Beautiful, But Badly Broken - Chapter 23 -Telling My Story

This is chapter 23 in a series entitled Telling My Story.  Please note that all names (both people and companies) have been changed.
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She was thirty one years old, beautiful, blond, and wore a size 4 suit; her taste tended toward Donna Karan.  She had become a vice president at thirty:  smart, good-looking and driven.  She was my new boss and she was ten years younger than I.

After leaving the health department, we had moved to a large city and I went to work in a huge health care corporation.  It was, in fact, the largest managed care company in the United States at that time. There were nearly fifteen thousand employees then; which later grew to about twenty-two thousand.

I was from a small farm town with a population about one-third the size of the number of people working for my new employer; and  I had no idea what I was getting into when I walked through those elevator doors on that first day.


Office politics at this level made what I had previously encountered look like a kindergarten squabble over the play-dough.


I do recall that I was wearing my favorite red suit with black trim (power colors :) and I thought the interview had gone well.  Indeed, I received a phone call with a job offer within two hours of the close of the interview and the next day I began what would become a whirlwind career ride.
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Within the first two years of my time with BHC, I had been promoted twice and my salary had nearly doubled.  The pressure had increased along with my responsibilities.  Fortunately I had experienced a couple of key "wins" early on, and it had given me a certain cache' as a problem-solver with Kay, my new boss. 


First there was the matter of the missing directories.  These were annual publications of doctors, hospitals, and ancillary providers who had contracted with the BHC network. They were not cheap.  Whoever had been in charge of the most recent publication project, several months prior to my joining the firm, had not maintained good inventory control.


Now, with six months left before the next publication, we were getting daily calls requesting directories; but our supply was nearly exhausted.  Some felt that there had been an error and that we had actually only received a partial delivery.  Some speculated that someone (no longer with the company) had place bogus orders and siphoned off the money.  No one knew for sure.  But we did know that we were running critically low on our supply, which could negatively impact the flow of business.


I made some inquiries, reconstructed the history of the project as best I could after the fact, and came to an odd suspicion.  


Fridays were casual dress day, and while I did not usually dress down, I chose that day in order to be as inconspicuous as possible.  I went to work wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and left the office in a company car, headed for a warehouse on the edge of town.  I had obtained keys from the facilities manager, who looked at me oddly when I asked for them.  Managers did not generally visit the warehouses.  But I did, and there in a dusty place no one had visited in a long while, I discovered a $100,000 in missing directories, still shrink-wrapped and loaded on pallets. They had been sent to that location in error, and then following staff turnover, forgotten.  I was the hero of the hour for that little deal.
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After four years with BHC I had moved on from $100,000 dollar issues to multi-million dollars problems.  But I was still asking questions, figuring out where the bodies were buried, and still handling the tough stuff.  But the VP, Kay, who had been my early champion and loved the kudos that came her way from headquarters whenever my team scored a victory, had decided that some changes needed to be made.


First she began a campaign to reduce my influence in the region, reassigning my staff with no advance notice, asking my key subordinates to report directly to her on major projects, even though she knew little of the actual work involved. Then she hired a new guy from the outside, and soon began an affair with him (during working hours and on company property).  They took long smoking breaks, lasting an hour or more in the basement parking garage, and became an office joke.  Given that he was her subordinate, it was not surprising when he later sued the company for sexual harassment, naming Kay as the offender.


I did my best to stay clear of her and just do my own job; but she was my boss and it was difficult.  Finally, she called me to her office and instructed me to give a poor performance rating to a director, whom I knew had performed well for the entire year.  My boss disliked Leann for personal reasons, but tried to convince me that the low evaluation was justified.  I pointed out that Leann had met all her deadlines, delivered two critical projects under budget, and enjoyed the loyalty of her entire team.  A poor eval would cost her her annual bonus and become part of her permanent record. Kay did not care; she was on a vendetta.  


She told me to recheck Leann's file and find something, anything, that would justify her directive; and said we would talk again the next day.  We did and the conversation came to the same  point, with Kay ordering me to do something that I knew was unethical and further emphasizing to me that she was giving me a direct order.  Failure to do as she demanded would be considered insubordination, which was a terminable offense.  (Talk about two birds with one stone.)


I went home to contemplate my resignation as it seemed she was leaving me no decent alternative.  The next day she repeated her directive, and I respectfully told her I could not do that and that she would have my resignation on her desk first thing the next morning.  She looked completely non-plussed and began to backpedal.
                                                                                      
Once back in my office I phoned a senior vice president at headquarters twenty-five hundred miles away, with whom I had a matrix reporting relationship, which was less direct than the one to Kay, but still valid.  I explained the situation, and told him that I wanted to let him know why he would also be receiving my resignation.  He asked me to delay doing anything while he looked into the issue.


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After several more agonizing weeks (during which the daily tension in the office was so thick you could cut it with a knife) relief arrived.  Anne, a senior emissary from national headquarters, flew into town and asked to meet with me privately in a nearby hotel.  Good grief, who knew business could be so cloak and dagger-ish.


Anne asked about the numerous issues related to Kay's management decisions over the past year.  I learned headquarters had received multiple written complaints about her in the past, and they were aware of the potential legal action regarding her behavior. I could not understand why they continued to delay taking remedial action, but again there were politics involved.


However, by this time I was once again in the midst of a more important issue in my own life.  My oldest son, who had been a paraplegic for about ten years at this time, was scheduled to have both legs amputated in a few weeks.  I was struggling with the emotional impact of this, even though I knew it was medically warranted.  I kept remembering the little red-haired boy who loved to run and ride his bike.  Even though he was now an adult, and had made a decent adjustment to his disability, it was so hard to accept yet more loss for him.


Anne asked if I would stay and guide the team through the "fall out" that was bound to occur, once headquarters made a move to replace Kay.  She said they were planning to send in a new VP out of San Francisco, to whom I would soon report.


I was reluctant to bring up my personal issues, as I never liked to mix business and personal life; but since she was making her case for my continued involvement with some fervor, I finally told her that I did not feel I could agree to her request.  When she asked why, I told her about my son's scheduled amputations.


Her eyes were kind as she said with some astonishment, "You have been dealing with this total disaster at the office at the same time you are facing this surgery for your son?  I do not know how you have maintained your composure through all this, but from today forward, the company will handle this.  You just take care of yourself and your family.  I'll be praying for you and your son.


We don't want your resignation.  We are going to need your to help restore some order after the company takes action."  But she could not say exactly when this "action" would take place.


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As it happened, on a sunny day shortly thereafter, I was sitting in a hospital waiting room, awaiting news of how my son's surgery had gone.


A hundred miles away, two vice presidents flew in from headquarters, walked into the regional office unannounced and straight into Kay's office.  They gave her less than an hour to clean out her desk and escorted her out.  She was done.  After ten years, her career there ending in ignominy.


