Monday Morning Faith

by Lori Copeland

  “No, but you’ve lived in a cocoon for a long time. Before I die, I want to know you’ve developed good, strong wings.”

  “You’re going to live for a long time, and I’m terrified to fly. I don’t know how.”

  “Flying isn’t hard. We develop our wings through faith, and God does the rest.”

  I knew he was right, but I was already homesick for my cocoon. “I’ll make a list of things that will go into the auction.” And I’d take my own sweet time doing it. He might be ready for this move, but that didn’t mean I was. A new problem surfaced. “How will you get to church? Are you still riding with me?”

  “The Gardens have their own services. On the Sundays I don’t feel like getting out, we’ll attend there. On good days, they have a bus that will deliver us right to the front door of church. If we run into medical problems, there will be experienced nurses on duty. Don’t you slack off on church, though, just because we’re not here to go with you every week.”

  Of course I’d go to church; I hadn’t thought of not going. But I couldn’t help wondering, where was God in this upheaval? If he was in my corner, I couldn’t feel his presence.

  Mom called and Pop wheeled into the bedroom to answer. I returned to the kitchen, fighting tears. Jim and Nelda arrived, Mack on their heels. They’d agreed to help with the move. The Gardens had furnished and unfurnished units; my parents had chosen unfurnished so they could have some of their own things. Pop pointed out the comfortable couch and chairs from the den, their bedroom furniture, and the small table and chairs from the sunroom. Whoever bought the house would get the stove and refrigerator. I shut Itty Bitty in my bedroom to keep him out of the way. He was so small it would be easy to step on him in the rush.

  We loaded furniture into Jim’s truck. Soon the house looked pretty vacant. Oh, they left enough furniture to fill my apartment, but the semblance of my former life consisted of dust bunnies on wood floors. Mom and Pop rode with Mack, and they were off, leaving Nelda to help me sort and pack the personal items they wanted to take.

  “What you gonna do now, girl?” She folded towels and packed them in a cardboard apple box from Save-A-Lot grocery.

  I slumped down on the needlepoint-covered footstool that Mom had made years ago. “I have no idea. I’m still reeling. Why would they want to leave their home?”

  “Two reasons, I’d guess.” Nelda perched on the edge of my favorite chair, left behind.

  I fixed her with a cynical look. “You have it all figured out, I suppose?”

  “Not all of it, but I’ll bet I’m close. One, they wanted to be with people their own age. Assisted living is a good step for people who need someone to look out for them but are still able to have a measure of control over their lives.”

  I sighed. “I looked after them, and they had all the control they needed.”

  “Needed — that’s the key. When parents get older, we tend to make their decisions for them. The children run their lives, make their decisions, tell them they’re too old to drive or too senile to keep their own checkbooks. Your folks will do fine. They’ll have bingo, games, crafts, and social activities — companionship with others their age. They had to get bored staying home by themselves day after day.”

  It was true. I did everything for Mom and Pop, including setting their bedtime. “You said two reasons.”

  “As long as they stayed here, you would never leave and have a life of your own.”

  “I beg your pardon? I have a life of my own. You know I never begrudged the time I spent taking care of them.”

  “I know that.” She got up and stretched. “Muscles getting stiff from sitting. Look, Jo, they’ve set you free.”

  “Booted me out of the nest, is more like it.” And I resented it. No one had asked me if I was happy with the changes.

  “High time too. A forty-year-old baby bird needs to be kicked out. You gotta learn to fly before arthritis sets in your wings.”

  I pitched a cushion at her. Butterflies and birds. What brought on all this advice about flying?

  She caught the pillow and turned it over to read the embroidered motto out loud. “ ‘You can either agree with me or be wrong.’ ”

  Monday afternoon, I went to my office and booted up the computer. Nelda dropped by, wearing her coat, high-heeled brown leather boots, and one of those narrow, fuzzy neck scarves that were so popular right now. Looking good.

  “You plan to spend the night here?”

