with sand.

  The next day Pedro would ride across the border again, and again the border patrol would stop him.

  ‘‘What’s in your bags?’’ they would ask.

  ‘‘Sand,’’ Pedro would answer.

  ‘‘Prove it,’’ they’d say. So Pedro would dump out both bags and show them the sand. Once they were satisfied, Pedro would scoop up the sand in his hands and put it all back into his bags. This daily routine went on for six months, with Pedro peddling across the border and the border patrol stopping him and making him empty his bags.

  Then one day Pedro didn’t show up. The border patrol wondered what happened to the young man with the bags, but they continued with their inspections. Months passed, and finally one of the border patrol officers happened to run into Pedro in town.

  ‘‘Pedro! How have you been?’’ he said.

  ‘‘Fine,’’ answered Pedro.

  Then the officer said, ‘‘Pedro, we know you were smuggling something across the border every day. Come on, you can tell me, what was it?’’

  Pedro smiled and said, ‘‘Bicycles.’’

  Sometimes, when we look back, things are so obvious. The next chapter reminds us of something we’re often too busy to discover, a last resort that should come first.

  Never miss a good chance to shut up.

  Will Rogers

  1We have also stood staring into the fridge wondering what we’re doing there. Martha once put a dish rag in the fridge while she was cleaning up. Phil put ice cream in the fridge, then after it melted, refroze it. His children were teenagers. They thought it tasted fine.

  Who Ya Gonna Call?

  Whether you like it or no, read and pray daily. It is for your life;

  there is no other way; else you will be a trifler all your days.

  John Wesley

  When I (Phil) was a little kid, my mother prayed for me every night. I would walk by her bedroom and see her by her bed, down on her knees. Once I crept up close enough to overhear her. ‘‘Oh, thank you, God, he’s finally in bed!’’

  According to recent surveys conducted by legitimate companies who have the postage for this sort of thing, the vast majority of us believe in prayer, and most of us would agree that God does indeed answer prayer. Sometimes his answer is no, as in the case of my new bass boat request, or Martha’s trip to London, but he does answer.

  Can you imagine what this world would be like if God gave us everything we asked of him? Little brothers the world over would never see their tenth birthday because sisters would have prayed for God to return their annoying sibling back to where he came from. And he would have done it. At least in a world where God gave us everything we asked for.

  And remember in third grade when you prayed, ‘‘Lord, I just really really want that cute new boy to like me and to really really want to grow up and marry me. Oh, pulleeeze, please, please, please! I won’t ask you for another thing ever again! If you loved me, God, you would do this!’’ And there you would be, engaged in the third grade to some guy whom you would pray about in the fourth grade: ‘‘Lord, that new boy turned out to be such a jerk! I hate him, God! I d
on’t even want him sitting next to me, much less to grow up and marry me! He’s so immature! That noise he makes with his armpit drives me right up a wall! If he thinks I’m going to live with that the rest of my life, he’s got another think coming! If you loved me, God, you’d just make him go away!’’ Then in the twelfth grade, ‘‘Maybe I was acting a bit hasty, Lord. That new boy turned out to be pretty nice after all. And cute! I know you did what I asked and he hasn’t been in a single class of mine since, but could you back off on that request and put him in one now? And maybe even have him sit next to me. And ask me out. Pulleeeze, please, please, please! I know he still makes that awful noise with his armpit, but I think I can live with it now! If you loved me, God, you’d do this for me!’’ Then, after five years of marriage, ‘‘What kind of a jerk did you stick me with, God? I know I begged for you to make him love me, but there’s this other cute guy I met the other night, and I really would like to get to know him better, and I know I made a commitment, but if you really, really loved me . . .’’

  It’s a good thing God doesn’t answer all our prayers. And what about all those promises we make to him?

  ‘‘Lord, if you just give me this one thing, I will serve you in the most remote corner of the rain forest.’’

  God says, ‘‘You’re not even serving me now.’’

  ‘‘Well, sure, that’s now. But give me my request and you’ll see how much I’ll do for you.’’

  So God gives us our request and he does see. He sees the closest we get to the rain forest is watching a special on the Travel channel.

  When I (Martha) was a teenager, I remember praying for a guitar one Christmas. I wanted that guitar more than anything else in the world. I hinted to my parents, I even showed them the exact one I wanted every time we went to the store. But on Christmas morning, there wasn’t a guitar-shaped gift under the Christmas tree. I tried to act excited about my other gifts, but I had really wanted that guitar, and it was hard to talk myself out of the disappointment. But then my mother took me into one of the bedrooms, and there in the corner was my guitar. It wasn’t wrapped. It was just leaning against the wall. I couldn’t believe it! I had gotten my guitar! I was so excited I don’t think I put that guitar down the entire day! After that, I don’t think I picked it up. I never did learn to play that guitar. I had begged for it, prayed for it, dreamed about it, but when I got it, I just let it sit there and gather dust.

  How many times have we done that with God? We’ve prayed, ‘‘Lord, if you’ll just give me this opportunity to use my talents or bless me with the job of my dreams, I’ll do this for you or that for you,’’ and when God does his part, we forget all about our promises. We just move on to the next request.

  And amazingly enough, he keeps listening. That’s because it’s his nature. Our natural tendency is to let him down. His is to be faithful. Ours is to selfishly ask for things we don’t really need. His is to love us enough not to give us everything we want. Our nature is to complain about the place where we find ourselves. His is to know that what we’re going through is for our own good and to protect us through it but never lose sight of the goal.