Nevertheless, I was a mother bowed with grief, struggling to once again put broken dreams behind us; and on that day I could not have cared less whether Kay still ruled the western region.  However, I later learned the details from staff who were present. It was a sad, but necessary, ending and after months of doing battle with her professionally, God allowed me to be absent on the day of her professional demise.  I was grateful.


Epilogue:  Kay was also fired from her next two jobs in less than three years.  Yes, she was physically beautiful as well as smart and talented.  But she was spiritually bankrupt and broken.  She descended her career ladder sliding from VP to director, from director to manager and .... downward.


Meanwhile, God continued to give me strength.  I continued to go to college at night, was promoted again, and eventually had an office on the 32nd floor of a building on California St. in the financial district of San Francisco.  I could see the Golden Gate Bridge from my office windows.  


As Thomas a Kempis wrote, "Man proposes, but God disposes."


It was such a draining experience, the business of "firing my own boss" that if anyone had told me that it would not be the only time I would have to endure it, I might have retired right then and there.  Fortunately, we cannot see the future.

Another Necessary Ending - Chapter 22

This is a Chapter 22 in a series entitled Telling My Story.   

After an eventful three and a half years at the dental office, I went to work for a county health department.  It was an entirely new adventure for me since the staff consisted of a few dozen employees, whereas I was used to working in a small group of about six or eight people. 

My boss later told me that my application was one of thirty five reviewed for the position. I felt blessed beyond belief to be selected for the position. I walked into that building each morning with a sense of gratitude and left each evening with a sense of satisfaction. That little bubble of euphoria lasted about six months.

When reality began to set in it dawned on me that I seemed to be assigned more and more work, while others appeared to have ample time to roam the halls, chat around the coffee machine, and take long lunch breaks.  Meanwhile I was going at a dead run from morning till evening.

As time went on I discovered what it meant when they informed me that I was an "exempt" employee.  Basically it meant that regardless of how many hours I worked, I was not eligible for any overtime pay. 

However, by now my responsibilities had grown and required that I attend various community meetings in the evenings, speak at non-profit gatherings, and analyze new legislation that could affect the funding for our department.  I enjoyed a lot of it tremendously and when given the opportunity I learned to write grant proposals.  This resulted in the local hospital receiving several hundred thousand dollars in new equipment, and I received a special commendation and a plaque from the board of supervisors.

Well, hot dog, and goody goody, but I could not deposit a plaque in my checking account to pay the bills.

Meanwhile a staff member, whose position closely matched my own, could often be seen in his office, with his feet propped up on his desk.  He would thumb through whatever he was reading, while slowly munching on chips and drinking a soda.  He often left the office in the middle of the day and no one knew where he had gone. This became so common an occurrence that whenever he was actually needed for something, inquiries would go around as to "who was on Dan watch."  (Dan is not his real name.)

Dan's only real value to the department was that he was something of a computer geek, and in those early days of desktop computing very few employees, including me, knew anything beyond how to boot up, log on, and do their own tasks. Dan, on the other hand, was an early "networking guy". It was a key role and he knew it, so he milked his expertise for all it was worth.  

One day, a lady who had been with the department about twenty years took me quietly aside and told me that I needed to "slow down" a little.  I did not understand what she was talking about.  She explained that I was working too quickly and that I was "making the rest of us look bad."

I honestly did not get it ... at first.  But around there, people dragged their feet.  They divided projects up among several employees, when one or two energetic people could have done the whole task.  They set timetables that ran forever, and only delivered what they had to when it became absolutely imperative.  I had never seen anything like it. I had not yet learned the axiom that "work tends to expand to fill whatever time is allowed."

For a long time I just kept my head down and concentrated on my own work; but finally after two or three years of watching this kind of nonsense go on I began to let the director know what I thought of the whole thing.  Since he was "the boss" I had to be careful about voicing my concerns, because after all, this was all happening on his watch, and therefore apparently had his tacit approval. 

It is still my honest conviction that most employees want to do their best. But it is not always the case, and in this organization  blatant favoritism coupled with a lack of accountability had produced an unhealthy work environment.

The breaking point came when I discovered two things within weeks of each other.  First, a woman whose position was similar to my own, was also required to attend the same evening meetings with board members that I attended.  One day we were discussing taking some time off and she mentioned that she had several weeks of "comp time"coming, mostly due to the "time and a half" credit she received for these after-hours meetings.  If she attended a three hour meeting, she received credit for four and one-half hours of time off.  I did not.

I was first perplexed and then furious when I realized that although we were attending the very same meetings and putting in the same amount of time, I was receiving no extra pay or compensatory time off, while she was accumulating several extra paid days off each year.  It also turned out that everyone but me knew this, and they knew it was because she was one of the "boss's favorites" on the staff.

Secondly, the foot-propping, chip-munching, doofus down the hall got a raise, and I learned it was identical to my own. I was dumbfounded.  How was this possible?  Everyone knew he was a complete slacker.  When I asked the director "why" - he explained that departmental raises were not performanced based, they were uniformly set on a scale by the county administrator.  The entire department received "X" percent raise for the year.  Quality of contribution did not figure in.  Whaaaaat???????

I watched this kind of thing go on year after year, while I privately fumed.  But after learning about the two incidents above, I regretfully concluded that it was time for me to move on and I resigned. As the saying goes, "If nothing changes, nothing changes."

They fussed and feuded, manipulated each other, and formed little cadres that then morphed into new conflicts; but they were like a weirdly dysfunctional family; they kind of liked themselves the way they were.  They knew the game and how to play it.  I was not interested in learning that particular skill set.

During the time between when I gave notice and my actual last day on the job, the posting for my job vacancy went up on the public bulletin board.  A week later a second position was also advertised.  Then a third opening for half-time position was also posted.


I confronted the director, soon-to-be my former boss, and asked him, "Are you telling me that you are going to hire two full time people, plus one part-timer to do my job?"  He admitted that, yes, that was the plan.


He had some trouble looking me in the eye, but he finally muttered, "After all, Marsha, there is just no way we could find one person who would do everything you have been doing around here."


With barely concealed disgust, I asked him pointedly, "Then why have I been doing it?"  He said nothing, as he simply shrugged his shoulders.  Although we had worked together daily for nearly five years, I made sure it was the last conversation I ever had with him.

The year after I left, a former colleague let me know that the department had been subjected to a special investigative audit by the board of supervisors, and furthermore, the director had been personally reprimanded for poor managerial practices.  There is, upon occasion, some justice in the world; but it is sometimes very slowwwwww in coming.


It was a painful, but necessary ending, and one from which I took lessons that would stand me in good stead going forward.  There would come a time when I was responsible for the compensation programs impacting hundreds of employees, and I determined that fairness, accountability, and appreciation would be my watch-words when it came to rewarding performance.  It was a real joy to administer those reward programs.

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                For God does not show favoritism. - Romans 2:11

Necessary Endings - New Beginnings : Chapter 21

This is chapter 21 in a series entitled Telling My Story.

