Introduction

It happened so quickly.  I was just finishing my book on the computer when the phone rang.  It was my old friend Danielle from the clinic where I used to work.  I hadn’t heard from her in nearly a year though it didn’t seem like that long ago. “Hold on a second,” I said, as I clutched the receiver between my ear and shoulder to free my button pushing fingers.  At the click of a mouse I shut the machine down so I could switch focus to the conversation. Somewhere in the exchange of small talk and current events, my mind flashed back to a place and time when I was trapped in despair and hiding it from nearly everyone, even those who thought  they knew me well.

As I recall, the two of us would occasionally get together and mix party drinks with tactless humor, but never did we dig much deeper than the surface on personal issues.  Danielle certainly had no idea of what was going on inside me. Like so many hurting people, I was a master at the art of pretense. As long as I was laughing on the outside and could put on a good “show” I think I even fooled myself at times.

I never told Danielle about all that had transpired since I last saw her, but when I looked out the window where the sun had set just minutes before, my heart began to ache.  In a knee-jerk reaction my forefinger stationed itself over the OFF button of the cordless phone then pulled back when I realized what I was doing. I was looking or a way around what I knew my heart was urging me to tell her.  While reaching for the pull-string of a ceiling light, I made a simultaneous decision to slip my foot in the closing doorway of opportunity. Either Danielle was going to accept me or reject me, but this time it was going to be for who I am today.

My feelings swirled with a strange mixture of fear and excitement, and the words somehow got out.

“I wrote an eighteen chapter book.”

I heard the sound of ice dancing around a glass and a noise that could only be the glass clunking down on a hard surface.

“You’re kidding! That’s wonderful!”

I quietly mentioned the title of the book.  This was followed by a nervous pause.

“I guess that lets you know it falls into the spiritual category,” I added.

“Gee whiz! I’m really stunned, Tammy. You’re just the last person in the world I would have thought could…I mean you’re so timid, but there is something about you that’s unpredictable. Yeah, I think I can see you doing something like this”, she added, as though she were still in the process of thinking it through.

       Though she tried to cover it up I knew what Danielle was thinking.  Never before had I jumped into the shallow end of risky conduct. Why would I do this?  Also, I am not exactly what the world may think of as qualified to take on such a task. I am a stay-at-home mother of three young children, who, aside from completing a one year medical secretarial course at a small town vocational school, has no formal college education.  Nor did I earn greater than average grades in high school, not even in the English department.

        After getting past the notion that I could scrape enough courage  (and whatever else it took) together and open myself up to who knows how many people, I knew what was next.“What’s the book about?”

I don’t know why my mind went blank.  I guess it was because I knew the story would be unlike anything Danielle may have read before, and she would realize I wasn’t the person she thought she knew.  My experience had permanently changed me. No matter how hard I searched for the words, there was no way of condensing the details and cramming them into to a what I did last summer over-the-phone essay.  I couldn’t come up with any answers that would do justice in describing what I had been though. All I knew was: I had a mission to complete through my writing. I had an obligation to communicate openly and honestly the course of events that transpired following a simple prayer to a God who, at the time, I didn’t know existed.  Where it goes from there is all up to Him.

I struggled in finding the right words and finally uttered, “It’s about friendship, destiny, and…” I took a deep breath and cleared my throat. “It’s an experience that I am almost certain is unlike anything you have ever heard before, Danielle,” I finally announced.

         The tension bumped up another notch.  A question was percolating in my mind.  Several avenues could be taken, including an avenue of escape.  I chose the direct route. “Would you like to be the first one to read it?  I could really use a critical eye… someone who is a third party to the experience if you know what I mean.”

        “I would love to read it!” she excitedly answered.

        “I must warn you: You’re going to learn some things about me you never knew and probably more than you want to know.  Take what you think you know about me and put it aside. It’s going to seem like you’re reading about someone else.”

        “Well, c’mon now.  What could you have been hiding?”

        “What I mean is, it’s very personal and puts me in a vulnerable position.  I lay everything on the line: weaknesses, faults… You name it. Everything I have kept hidden is exposed in the hope it may help someone.”

“Now I’ll have to read it!” she said.

         “Okay, I’ll get it in the mail on disk as soon as I’m done with the finishing touches.”

After hanging up the phone I sat down and stared at a blank computer screen and marveled at the mystery of fate. Who would have thought Danielle would be the first to read this story?  Who knows the destiny of these words and in whose hands they will turn up? Who indeed! Whatever the behind-the-scenes explanation may be, it is the prospect of a lifetime to share this with you.  To reach out to you through these words is the greatest gift and privilege I can ask for.  Whoever I was and will become as a result of my experience amounts to zero if I cannot share it with you and allow it to hopefully have a positive impact on your life.