  I swiveled to face her. With Mom and Pop gone I was adrift. “I dread going home to an empty house.” I wasn’t being fair to Itty, I knew. He kept me company, but I missed Mom and Pop. Without them to care for, my life seemed to have lost meaning.

  “How are things at The Gardens?”

  “Marvelous.” I sounded bitter, but I didn’t care. “I dropped by last night, and all Mom and Pop could talk about is how busy they are going to be with bingo and bead making. I may have to make an appointment to see them. Mom called this morning to say that tonight they are having a sing-along, and it might be better if I didn’t visit.”

  Nelda laughed. “Good for her. You need to stop being such a mother hen.”

  Birds, butterflies, and now a mother hen. I might be short on sympathy, but I had an abundance of insects and fowls coming my way.

  Foul. Now that was an appropriate word for my mood.

  “Come on, Jo. Shut down the computer. If you don’t have anything else to do, come home with me. Jim’s always glad to see you.”

  “No, thanks. I need to stop by the grocery store and pick up a few things.” I pushed my glasses back up on my nose, scraping the small mole where the nose pads rested. “Drats.”

  “What?”

  I pulled off the glasses and rubbed the mole. “This thing is a nuisance. It’s growing and getting to be an eyesore.” Had Sam noticed it?

  “So? Get it removed. Nothing to it.”

  “It isn’t your nose.”

  “That’s right, it isn’t. But if it were me, I’d want the icky thing removed.”

  She was right; the mole was ugly and needed to come off. “I’ll call my doctor tomorrow.”

  “There you go. We women got to keep ourselves looking good for the men. How long since your last salon appointment?”

  I touched my hair. “Why? Do I need one?”

  Nelda appraised my mass of graying locks pulled back by a headband. “Oh, yeah. Need a little maintenance.”

  “Not for a man.”

  “No, no, not for a man.”

  I picked up my purse and coat and we left together. Our feet echoed in the tiled library corridor.

  “Sam’s due back from Mexico before long, isn’t he?”

  I knew what she was hinting at, but I wasn’t taking the bait. “Is he? I wouldn’t know.” There had been so much going on I’d almost forgotten Sam — well, okay, not forgotten. I knew he was due home soon but wasn’t sure when. Even so, I wasn’t going to have the mole removed and get a salon appointment because of his anticipated return.

  I hadn’t totally lost my mind.

  Wednesday morning the mole was history. The incision left a dime-sized red spot on my nose. I wouldn’t be able to wear my glasses for a few days, and someone — I think Nelda again — suggested I look into contacts. Contacts. Me? The idea was ludicrous, but after not seeing a blessed thing the rest of the day I decided maybe contacts were better than a Seeing Eye dog. Thursday night after work, Nelda drove me to the optometrist. My social life was picking up in ways I had never imagined.

  The receptionist was a frequent visitor at the library and greeted me like an old friend. “Johanna, so good to see you. Dr. Heuple is ready for you.”

  I followed her back to an empty room and climbed into the chair, ready for the eye exam. Dr. Heuple, dark hair looking a lot grayer than I remembered, came in and sat down on a small stool beside me. “So, Johanna. How long has it been since your last exam?”

  He thumbed through a manila folder, which I assumed held my record
s. Not much point in evading the truth. I sighed. “Awhile.”

  Dr. Heuple looked at me over the rims of his eyeglasses. “Six years to be exact.”

  “Is that what my record shows?”

  “Yes, but I hoped it might be wrong.”

  “No, I’m afraid that’s the truth.” I operated on the “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” method. I could still see; therefore I didn’t need new glasses.

  We went through the usual test, and I summoned enough courage to ask. “I … what do you think about disposable contacts?”

  “Contacts?” The doctor glanced up from the chart he was writing on. “I think they’re great — been trying to get you into them for years.”

  “Do you think I could wear them?” I knew a lot of people who couldn’t. Runny, red-eyed, miserable-looking people.

  “Sure. Some can put them in and use them right away; others take a little time getting used to them.”

  I had to get used to them? Didn’t people realize I didn’t like things I had to get used to? I wanted things I was already used to.