My daughter recently recommended a book to me entitled Necessary Endings by Dr. Henry Cloud.

It is an excellent book and one I would recommend.  I only wish I had read it a few decades ago. (Of course, that would be problematic since it had not yet been written.)  While I did not have the benefit of Dr. Cloud's wisdom at that time, I do have the pleasure of looking back and seeing that I did, from time to time when it counted, do the very thing he advises. 

Dr. Cloud's book uses both professional and personal applications to illustrate the times and situations in our lives when we need to end something - a job, a relationship, a responsibility.  He is not talking about ducking out on our responsibilities; but rather he depicts the rational practice of analyzing our circumstances and deciding when it is time to move on:  to create a necessary ending.

I did this three times in my career.  Each time it was painful and somewhat frightening, but in each case the outcome was that I found myself in a better place with more room to learn and grow.  In this chapter and the following two chapters I will share with you those three stories.
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My first job, when I returned to the workforce after an absence of almost fifteen years as an at-home parent, was as the office manager in a busy dental practice.  I have outlined some of the more humorous aspects of that position in a prior chapter entitled Learning the Drill . 

It was a two dentist practice, one near retirement and the other at the beginning of his career.  The younger doctor was skillful, charming, and upon occasion "integrity-challenged."  One day a local businessman came in to begin a series of treatments to receive ten porcelain crowns which were very expensive.  He was the last patient of the day, and as young Dr. P. sometimes did, he left the last of the finish work to his assistant and he went home for the day.

As this patient came by on his way out of the building, he stopped at my desk and handed me a small brown paper bag, saying simply, "Dr. P. said I should leave this with you."  He walked out without further explanation.

I was busy; the phones were still ringing, the staff was leaving for the day, and I set the bag aside until just before I locked up for the day. When I finally had a moment to look into the bag, I was astounded to see a large bunch of one hundred dollar bills.  I counted the cash to discover it amounted to several thousand dollars. 

We did not have a safe in the office, and we rarely received enough cash payments to make one necessary.  So with this amount of money in hand, I was uncomfortable leaving it in a desk drawer until the next day.  So I quickly locked up and made a special trip down to the bank, arriving just before they closed and deposited the money in Dr. P.'s business account.

The next morning when he arrived the first thing he did was ask me whether his last patient had left anything with me the evening before.  I smiled and said he did, and proudly told him that as a precaution I had made a special trip to the bank to deposit the money for him.

His face displayed instant fury as he nearly shouted at me, "You did what?"  The first patient had not yet arrived, so he went on to explain to me that this was to be an "off the books" job that he and the patient had arranged - cash under the table for a considerable discount off the cost of the crown work.

Now I had spoiled the whole thing by depositing the money, which would mean it would have to be reported on his taxes.  He ranted, he raved, and he sniped at me between patients all day long.

I got quiet and I got scared. (I desperately needed the job as I was the sole support of our family at the time)  And I prayed.  Hard.  I had never agreed to be part of a scheme like that, and I was angry that he would assume I would go along.  But I could not afford to simply tell him to "stuff it" either.  What to do?

When my lunch break came, I was too upset to eat, so I spent the time alone praying for wisdom and for the courage to do the right thing.  At the end of the day, he came back to my desk to give me a few more choice words about my naivete' and lack of savvy about how the "world really worked."

When he finished, I gathered my purse and few personal items, handed him a letter I had prepared in case it came to this, and said, "Here is my letter of resignation.  I did not mean to interfere in your business arrangements.  But now that I understand what you intended, I cannot and will not participate in it. I am sorry it had to end like this.  I believe I have left everything in order so that it should not be too difficult for my replacement to take over."

He was so surprised he said nothing as I walked out.

I went home still shell-shocked, unable to believe what I had just done.  But I also felt a peace that passed understanding, because I believed I had done the right thing.

I did not know how we were going to pay the rent, buy food, or make the car payment.  I only knew that I had done what had to be done in those circumstances.  You either are a Christian when the chips are down, or you are not.  You are either an honest person, or you are not.  Sometimes there is no middle ground.

Please understand that I did not feel brave or holier-than-thou.  Instead I felt scared, and sad because I did not want to be judgmental or self-righteous, and I had actually enjoyed working there, most of the time.  But what was done was done.

Except that it wasn't ....

Early the next morning Dr. P. called me.  I assumed he was looking for a patient number that he could not find.  But no, he was calling to apologize.  He said when he got home and told his wife, J.,  what had happened, she told him he was an "idiot" , that letting Marsha quit was the dumbest thing he had ever done in his life. 

He said she reminded him that he was making more money since I became his office manager than he had ever made in his life and one of the reasons was because of the straight-forward and respectful way I made all payment arrangements with patients in advance of the work being done. (Note:  Our accounts receivables were running at over one hundred percent; meaning we were collecting everything he was currently producing and also collecting some small portion of past due accounts which were on the books from before I began working there.)

He also admitted he was calling because she had insisted that he do so.  So, would I please come back to work?

I thanked him and politely declined.  I explained to him that given that he was still angry over the misunderstanding and in light of the fact that he was only asking because J. had insisted, there was no basis for me to return.  "I would do exactly the same thing the next time, and you would be just as angry.  So there isn't really any way that would work."

Dr. P. knew a little of our personal circumstances, enough to know that I really needed the job.  He also knew he had hit a brick wall. 

A little later I received a call from his wife, J.  She began by apologizing and letting me know that she did not know what Dr. P. thought he was doing in expecting me to go along with his tax- evasion scheme.  She assured me that it would never happen again, and that she was personally asking me to please return to the office. She further assured me that Dr. P. would never again ask me to do anything of that nature.  I believed her.

After careful prayer and consideration, I returned.  However, I now knew that I was dealing with a person of limited integrity and that the time would come when I would need to leave.  But the knowledge gave me time to plan my exit, to watch for other opportunities, and to gain as much expertise as I could in my remaining time there.

When I left, I gave ample advance notice, and then walked out with my head high and my conscience clear.  I also left with the well-wishes of my coworkers and even the sheepish best wishes of Dr. P., who had given my new employer a glowing recommendation of my work. 

Thus, this necessary ending was the bridge to a new beginning.

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"When you ask yourself if you should have hope for this person or business to get better, the first diagnostic is to see what has been happening up to this point.  Unless something changes, that is exactly what you can expect to happen in the future."
~ Dr. Henry Cloud, Necessary Endings, page 94)

Giving and Receiving: An Adventure in Living - Chapter 20

This is Chapter 20 in a series entitled Telling My Story.

Someone once said about the later season of life, that by then most of your life is "in the rear view mirror".  I had never thought of it like that before; because I am a future-oriented person. 

I am one of those "what's done is done, let's move on" kind of people.  But that rear view mirror business, that got me thinking.

I used to teach "What Matters Most" business classes, about prioritizing, making informed choices, assuring that your talents and skills were aligned with your actions.

