My childhood could have been a book all on its own. It wasn’t a tragic story by any means, more like a comedy with a few sad stories. I don’t know if many of you know but I probably should be retired by now. I began working at approximately the tender age of five. I say approximately because when Mama tells the story, she describes my age as, “she was barely able to see over the table.”
Mama did the flowers for the Miss Georgia Ball for many, many years. Each June, she would take me down to the wholesale florist where we would pick out a large variety of flowers for about 100 table arrangements. One year in particular, she had just done the flowers for a wedding days leading up to the Ball and still had the rental candelabras and kneeling bench on the front porch. It was rather fancy decorations for our painted wooden porch but it would have to do until she could return them to the rental company.
My cousin, John, who was just a few years older than me had somehow got roped into helping us get ready for the ball but being the young princess that I was, I talked John into pretend marrying me on the front porch. And, no, I did not grow up in Alabama but close. We didn’t have much time. Mama would be ready to go to the wholesale shop so we had to make it quick. I pulled out some old ugly sheer orange organza hair pick and off we went to our makeshift wedding. The preacher was the dog, who was really confused when John kept telling him he DIDN’T want to kiss the bride. I was the most amazing, blushing bride with my Kool-Aid stained t-shirt and dirty shorts.
Mama came out with her keys in her hand and rounded us up in her station wagon. I barely had time to put down my veil. Going to the wholesale florist shop wasn’t an ideal honeymoon for the non-kissing cousins but since we were working cousins, we had no choice. When we arrived, Mama busied herself with picking out the best flowers while John and I stood at the counter. Keep in mind, I could barely see over the tables at this time much less the countertop. But I saw the prettiest pens I’d ever seen. In my best Bonnie and Clyde attempt, I begged John to get me one. There was a jar full of brightly colored pens with the wholesale company’s name etched in gold. Gold, I say!! John shook his head and told me, “No, you’re going to get in trouble.” But I really wanted one of those pens. I somehow managed to get on my tip-toes and reach a handful of pens which I promptly shoved in my pants pocket. John kept shaking his head. He really wasn’t being a real supportive pretend husband, I thought.
After mama got done picking out the flowers and paying for them, we made our way out to the station wagon where I was pretty proud of my pen stash and just couldn’t wait to start writing with them. John let her get in the car and shut the door before he told her what I’d done. I honestly don’t know how I got back into the shop but I was there in a flash. Tears streaming down my face, I had to tell the lady at the cash register who was always so nice to me that I had taken those pens. I pulled them out of my pocket and put them on the counter. She told me that it was bad that I took them without asking but told me that it was ok. She forgave me for my crime spree and we got back in the car. Mama grew horns that day like a bull and pushed me to do the right thing, crying and all.
I learned several valuable lessons that day. First, don’t pretend marry your cousin. He’s a tattletale. Second, don’t steal pens or anything else that isn’t offered to you. Third, do the right thing even if it feels bad. But most importantly, forgiveness comes when we least deserve it sometimes. It’s in those moments that our character is defined. I didn’t deserve to have that lady treat me kindly and offer her forgiveness. She could have told my mama not to bring her thieving child back in there. Instead, she forgave me and she looked at me with such sympathy. Or, was it empathy? We use our life experiences to shape our future, and that includes how we treat others. My guess is that at some point in her life, that lady had learned a similar lesson. She knew how it felt to be bearing the hurt and the shame of what she’d done. I carry those lessons around with me to this day so that I can remember the way it made me feel. Applying grace isn’t always as easy as forgiving a child for a stolen pen, but it’s always worth it.
Messpot Diaries 