Falling Down on Escalators

They say nothing bad ever happens to a writer. It’s all material.

So when I fell on an escalator at the world’s busiest airport last month, it took me only minutes to realize I could glean a blog post out of the embarrassing experience. But first, the humiliation.

Thankfully, the escalator was going down and I was nearing the bottom. A small rolling bag balanced on the step behind me, its handle in my right hand. My left hand held a half-full water bottle. A light blanket was draped over my left arm. My backpack hung squarely across my shoulders. Somehow I lost my balance, and when you lose your balance on an escalator there’s no retrieving it. Or perhaps there’s no retrieving it when you’re just days shy of your sixtieth birthday like I was.

In any case, down I went. In one of those surreal, slow-motion moments, I became aware of several voices all asking the same question: “Are you all right?”

“No,” I squeaked. “Can you help me up?”

I put out a hand and a kind man pulled me to my feet, not letting go until I stood on solid ground. Someone else retrieved my bag and blanket. My water bottle had dumped its contents across my hand.

I stood off to the side to assess the damages. One more person asked if I was okay. With a shaky voice, I replied “I will be. Thanks.”

I’d landed on one hip. That’s gonna hurt tomorrow, I thought. My right hand throbbed. No broken bones, just a bruised ego. It’s crazy how shaken I felt. I suppose it came from seeing how frighteningly fast something like that can happen and realizing how much worse it could have been. And how far I was from home.

I carried on, thankful I had lots of time to find my gate. Pretty soon the signs pointed up. I needed to take another escalator. My first instinct was to find an elevator or stairs. I walked past.

Then my mind returned to an event at age seventeen, visiting a ranch belonging to one of my high school teachers, Mr. DeVries.  After a pleasant trail ride, the horse I rode (I’ll call him “Lucifer” to protect the innocent) took off unexpectedly as soon as he came within sight of home. Apparently, his saddle had not been properly cinched. I found myself hanging off the side of Lucifer for hours, or at least a second. I remember the taste of dirt as I hit the ground. Mr. DeVries saw the whole show. He caught the horse and walked it back to me.

“You need to get back on,” he said.

I did, determined to show Lucifer who was boss and Mr. DeVries that I wasn’t a sissy—even if I really wanted to cry.

Lucifer took off again. I landed in the dirt again.

This time, Mr. DeVries made me climb back on the horse but walked the animal to his stall. I slunk into the house for a soothing shower and a little cry.

I don’t recall being on horseback since. It’s never been a priority. But it all floated to the surface that day at the Atlanta airport.

I turned around, walked back to the escalator, and stepped aboard.

Thanks, Mr. DeVries.

Saving Daylight and Other Fallacies

I’m so done with it, and it seems I’m not alone. News reports would have us believe our province came close to doing away with daylight savings time. But for whatever reasons, we’re still changing our clocks despite all the stats revealing the rise in accidents and illness associated with this disruption to our biological rhythms.

When my news-feed was all about Manitoba following Saskatchewan’s example and cancelling the time change, the big question was, “which way should it go? Should we stay on standard time all year or on daylight savings?”

Personally, I wouldn’t really care. Just make it stop. But if I had to pick, I’d say stick with standard. People say they like the long summer evenings. Really? I like to think that on Canada Day, we could start the fireworks by ten o’clock instead of waiting on the banks of Crescent Lake, swatting mosquitoes until nearly eleven when the show finally starts. I hope I don’t get hate mail telling me to move to Saskatchewan.

Speaking of time zones. I visited Florida last month, but I was in the same time zone as home. Did you know that was possible? I sure didn’t. With Florida on the east coast, I initially had Atlantic time in my mind—two hours difference. Then I remembered the way the continent narrows as you move south, and I thought it would be only one hour different. And for most of Florida, that’s true. But if you study the map, you’ll see that Florida’s pan handle runs to the west, along the north shore of the Gulf of Mexico (just south of Alabama), and it’s in the central time zone, same as home. Although I crossed over into Eastern time when I landed in Atlanta, I crossed back again en route to Destin. (Which, by the way, was named after its founder. But what a great “Destin”ation!)

I found it strange how it felt like summer, but it was dark by six. Now I’m home and as soon as we turn our clocks ahead this weekend, it’ll still be light at seven even though there’s still three feet of snow on the ground. It just doesn’t compute with my time-warped foggy brain.

If I were in charge, I’d change the whole darn calendar. For example, I think they should have made January twenty-eight days long and February thirty-one. It might not change the weather, but at least it would feel like progress.

Better yet—if we can skip or add an hour simply by turning the clocks backward and forward, why not skip or add an entire month? At midnight on December 31, we could turn our calendars ahead to February 1. Then, to make it up, we could turn them back a month on July 31 and repeat July. That would suit me just fine. I love July. January, I could do without. Guess it’s good I’m not in charge.

Don’t forget to set your clocks ahead tonight or you’ll be late for church.

“But do not forget this one thing, dear friends: With the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day.” II Peter 3:8.

From Under a Palm Tree

As I write these words, I’m sitting on the third-floor balcony of a multi-million dollar vacation house in the warmth of a radiant sun. I see palm trees and blooming roses, pansies, and camellias. I hear the coo of a mourning dove and the gentle bubbling of a hot tub overflowing into a swimming pool. Earlier, I felt the white sand between my toes and watched the sun sparkle so brightly on the rolling waves of the Gulf of Mexico that my eyes could barely take it. It is my sixtieth birthday and I am torn between feeling blessed beyond belief and horrified beyond measure.

Blessed because I don’t deserve to be here—it’s only by God’s grace that I could make such a trip. That I could spend five straight days learning from seasoned professional writers how to plot a novel, how to create fully developed characters, how to help those characters heal their deepest wounds and face their biggest fears. That I should enjoy the privilege of rubbing shoulders with others who can spend an entire day working on these projects without tiring of it. That together we can help one another plan and plot and, more importantly, learn how to do it on our own when we return to our various homes. That our shared faith could provide a bond of trust and understanding not experienced in our regular workaday worlds.

The horror? It’s in the fact that this blessing is delivered on a silver platter called opulence. This grand house stands among hundreds—maybe thousands—of others that go on and on, lot after lot, each one pristine and fitted with every modern convenience. Pools, hot tubs, outdoor kitchens, perfectly groomed gardens. Every sidewalk clean. Every vehicle looking like it just drove off the lot. No trash on the beach. Happy music coming from backyards. Delicious aromas of meat on the grill. More food than anyone could or should ever eat.

The atmosphere of entitlement sickens my stomach and yet I know it resides in my own heart as much as in anyone else’s. Many of the stories we write are based on hardship, because without hardship, we have no story. The irony is not lost on me.

How can there be so much wealth in the whole world, let alone in these few square miles that surround me right now? How is all this possible as long as hunger and homelessness still exist, not just on the other side of the planet, but in this country and my own? What would the Compassion children whose photos appear on my fridge think if they could see me now?

When a rich young man asked Jesus what he needed to do to inherit eternal life, Jesus offered an intriguing answer. “Sell all you own and give it to the poor and come, follow me.” The young man walked away sad, for he had great wealth.

I’ll return home feeling extremely blessed, hopefully a bit wiser, but also a little sad. It’s my sixtieth birthday and I still have so very much to learn.