Part of that class was to draw a timeline and then ask people to place an X where they thought they currently were on their life's timeline.  That always seemed to get everyone's attention.  Now it has mine.

       .........................................................x.............

By this estimate it can be clearly seen that, in fact, much of my life is in the rear view mirror as it were.  What does that image look like?  Who am I now and how did I get to be here?

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I always loved to learn - not about any one thing in particular, but just about everything in general.


However, given the limited financial circumstances in which I grew up, it just did not seem to me that I could attend college after high school.  No one in our family had done so, and if I even talked about the possibility I was accused of "putting on airs."

In mid-life, after a series of losses and a painful divorce, I decided that I could, and would, finally obtain an education.  I was relentless in going after that goal, and although it would take me the next ten-plus years taking a class or two whenever I could; I graduated magna cum laude, with two of my children and my mother in the audience when I received my diploma.
                                                                                                       
During this time, I also worked full time in a series of increasingly responsible positions.  My company had a tuition-reimbursement program, and I maximized its benefits each and every year.  However, when I applied for benefits to obtain a master's degree, I was initially turned down.  My boss, and my boss's boss, both told me that:

a) I worked too hard already, and
b) my current responsibilities needed my full, and undivided attention.

True, I was managing a staff in a fairly large organization, and running a budget of several million dollars; but I believed I could also pursue the masters.  Thus, I was more disappointed than I can tell you at their decision.  However, I accepted their decision with as much good grace as I could muster...and started praying about it.

About that same time, our church was in the middle of a building program because the congregation had outgrown the current facility.  They were holding up to seven services each weekend, and still there was no room for parking, or seating in the auditorium.

By now I was making good money, and began to pray about what God might be leading me to donate to the building effort.  I did not just "pick a number" out of the air, or out of my imagination.  I truly prayed and tried to listen to that still small voice in my heart to see what God might have in mind.

I had long since experienced that anytime I gave with care and prayer, all my other needs would be met.  As they used to say in the churches where I grew up, "You can't out give God."

After prayerful, consideration over a period of a couple of weeks, I turned in my pledge-card stating the amount that I planned to contribute over the next three years of the building program.  I knew I was blessed to have the resources to contribute to this effort, and I remembered that everything we have really belongs to God.

Still, I gulped a little when I turned in the card, because it was an amount that represented a stretch of faith for me.  However, over those next three years, as I watched that new church building take shape, it was also a constant reminder to me of God's faithfulness in my life.

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A funny thing happened about a month after I submitted my building fund pledge.  Without any preliminary discussion or warning, I was called one day to my vice president's office.  She was my boss's immediate superior, and thus I did not generally meet with her unless my manager was also present.

That day, however, she asked me to meet with me alone and I arrived curious to find out the reason for the meeting.  B. quickly got to the point (as she generally did).  She informed me that she had given further thought to my request to obtain a master's degree through the company's education reimbursement program and asked if I was still interested.

I said that I was.  She then informed me that the company would pay for the entire program - all of it.  Tuition, books, fees, everything.  Generally the program was a 75%- 25% split, with the employee paying the 25%.  I always thought it a generous program, since I believe people value something more if they have some "skin in the game."

But for whatever reason, an executive decision had been made to pay for 100% of my program.  It represented between $15,000 and $20,000 dollars and was a gift that was so generous I was overwhelmed.  I thanked her and assured her that my job responsibilities would not suffer any neglect whatever as I worked my way through the program.

Then I went to my car, and sat there and cried, thanking God for his tender watch care.  While I did not need the advanced degree for my current position, God had further plans for me. 

The next two and a half years did not "fly by."  It was hard work, and I often flew out of the company parking lot, racing through the drive-thru at Burger King, eating a sandwich as I drove the twenty-two miles to my campus.  Classes were from 5:30 p.m. to 10:00 p.m. two nights a week.  I did homework, wrote papers and participated in group projects the other three or four nights a week.  It was exhausting.  But it was also rewarding.

Little did I know that shortly after I finished the master's course, God would open a series of promotions for me that would eventually result in my becoming a vice-president, only the second woman in the company's history to hold that position.

Once again, I learned through experience that if I will trust Him, he will lead me into green pastures.

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Hope your pastures are green, or are "greening up" this weekend.  God bless you - Marsha

S.G. or Bust - Chapter 19

This is Chapter 19 in a series entitled Telling My Story.  

Courted.  Such an old-fashioned word.  But that is what was happening to me, for the first time.  While it was nice, it was also awkward.  After all, I was past forty and did not expect anything like this to happen to me.

He called, he sent flowers, he took me places. And he always did exactly what he said he would do - I just could not get over that.

Unfortunately, it made me nervous.  Even irritable, which made no sense, but since when do emotions make sense?  When you grow up with an unreliable father, and then you marry young to an unreliable partner, you have not had the opportunity to form the basic ability to trust.  I did not trust much of anyone at this point in my life.  I did not trust what I was told, nor what my own eyes and ears told me, because I had been deceived one too many times.

Poor D. had no idea what he was getting into, when he decided to "get into" my life.  Moreover, I had begun to taste what it was like to be my own person.  Remember, I dated the same boy all through high school, and then married him right after graduation.  So I went directly from being someone's daughter to being someone's wife.  Then I quickly became someone's mother.

Like many women of my generation, I knew little to nothing about just being Marsha.  But I was discovering what it meant, and had decided no one was ever again going to tell me what to do or how to do it . 

Yes, I know, this sounds really mature, doesn't it?  The forty-year-old equivalent of "you're not the boss of me".  Charming, I wasn't.

I had also discovered, after cooking dinner seven nights a week for a family of five for over twenty years, (after working all day in a busy office) that I liked to eat out, or get take out, or order pizza, or just about anything else except cooking.  I didn't want to cook anymore, and did not plan to do much of it going forward. 

Fortunately, D. was a pretty good cook and actually enjoyed it.  He had already been a single parent for over eight years when we met, and he was not looking for a cook or a housekeeper.  Good thing, too; because I was not looking to become one again.  Period.

He thought we were a match made in heaven.  I wasn't sure we could even work out a match here on terra firma.

But despite all my fears and reservations, despite feeling silly about "dating" and doing romantic things at a time when I thought I would be settling into a staid middle-age; we were having some fun.

He took me dancing on my forty-second birthday.  After one dance that had been a cha-cha, one of the other guys at our table said to us, "Boy, you guys are really good at that.  I'll bet you have been doing this together for twenty years."  He did not believe us when we said we had never been dancing together before.  Then D. surprised me by, arranging in advance, to have the band to play "Happy, Happy Birthday, Baby", while we were dancing.

One day while at work, I looked out my office window toward the street, when I heard a horn honking.  There sat a green pickup truck, with a huge hand-lettered sign on the side of it, reading "S.G. or Bust."  D. sat behind the wheel grinning.