  Back in 2003, a most unusual event took place up in Canada, where Phil lives. Called the Heritage Classic, it was an outdoor hockey game featuring the Edmonton Oilers and the Montreal Canadiens. When the NHL announced plans for the game to be held in snowy Edmonton in cold November, most fans had one thought on their minds: What? Are you crazy? Who will come? It will be minus-thirty-five degrees by game time! But they were wrong. It was only minus twenty. And the fans showed up in droves. More than fifty-five thousand fans jammed Commonwealth Stadium to watch their heroes play. More surprising still was that the team received almost one million requests for tickets!

  Rumor has it that one lady called the box office and was told the tickets were sold out. So she called the city of Edmonton. They directed her to the Edmonton Oilers hockey team. When she called the team, she was turned down once again. So she decided to call her son.

  ‘‘Wayne,’’ she said, ‘‘is there some way you can get me tickets for the game?’’

  ‘‘Of course, Mother,’’ said Wayne Gretzky. ‘‘It’s no problem.’’

  Whether the story is true or not, we do not know. But this we do know. Talking to God is so often the last resort for many of us. We do the same thing as Mrs. Gretzky. We wait until we have no other recourse, no other place to turn. But it shouldn’t be that way. Prayer should be the first place we turn.

  Prayer can do a lot of things. It can alter our circumstances and ‘‘altar’’ our desire to control them. It can change our hearts. It can change other people’s hearts. It can open our eyes. It can open the eyes of those who have hurt us. It can bring healing into our lives.

  It can bring us peace. It can bring understanding to misunderstanding. It can bring about a miracle. It tells God how much we trust him. It tells God how much we love him. And it can tell him how much we need him. It’s our way of communicating with him. We can talk to him about our frustrations, our fears, our hurts, and our desires. We can ask him questions. We can thank him for what he’s already done in our past and for what he’s going to do in our future. We can apologize for the times we’ve failed him. We can receive grace and forgiveness. We can receive strength and direction. Prayer is powerful. And healing. And best of all, free. There are no roaming charges, and we don’t have to wait until the weekend to get a better rate.

  For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

  Romans 8:38–39

  Prayer does not change God, but it changes him who prays.

  S. A. Kierkegaard

  PART FIVE

  Just Desserts

  (The Best Is Yet to Come)

  To believe in heaven is not to run away from life;

  it is to run toward it.

  Joseph D. Blinco

  There’s a church in Tennessee that sits at the end of a road called Little Hope. When I (Martha) first saw the road and the church, I thought, who would want to go to a church on a street named Little Hope? But the more I thought about it, the more I decided that if you ever suddenly found yourself on Little Hope Road, it’s probably kind of nice to know there’s a church at the end of it.

  We all need hope, the belief that something better lies at the end of this struggle. The conviction that what we see around us is not all there is. Hope gives us a reason to keep waking up each morning. To rise when we fail. To smile when the world says frown.

  Church has always been a big part of both of our lives. When I (Martha) and my husband went through the ordeal of a stillbirth, the church we were going to at the time became like family. They encouraged us, prayed with us, and were there with open arms offering us friendship and hope during a difficult time in our lives. Our joy turned to three separate celebrations as three sons were added to our family. And our church family was there with open arms once again, to share in each of those celebrations.

  When my (Phil’s) wife began having seizures and was tested for Huntington’s disease, it was friends in our church who cried with us, baby-sat the kids, and even brought casseroles. God’s people, who really live for others, give us a tiny foretaste of what heaven will be like, and help provide hope down here.

  Hope opens doors that despair has slammed shut. Hope looks for the good instead of camping on the worst. Hope turns problems into opportunities and fear into faith. Here are some stories of hope for the paranoid, the fearful, and those whose fridges are filled with food that has long since passed its expiration dates.

  In Case You Haven’t Noticed,

  This Isn’t Paradise

  Happiness often sneaks in through a door

  you didn’t know you left open.

  John Barrymore

  If you were one of
the lucky ones who was handed a brochure at birth that said, ‘‘Welcome to paradise! Get ready to embark on a pain-free, problem-free journey where there will be no main course, only dessert,’’ this chapter isn’t for you. You have our permission to skip on ahead. If, however, you’re like the rest of us and all you got was a slap on the backside and a disinfectant bath from a nurse named Attila, then you may have a firm grasp of the fact that this world ain’t paradise.1

  In second grade I (Phil) discovered firsthand that this world isn’t paradise. Back in those primitive times, they used to line us up alphabetically in the school hallway for a meeting with a huge nurse who wore a name tag that said B. L. We didn’t know what the initials stood for, so we called her Big Lump. Some people are kind and good. Some people smile a lot. Not B. L. She was mean. She never smiled. In fact, she looked so sour she could have probably sucked rivets off a skateboard. Thankfully my last name put me at the front of the line, so I didn’t have time to be terrified. In one hand Big Lump held a needle the size of barbeque tongs. In her other hand, she balanced the rest of it. I stepped forward, staring at the sword—I mean, needle. She jerked my sleeve up over my tiny shoulder blade, swabbed my skinny little arm, and jammed that shiny needle home. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I felt it go out the other side. I hollered loudly. I didn’t care what the other students thought. That sucker hurt! Then B. L. handed me a sugar cube to soothe the pain. As if that would help. I didn’t care what I was being immunized against, all I remember thinking was that there was no way the disease could have been worse than the precaution. But at least I did find something to be thankful for. I was glad my name wasn’t Zaccheus Zabolotney, who stood terrified at the back of that line, waiting his turn, listening to everyone’s screams as they filed by.

  Whether we have time to prepare for it or not, life gives us pain. It can give us pain even when it’s trying to protect us. Believe it or not, it can also give us pain when we’re trying to do good.