  Before I could say Jack Sprat, I was wearing contacts. The doctor worked with me a few minutes until I was able to put them in on my own. He wanted me back in a week. At that time, he would order my prescription. I paid my bill and stepped outside the office, seeing clearer than I’d ever seen.

  Ah, the miracles of the modern-day world. Amazing.

  I loved my contacts. I didn’t have to keep pushing them up my nose the way I did with the glasses. Besides, I looked better not having to hide behind those big, black frames.

  I kept making excuses to go to the restroom at the library so I could sneak a peek at my new image. Had my hair always looked so drab? No style, just sort of … there. I pursed my lips. Nelda was right. I was long overdue for a trim. Or maybe … a change. Yes, a change — to go with my new look. Maybe I would call my stylist and see if she could work me in the next day.

  I dialed the salon number and asked for Chantel (Shawn-tell, she told me during my first appointment with her). Her voice came on the line. “Hi, Johanna. What’s up?”

  My mouth opened — then slammed shut. What was I doing? I’d worn my hair like this since I turned twenty. If she hadn’t called me by name, I’d have hung up the phone.

  “Johanna?”

  “Uh … yes. I was thinking of changing my hairstyle.

  Could you work me into your schedule?” I knew I was asking the impossible; you didn’t just get a Saturday appointment, but I had been going to Chantel for years. Maybe she could fit me in the schedule.

  “Hmm. When would you like to come in?”

  “Tomorrow.” I held my breath.

  “Hmm. Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Can you be here by eight o’clock in the morning?”

  “Eight? Sure.”

  “Fine. See you then.”

  She hung up and I released a pent-up breath. What had I done? Well, maybe we could agree on something that wasn’t too drastic.

  Nelda came in with a new book catalogue. “Think we ought to order these?” She rattled off a few titles.

  My mind was on the upcoming change. A new haircut. Contacts. Mole removed.

  Sam Littleton wouldn’t recognize me — not that it mattered.

  Saturday morning I arrived at the salon fifteen minutes ahead of time. Chantel sat me down with a stack of hair styling magazines with an order to “find what you want” while she finished working on the woman occupying the chair. The cuts in the magazines all looked terrific. Making those styles look good on me seemed a little iffy. Maybe I’d just tell her to trim the ends.

  I was trying to work up enough courage to back out when she motioned me to her cubicle. I arranged the magazines in a neat stack and trailed on back.

  “So see anything you like?”

  “Nothing I thought would work for me.”

  “Then we’ll just wing it.” She whipped a cape around my neck, secured it, and tipped me back to lower my head over the basin.

  Wing it? This was my hair we were talking about. And why did I keep running into the concept of wings? And flying.

  Chantel rattled something off about a perm and an “awesome look.” At this stage I was confused and too tired to argue. I just put my fate in her hands. After all, I’d been certain I wouldn’t like contacts and I loved them.

  “Sure, whatever.” Go for it. If I didn’t like it, we could always cut it.

  Most of the morning clientele were strangers to me, and so I didn’t know who the gossip was about. That made it easier to tune out. Gossip made me uncomfortable. Considering all the things God had to say about it in his Word, I figured he wasn’t fond of it either.

  Chantel rolled, permed, neutralized, and talked, all the while keeping my back to the mirror while she worked. Two hours later, she whirled me around. “Well, what do you think?”

  I stared at my reflection, aghast. My hair stuck out from my head in Brillo Pad tresses. Little Orphan Annie. I swallowed, wondering how I could go out on the street looking like this.

  “Well?”

  “I look like I stuck my finger in a light socket.”

  She frowned. “It’s called the spiral effect.”

  I didn’t care. I didn’t want it. My earlier complacent thoughts boomeranged back to haunt me. If I don’t like it, we can cut it? Ha! The curls started flush with my scalp. If we cut it, I’d be bald.

  “It’s … bold.”

  “But nice.”

  “It may take some getting used to.”

  “Give yourself time. You’ll love it. It’s so sassy. All you need to do is shampoo, condition, and air dry. If after a few days you can’t live with it, we’ll come up with something.”