S.G. stood for Stony Gorge, otherwise known locally as "the lake", a large swimming and fishing reservoir about twenty miles up in the foothills from town.  We had driven up there one evening and  spent some time strolling along the lake side, arm in arm, looking at the stars.  While enjoying the summer breeze, we even saw a lot of shooting stars - no, really we did.

D. wanted to go back to the lake.  Thus, the sign, "S.G. or Bust."  I laughed so hard I cried.  I thought he was nuts.  Turned out he was ... about me.  Who would have guessed?

Air Supply and Two Dumpees - Chapter 18

This is Chapter 18 in a series entitled Telling My Story.
                                                                                                                  
In my life where everything went wrong,                  
Something finally went right.
Now there's two less lonely people
In the world tonight."  ~ a song by Air Supply

I guess I will have to call him David, for now, as he was years away from becoming the *LOC, as I now refer to him. (*Lovable Old Coot)

The song above was one of our favorites.  D. said it just fit us.  Well, maybe.  While it was not exactly love at first sight, D. says it came darned close.  I refrained from telling him that "close" only counts in hand grenades and horse shoes.  I am ever the practical, pragmatic one, and he is the incurable romantic.  Talk about opposites attract!

The fact was that were were both the "dumpees" - that is, we had each experienced the pain and humiliation of being the one who got dumped by our former spouses.  But there were also big differences between us.  The last eight years of my twenty-two year marriage had been an endurance marathon, and by the time I got a call at work telling me he had filed for divorce that day, I was ready for it to be over.  Yes, I was grieved; but to be honest, I was also relieved.

D., on the other hand, had fought to save his marriage with everything he knew how to do.  He did not believe in divorce, and was determined to fix it if he could.  He went to counseling, even when his wife refused to go.  He bought her new furniture and a new car, anything she asked for.  None of it helped, of course, because the marriage was over.  He just did not know that, until she left.
                                                     # # # # #

Baggage does not begin to touch it - to ask whether we had issues is like  asking if Dalmatians have spots.  We didn't just have baggage, we had giant (emotional) storage units full of "stuff" that we had to sort through before we could come to a safe haven.  It was a funny, and sometimes precarious voyage.

And it all began with a missed connection....
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A few weeks after our chance meeting at the department store on New Year's Eve, I received a call at my office from my niece whose picture I had seen displayed at D.'s register.

"Aunt Marsha, would you be interested in chaperoning our "spring fling" dance next month? "

I said I might be and asked about the date in question.  C. told me the date, I checked my calendar and came back on the line, "Sorry, honey, I have a board meeting that evening. Otherwise I would be glad to help out."  (I had changed jobs and was now working at the health department, and served the country board of directors in various capacities related to county health issues.)

"Oh, okay.  You're sure you can't make it?"  She sounded oddly disappointed and I could not figure out why, since there were surely plenty of other adults who could serve as chaperons.

"I'm sure.  But thanks for asking.  Maybe next time."

What I did not know until long after this,  was that my niece, C.,  and D.'s daughter, J., who were close high school friends, were trying to arrange for their aunt and dad to "meet by accident" at this dance.  D. had been asked by his daughter to chaperon, too, and he had been told that C.'s Aunt Marsha would be there.  They were doing a little match-making (which was how he knew who I was); but they neglected tell me.

He agreed, with high hopes for the evening, and when I didn't show up, he thought that I had been told that he would be there, and chose not to go in order to "send him a message" that I was not interested.  It was a comedy of errors.  The girls did not tell him that I had no knowledge of their plan, and had to work that evening, so his feelings were hurt unnecessarily.

Meanwhile, I was a little puzzled that this guy who had seemed so friendly and interested never called ... for months, and months and months.

More than six months later, I got a call one late summer afternoon, just as I was huffing and  puffing, while pulling weeds in the front yard.  I dashed to catch the phone and was a bit out of breath, when the caller said, "Hello.  This is Dave, we met a few months ago at the department store.  Do you remember me?" He sounded nervous, and told me later it had taken him a long time to work up the nerve to call me after I was a "no show" at the dance.

I said I remembered, we chatted awhile getting acquainted; then he asked me to dinner and a movie the next night.  When we hung up, I thought to myself, "Well, it took you long enough."  I thought he was a little slow off the mark.  Was I ever wrong!

And so it began ...

D. always called when he said he would and he was always on time to pick me up.  For someone who was used to not having any idea where my partner was, or when he might be home, and then having him show up about two hours later than whatever time he had said he would be there, this was a complete departure from my usual life experience.

On our third date, we went to a nicer restaurant, different from the more casual little places we had gone earlier.  Lovely damask table cloths, soft lighting, etc.  I left our table to visit the ladies room, and when I came back, there next to my plate lay a single red rose.
                                                                                                              
Oh, dear - this was moving faster than a freight train and I was not prepared to deal with it.  So much for "slow off the mark." Stepping back into dating mode in mid-life is about as awkward as it gets, and I had no intention of ever marrying again.   I was clear with him about this.  D. chose to ignore that.

Still, we talked by phone nearly every day, we went for long drives and talked some more.  One evening he said to me, "Marsha, you take care of your kids, you take care of your home, your job, you serve on committees and take on projects ... but who takes care of you?"

No one had ever asked me this in my entire life.  No one.  Not a parent, not a spouse, not a teacher - no one.  It caught me so off guard that I had to think a moment before I could answer.

I looked at him, somewhat puzzled at the question, and said, "I  take care of myself."

He quietly shook his head and said softly, "Not anymore.  I will always take care of you.  If you will let me."  And he has been good to his word.  That was almost twenty five years ago, and I can honestly say he has never broken his word to me - has never lied to me, not once in a nearly a quarter of a century.

But infuriated me ? Oh, yes.  Someone once asked Ruth Bell Graham whether she had ever considered divorce from her famous evangelist husband, Billy Graham.  She replied quickly, "No.  Never.  But I have considered murder from time to time."  I loved that line.  And I have lived that line. 

But more about that next time ...  Marsha

The Eve of Something New - Chapter 17

This is Chapter 17 in a series entitled Telling My Story.

It was New Year's Eve - 1987 - and I had no where to go and nothing to do.  Statistically, I have read that most married couples, who lose a child in death, divorce within two years.  While our son survived, his future was now radically different from the one we had anticipated.

His disability was severe, and permanent, and his father could not accept what God had allowed to occur.  Author Larry Crabbe has written an excellent book entitled, Shattered Dreams, which explains far better than I could do, how hard it is for parents when the dream they had for a child is shattered beyond repair.

K.'s dad had, by this time, left the ministry, left me and our daughter (both our sons were in college at the time) and had begun a new life with someone else.  He remarried the week after the divorce was final.
                                       # # # # #

So here it was, New Year's Eve, the beginning of the rest of my life, and I was depressed and pretty much clueless as to what to do next.  But life does not stop while we "brew and stew" and the fact of the matter was that New Year's Day would be my younger son's birthday.  Yes, he was a New Year's baby, although by the time he was born that day, he was number three at that hospital, and thus I missed all the free merchandise and goodies that come with having the first baby of the New Year.

I had been so overwhelmed and sad for so long that year, that I had neglected to get him a birthday present.  Now it was nearly 7:00 p.m. and the only department store in our little town was about to close when I rushed in looking for a gift.

A tall, silver-haired, handsome gentleman asked if he could help me, as I wandered up and down the aisles looking for a last minute present.  He was one of the managers and was trying to close up the store in preparation for the holiday the next day.

I made my selection and followed him over to the register.  As he was ringing up my purchase, I glanced at the cork board to the side of his register and opened my eyes wide in surprise.

"Why that's my niece in that picture!" I exclaimed, as I looked more closely at a "prom shot" of a pretty blonde girl in a formal dress, standing next to a handsome young boy in a tux.

He smiled, as he completed my sale and replied, "Well, that's my son she is standing next to.  You must be C.'s Aunt Marsha."

You must remember that it was a very small town, where everyone knew practically everyone else.  But I had never met this man, and did not know who he was.  He explained that he knew my sister and her family, and thus his son had taken my niece to the prom that spring.  He continued to smile as we chatted.  But I was still puzzled as to how he knew I was "Aunt Marsha" since I had not told him my name.

Nevertheless, as we talked, and he kept smiling, I felt the stirrings of interest in this guy who seemed to know quite a bit about me, although I had never heard of him.  This was very odd.

                                    # # # # #
Later, I learned that as I walked away from him to leave the store, he turned and said to a co-worker, "I am going to marry that lady someday."  The co-worker verified that he had, indeed, said that to her the night we met.

So I trudged home with my little gift, still sad and lonely, still confused and hurt, still ticked-off that my life was a mess.  But I was on the eve of something new; I just didn't know it yet.

Until next time ... Marsha

Grace Among the Ruins - Chapter 16

This is Chapter 16 in a series entitled Telling My Story.
When K. emerged from the operating room, he was comatose.   The doctors told us to be prepared for the worst.  He might never wake up.  If he did awaken, we should not expect any cognition or awareness for at least three or four days, and even then, he likely would not recognize us.  They said he might be in a vegetative state - permanently.  They talked to us about being prepared to "pull the plug" if it came to that.

K. awoke barely two hours later, recognized me immediately, and tried to smile, although he could not due to the fact that he was "tracched" and on a ventilator.  Our first small miracle had arrived.  The doctors were amazed.

By day three, post surgery, they had performed enough tests to verify what they suspected right after the operations.  An infarction of the spinal cord occurred due to oxygen loss during the surgery.  They called a family conference and informed us that our nineteen year old son would never walk again. 

The boy who always ran everywhere, who would rather hike in the woods than almost anything else, the red-headed guy who loved to fish and hunt and ride his bike like the wind - would never walk again.  The depths of our sorrow could not be described.

After nearly three months, first in the ICU (for seven weeks) then neuro for another six or seven weeks, K. was finally stable enough to send to rehab to begin the arduous journey of learning to be self-sufficient while living in a wheelchair.

Although I felt more pain and sympathy for my son than I could say, I tried  very hard not to waste time feeling sorry for myself as his mother.  After all, I thought, I at least had had nineteen years raising a happy, healthy boy whose energy and enthusiasm knew no bounds.

I thought about those parents whose child is born with a serious medical condition, and the fact that they deal with that from day one.  I could not imagine how they found the faith and strength; but I knew it must come from the same Source as my own.

                                 # # # # #

For those of you who believe that, if one is a Christian, there should always be a "happy ending" of some sort, I am afraid that my story will disappoint you deeply.  There was, and is, no happy ending for K. or for me as his mother.  But that does not mean that there has not been joy from time to time.  And laughter, too.

They originally told us he would be in rehab, once out of immediate danger, for at least six months.  He completed rehab and was able to come home in just six weeks!

He went back to college one month after discharge from rehab.  He was elected treasurer of his student body the following year.

There were dark years that followed his graduation from college, as jobs are difficult for the disabled to obtain.  Even when the national unemployment rate is near 5% or 6%, for the disabled it is always closer to 75%; people are "afraid" to hire someone in a wheelchair.

Still he kept trying, and eventually his sister suggested he try teaching.  He went back to college to obtain further certifications and has been teaching for over ten years now.

Oh, and he also became a certified scuba diver, he has done a 150 foot bungee cord jump, went skydiving (piggy-back) and white-water rafting. Two summers ago he landed a 34 pound salmon in his second deep-sea fishing trip. A replica of that fish is now mounted on his living room wall.

He lives his life to the fullest of his capabilities.  We should all be so adventurous and engaged. 

Yes, there were times when he despaired.  One day, about a year after his accident, I found him alone and deeply despondent.  The future looked very bleak and he was not sure he could face it.

We talked, truly heart to heart, for a long time.  At last, I said, "Son, let's look at this situation.  You still have two good eyes, two good ears, you can talk (when they were not sure he would be able to with one paralyzed vocal chord), and UC Davis tested your IQ at way above average, after the accident.

I'm thinking you have more left, than a lot of people started with."

He looked at me for a few moments, then a slow grin began to spread across his face.  "Yeah, I do, don't I?" 

Years later he told me (after yet another surgery from various complications) "You know, mom, every morning when I wake up, I have a choice.  I can lay there and feel sorry for myself, or I can get up and do the best I can with what I have left to work with.  So far, I have been able to get up and do my best, every day."

Of course, it helps that he is also crazy.  One day he came wheeling wildly into the kitchen, popping a wheelie and skidding to a stop right in front of where I was cooking.

"Guess what, mom?  I've decided what I want to be when I grow up."

Given that he was still only about twenty one and in college, I sighed and said, "Oh, great.  It's about time, what is it?"  (Giving him guff is better for our relationship than standing around wringing my hands.)

He grinned like a lunatic and said, " A stand up comedian."  And he rolled off chortling with glee!
                                                 # # # # #
There is an old cliche', "I cried because I had no shoes, until I saw a man who had no feet."

My older son needs no shoes, because he has no feet, no legs (after becoming a double amputee several years after his accident.)  But he has such heart, and great courage, and he commands the respect of all who know him.


And although his story is a tragic one in some respects, it has also been God's instrument of grace to me for over twenty seven years now.  God loves K. even more than I do, and I can trust that some day I will see His plan in all of this.  So for now ... "What time I am afraid, I will trust in Him..." (Psalm 56:3)

Until next time ... Marsha

God Among the Ruins - Chapter 15

This is Chapter 15 in a series entitled Telling My Story.