  Maybe a bullet? I hurried to my car and jumped in, flipped down my visor, and stared at my image.

  Good grief. Sassy? That didn’t begin to describe it.

  I was looking at a virtual stranger.

  SIX

  Unlocking my front door, I entered the house to the sound of scurrying footsteps. Itty Bitty rushed to greet me. He took one look at the new me, yelped, and reversed his hind paws so fast he skidded on the tiled entryway. It took ten minutes to locate him cowering beneath my bed and another five to coax him to come out. He walked a wide berth around me the rest of the day.

  Before heading for the shower that evening, I took a long look in my dressing table mirror, turning my head from side to side to experience the full effect. Now that I’d had time to adjust to the change, it didn’t look so bad. In fact, I rather liked it. I looked … chic. Nothing like the drab Johanna — the outdated and behind-the-times mouse. This was the new me. Everyone had been harping for change. Well, change was on the way, and if they didn’t like it, they could deal with it.

  Sunday morning I hurried into church as the organist played the opening hymn. Mom and Dad were already in their places when I squeezed past them. Mom glanced up when I slid into the pew. “I’m sorry, this seat’s taken. Our daughter sits there.”

  I turned to look at her and her mouth fell open. “My word! What have you done to yourself?”

  Now there was a response guaranteed to inspire confidence. “I changed my hairstyle.”

  “I’ll say you did. Put a pink bow in your hair and you’d look like a poodle.”

  I opened my hymnal and concentrated on the words. A poodle. How insulting. “I think it’s very chic.”

  Mom gave Dad the look.

  A woman in front of her turned around and frowned, and Mom dropped her voice to a whisper. “Are you going through a midlife crisis or something?”

  Not. “Can’t I change my hair without throwing everyone into a snit?”

  “Well … if it suits you, it suits me. Where are your glasses?”

  “I’m wearing contacts.”

  Mom’s jaw dropped a second time.

  “I have to. I had the mole removed.”

  “What mole?”

  “The one … you kn
ow. The one where my nose pad fits.”

  I showed her lest she doubt my claims.

  “I didn’t know you had a mole.”

  “Well, I did, but I don’t now.” My chin lifted. My hair, my contacts, and my icky mole. If they could move to assisted living, I could come up with a few bombshells of my own.

  After church I asked if they wanted to go out to eat. Providing Mom could bring herself to sit at the table with my new look. She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Johanna, maybe next week. We’ve been invited to go with a group from The Gardens. They’re trying out a new restaurant every week, and this time it’s that new Chinese place.”

  Chinese. I waited for my invitation; it didn’t come. They were taking this cutting the apron strings serious.

  Sunday afternoon and I had nothing to do and no one to do it with. I took Itty Bitty for a drive, which he enjoyed and I didn’t.

  I hoped Mom and Dad were happy. Somebody should be.

  Monday morning Nelda was speechless. She stared at me, mouth open and eyes wide. “Yowser. Were you electrocuted?”

  “I took your suggestion and saw my stylist.”

  She circled me, eyes appraising. “I like it. Sassy.”

  “Mom thinks I look like a poodle.”

  She snorted. “That’s funny.”

  “You favor the canine look?”

  “Shake it off. People will get used to it, and the style knocks ten years off you. Tell you what. Come shopping with me tomorrow night and we’ll go to Dillard’s and get a makeover.”

  I started to say no, then caught myself. At this point what did I have to lose? “Sure. Sounds like fun.”

  I dealt with comments all day Monday at work. Some liked the new hairstyle, some didn’t, and some pleaded the fifth. I was never so glad to see a day end. After work, Nelda and I went for the makeover — as though I hadn’t done enough. Sam hadn’t called or stopped by the library. Though I didn’t even know if he had returned yet, I had his reason for not calling me all figured out. He’d had time away, time to think. And he’d realized he wasn’t interested in a plain librarian. So I wasn’t so plain anymore; I was still a woman who didn’t share his mission passions.