"Circumstances may appear to wreck our lives and God's plan, but God is not helpless among the ruins."  ~ Eric Liddell, Olympian

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You may recognize Eric Liddell's name if you ever watched the movie Chariots of Fire.  He was the son of Scottish missionaries to China, who became a world renowned Olympian, and later died in a Chinese internment camp.  When I read the quote above a few days ago, I knew I had finally found the basis for telling the most difficult part of my story.

For those of you who have read the preceding chapters, you already know that my early life was a hard one, and that my early marriage at eighteen to a young man who entered the ministry (apparently very ill-advisedly) was also very difficult.  Unfortunately, the worst was yet to come.

When I had been  working at the dental office just over three years, we seemed to be finally pulling out of the black hole into which we had landed when all our worldly goods were stolen and we had to start over from nothing.

Our oldest son, K., had just finished his freshman year of college, at this time, and had joined the military as a reservist in order to qualify for military tuition benefits, as we were unable to pay for more than a portion of his college expenses.  He enjoyed boot camp and excelled to such an extent that out of his class of one hundred and fifty young recruits, he graduated first in his class.  He tied records that had stood at Ft. Leonard Wood for over fifteen years. It still makes me sad that we were unable to attend his graduation ceremony, which was twenty-five hundred miles away.

He had always been "a good son" - certainly not perfect, but one of those children of whom we could honestly say we had never lost a nights sleep.  He was obedient and helpful, a national merit scholar, and such a hard worker that he developed the largest paper route in town and bought his first gold Krugerrand with his own money at fifteen.  He was something of a math whiz and planned to become a millionaire before he was thirty years old.  Left unhindered I have little doubt he would have done just that.

Because of both his physical and mental prowess, he was heavily recruited near the end of boot camp for an elite special forces unit, although we only learned of this long afterward.  When he landed at S.F. International, the whole family was there to meet him, and we were mystified when a "full bird" colonel was there to greet him as he came down the hallway into the terminal.  Before we could hug and greet him, the officer drew K. aside, they spoke quietly for a moment or two, and I saw K. smile and quietly shake his head "no" before he walked over to where we were waiting.  We learned later the colonel had been sent to make another attempt to convince K. to join this elite group.  K. declined.  He had other plans.

I tell you all this to let you know that he was truly an exceptional young man, not only by his parent's estimation.  Mentally tough, smart (not brilliant in the academic sense, but quickly intuitive and savvy about strategy), six feet /one inch tall, with only four percent body fat due to the rigorous training he had just undergone.  He could leg-press four hundred pounds, although he was slim and only weighed one fifty-five.  He was, as they say, quite a specimen.

Less than forty-eight hours later he lay in the intensive care unit of a hospital fighting for his life. 

                                         # # # # #
I awoke at 3:00 a.m. from a sound sleep praying for my son.  I did not know what had happened, but I felt a deep sense of danger and literally was already praying when I woke up.  Fifteen minutes later we heard an ambulance siren and minutes later our bedside phone rang advising us to meet the ambulance at the hospital which was only blocks from our house.

We rushed to the hospital where, after they stabilized him,  we followed the ambulance thirty-six miles to the nearest regional trauma center where they would begin the months long effort to save his life.  As we drove, his father said to me, "I will accept it.  Whether God leaves him with us, or takes him home.  I will accept it either way."

I felt cold dread wash over my heart, as I sat there and prayed.  I had no premonition.  I had no special knowledge.  I do not know why I said what I did.  But quietly I replied, "There is a third possibility.  God may leave him with us, but he could be permanently injured."

His father did not even glance at me, as with a stony expression on his face, he drove relentlessly behind the ambulance.  "That," he said fiercely, "I will never accept."

From that very moment, I felt a chasm begin to open between us that I sensed would never again be bridged. 


We met with the heart surgeon who told us that the impact of the collision had created an aortic aneurysm of K.'s heart, and that if this was not repaired immediately he would die.  Dr. M. further told us that if the "bubble" ruptured during the surgery, K. would die.  Finally, he told us that there was a small chance, statistically speaking, that K. could become paralyzed as a result of the surgery. 

"How small?", we asked softly.

"It only happens in about two percent of such cases.  So it is rare.  But we must let you know of the possibility."


We asked whether there were any other options.  Could we wait awhile?  No. There was no time to lose.  Every minute counted. Could we get a second opinion?  One was obtained and he concurred that the surgery was our son's only chance for survival.

So we asked the surgeon if we could pray for and with him, that God would give him steady hands and great skill as he raced the clock to save K.'s life.  The three of us joined hands and bowed our heads.

Two teams operated for almost twelve hours.  In the end, K. emerged with his head swollen to almost twice it's normal size.  He was comatose and they could not say when, or if, he would ever awaken.  His heart had stopped twice during the procedure, for between four and five minutes both times, for a total oxygen loss of eight to ten minutes.  They said he might be in a vegetative state - permanently.

They had done all they could.  It was all in God's hands now.  But then, that was where it had been all along, even though we could not see it.
                                              # # # # #
In chapter 16 I will share with you the grace and mercy that were bestowed upon us in the coming months as K. struggled to regain his life.  How he survived, and how some of us did not, at least not as we once were.

For now, I must simply let you know that last night (Feb. 2, 2012) K. was allowed to attend the first "outing" since his surgery last July.  He has been bed fast for seven months, and still has at least two more months of recovery before he can resume teaching his special education high school students.

Nevertheless, last night was the local City Planning Commission's first meeting of the new year, and with his doctor's permission, K. was bound and determined he was not going to miss this one. 

He teaches full time, he serves on the city planing board, he volunteers at various events, he has friends far and wide, and he does it all from his wheelchair.  It is not what I wanted for him.  It is not all that he wanted for himself.

But God is not helpless among the ruins.  Of this I am certain.

Until next time ... Marsha

Learning the Drill - Chapter 14

This is Chapter 14 in a series entitled Telling My Story.

I only got the job as the office manager of the dental practice where I worked for three and a half years because it was a small town, and a friend of a friend of a friend recommended me.

I had no real qualifications, other than that I was willing to work hard, I learn rather quickly, and I had fairly good people skills.  Other than that, I was a tabula rasa, a blank slate.

However, before many months had passed it appeared that that I had a head for business - who knew?  I improved the inventory control process, cleaned up the appointment book, and went to work on the payroll system.

The practice was making more money than it ever had and the doctors were thrilled. The time came when the original staff simply could no longer keep up with the patient volume we were seeing each day and something had to be done.  It was decided that the most cost effective way to increase our productivity was to hire a high school intern to come in to do the "scutt work" (cleaning the operatories, putting the instruments in the autoclave, filing, filing and more filing, etc.) each afternoon.

This would free up the chair side assistants to do more skilled work, and would allow the doctors a little more time to dictate treatment notes and make follow up calls to patients whose treatment had been extensive.  I would have more time to complete insurance claims.

Since I was the office manager, they told me to hire someone.  I had never even interviewed anyone, much less actually selected and trained a new hire.

I was both excited and scared.  The first few candidates did not appeal, but about the second day of interviews in walked a lovely looking girl, a senior in high school, who was articulate and seemed to really want the job.  Keep in mind it did not pay a lot, but it could be a chance for the person chosen to explore a career possibility.  It would be hard work, too.

This young lady (we will call her Lily) said she was eager to try it, and was new to town, so she didn't have many friends and was not yet involved in after-school activities.  This was good, fewer distractions.

One of the dentists met her briefly and told me it was up to me.  He didn't really care who I hired, just as long as we got some help quickly.  So Lily was hired, and told she could begin the next afternoon.

I do not know for certain who it was that showed up the next day, an evil twin perhaps; but whoever she was, she bore only a passing resemblance to Lily. 

First, her fingernails seemed to have grown about an inch and a half overnight.  I don't know how that happened, but whereas in the interview they were clean, cut short, and unremarkable, now they resembled a siren's tools of the trade, bright red and looonnng.  (How was she going to scrub Comet out of sinks with those ?)

Next, this girl, whoever she was, had applied her makeup with a trowel.  Lots of magenta and azure was in evidence.

Finally, the Lily who showed up for the job was dressed nothing like the Lily I had hired.  For the interview she wore a demure black skirt and white blouse.  For her first day on the job she appeared in some spandex get-up, that from the waist down seemed to resemble a wide belt more than a skirt.  To be fair, she had spectacular legs, but this was supposed to be a medical office, not a strip club.

To frost the cake if you will, when she put away her purse, and got ready to get down to business, she flipped out a little ruffled apron about the size of a handkerchief and daintily tied it around her waist which was about the size of a straw.  The apron looked like one of those French maid get-ups in a farce.  I half expected her to whip out a little feather duster to match it.

I was chagrined, but hoped that it was just first day jitters causing her to over-reach in the "please notice me"  department.  Unfortunately, the second and the third day were no better.    Moreover, the younger of the two dentists was a handsome guy who was not above a little flirting and Ms. Lily took to that like a duck to water.  She was only seventeen, but she was going on thirty.                                           # # # # #


By day three, it was obvious that I had made a "hiring error."  The younger doctor called me back to his office and informed me that it was not working out and Lily would have to go. 

"Oh, surely we could give her a little more time to fit in?  I would hate to see you fire her so quickly."

Dr. R. looked at me askance and said with no trace of humor in his voice, "Marsha, I am not going to fire her.  You hired her.  You fire her."  End of discussion.

I began to try to reason with him and pointed out that at least she had a cheerful disposition. No matter.

"Marsha, let me help you understand something.  I work a-l-l-l-l day long with a high-speed drill, three inches from the patient's brain.  She is going to come tripping down the hall, past one of the open treatment doors, in that spandex micro-mini skirt, and before you know it, someone is going to get a lobotomy!"
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When I tried to gently break the sad news to her, later that same after noon, she sniffed back a tear and wailed, "But I bought an apron."

Who would have guessed that there would come a time when I would teach recruiters how to screen, interview, test and select new employees by the hundreds.  My first hire had also been my first "fire" - and she only lasted three days.

But at least, no one got a lobotomy!

No Malfunction - Just No Wardrobe - Chapter 13

As most of you may know, the term "wardrobe malfunction" entered our social lexicon several years ago, when Janet Jackson and Justin Timberlake engineered what they later called an accident (wardrobe malfunction) involving the baring of Ms. Jackson's breast during the Super Bowl half-time show. 

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When I re-entered the workforce, I had my own wardrobe crises; but it didn't involve any public nudity.  Just plenty of private anxiety and public self-consciousness.  Here was the deal.

When our "worldly goods" were all taken, that included our clothing.  We had one or two small suitcases of basic essentials to last a day or two, for all five of us, as we thought we would be unpacking the rest in a few days.  The rest was now gone.

Meanwhile, just a few weeks later, I had an office job (not the temporary typing pool gig) but an permanent job in a professional medical office as the office manager.  And this office did not use "scrubs" for the front office personal, even though it was a dental office and all the chair side assistants wore scrubs.  So I had a major wardrobe dilemma on my hands - or rather, in my empty closet.

I went back to work, five days a week in possession of the following "outfits":  one black skirt, one navy blue skirt, one cream blouse, one white blouse, and one pink dress.  That was it. 

The work week would proceed - sartorially speaking - along the following schedule: 

Monday - black skirt with white blouse
Tuesday - blue skirt with cream blouse
Wednesday - pink dress
Thursday - black skirt with cream blouse (notice the clever switcheroo?)
Friday - voila' - blue skirt with white blouse.

Some weeks I would just go wild and wear the pink dress twice.  You might think no one noticed.  Sorry, not the case.

I was working for two dentists (and occasionally a third who was semi-retired) and these guys were all snazzy dressers, when they were not wearing lab coats.

To illustrate how obvious my little wardrobe malfunction really was, I had a birthday a few months after beginning that job.  The older dentist's wife visited the office unexpectedly that afternoon, and waited until the other staff were all gone for the day. 

Then she handed me a big white box with a lovely bow on the top and said, "We hope you won't be offended; but we noticed you could probably use something like this."

Inside was a wonderful grey wool A-line skirt and a matching blouse with various shades of grey, black and pale pink stripes.  I was so touched, and embarrassed, that they had observed how sparse my clothing selection was, that I just didn't know what to say.  But I found my manners long enough to thank her sincerely - and him too.

And I wore that outfit at least once a week for the next year!

The truth was that I had always been a bit of what my grandmother called a "clothes horse" before the robbery.  So it was especially humiliating to me to have to accept charity and to have my clothing donated to me by others, however well intended. 

But God wanted me to learn, really learn, something I had memorized in my head as a teenager; but obviously had not learned in my heart as well as I should have.

Man looks on the outward appearance, but God looks on the heart... (I Samuel 16:7)

Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as braided hair, the wearing of gold jewelry and fine clothes.  Instead it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God's sight.
(I Peter 3:3-4)

Please do not misunderstand.  I do not believe that God objects if we wear good quality clothing, when we can afford it.  There came a time, much later in my career, when I had a closet full of suits like Jones of New York purchased at Nordstrom's, Macy's, and the like.  But I had learned, the hard way, that my identity was not defined by the label on my clothing; but by the label on my heart.

If my heart was carefully labeled as a child of the King, then the rest would fall into place.

In fact, some twenty two years after the dental office, I was a vice president in a company of over one thousand employees.  The CEO and the Board were dangling a huge bonus in front of me if I would just "go along to get along" on a program about which I had reservations.  I am talking "down payment on a house" huge.

One of my colleagues was trying to influence me to go along, although she too was a Christian.  She said to me, "Marsha, don't you realize what they are offering you?"

I replied, somewhat heatedly, "Don't they realize that I am a child of God and there is nothing in this world that they can give me that can add anything to that."

I may be a slow learner in some things, but when I finally get the lesson, it tends to stick.