A number of my personal experiences and the circumstances surrounding them may be deemed as out of the ordinary to some; therefore, I invite you to keep your mind and heart open.  While it is impossible to recreate a series of real events and experiences in perfect detail, this story is true to the best of my recollection. A few identities have been changed as well as certain business names and locations in respect to the individual’s privacy.  Other than these minor alterations, I present a genuine account of how God pulled me from the depths of sin and despair and called me to be His own in a most unforgettable way, thereby, changing me forever.

The original story that was published in 2002 has been revised in 2019.   There are some editing changes that were made to streamline the flow of the story.  Also, the epilogue has been reconstructed and surprising updates have been added to its content.  May God bless you as you read the story.

Chapter 1

It had become a routine of mine to collapse wearily on the living room sofa after a long day at the clinic and brood excessively about my job.  If only I could turn back the hands of time and seize the opportunity to occupy a lucrative career in the medical field, I would have done it in a heartbeat.  Verbal and emotional abuse unfortunately were commonplace at the mental health and chemical dependency clinic where I worked full-time as a secretary. What did I expect?  At the tender age of nineteen I learned how mentally disturbed the world was becoming. I often wondered whether the poor souls undergoing professional therapy at the clinic were gaining headway in their quest for happiness.  The entire concept of a patient spending hundreds of dollars and hours of time in therapy was extremely tiresome in itself; yet, I could see the ugly head of depression rearing itself every time the same people would return with the same sullen appearance.  It was not unusual for me to sneak away to an empty office, shut the door, and bawl uncontrollably after being relentlessly humiliated by a bad-tempered patient. All the signs were saying, “Get out of this job!” but I couldn’t quit. Despite the barrage of red flags, I didn’t want to be a failure.  

And my home life? Flat!  Oh sure, I loved my husband Dale, but our marriage was like a bottle of soda that had lost nearly all of its fizz.  It needed a “good shaking” and we had no children at the time to add bubble to the brew. The trendy advice that was circulating in the eighties for couples was to try new and exciting “adventures” to rekindle the flame.  I came up with a good one. Our third wedding anniversary was approaching and I wanted to go somewhere special, fun and interesting. Ann Mullens, my fellow co-worker at the clinic, suggested a cozy country restaurant overlooking Big Lake just off of Highway Ten called Russell’s on the Lake.  I proposed her recommendation to Dale and he loved the idea. We left work early that day, grabbed a quick shower, and drove off in expectation of a romantic dinner for two and it worked.

When we arrived back home Dale had the zany idea of going out on the roof of our garage with sleeping bags.  We crawled through the spare bedroom window and spread out the bedding, which provided sufficient comfort atop gritty shingles.  As we laid back in contentment, a nagging thought kept coming to mind. I brought up the subject of having a child. It was a aching need I was longing for and a moment of revelation that something was missing in my life.  Even though I may have been grasping at straws as to what was missing, nonetheless, I recognized the void.

        After months of trying to conceive, I consulted with my family physician who eventually referred me to an infertility specialist.  I was then prescribed Clomid, a widely used infertility drug that promotes ovulation. As the months passed I became consumed with the notion of becoming pregnant.  It became a personal mission of mine to fill the emptiness in my soul with a baby.

        I’ll never forget the day.  I woke up early to start my usual routine of getting ready for work.  I vigilantly prepared what was probably my eighth pregnancy test that year.  I stepped into the shower. Dripping wet, I reached out to nab a towel and I did a double-take glance at the test sitting on the counter.  My mouth dropped open.

        “It’s blue!”

        I pranced gleefully into our bedroom and danced around with an unraveling towel dangling around my waist and woke Dale up from a sound sleep.  He squinted and rubbed his eyes.

       “What’s blue?” he asked.

        I leaned over him and said, “The test!  You’re going to be a daddy!”

       All the man could do was smile from ear-to-ear.  What we thought may never happen, finally did. On April 24, 1991, I gave birth to our daughter Erica.  I was finally holding a cuddly little baby.

       It didn’t take long to realize that parenting wasn’t what I had bargained for.  I relied solely on baby books, magazines, and the advice of anyone willing to offer it.  I guess one could say that I wasn’t the natural mommy type but wanted to give it my best shot.  

        It was early in the morning.  My contented joy as a new mother was interrupted by the loud ring of the telephone.  I answered it. The disheartened woman on the other end was my supervisor, Jenny Martin.  I turned down the volume on the boombox that was blaring in the kitchen to hear her faint words.  “Tammy, I’ve got some bad news.”

        I tightened my grip on the coiled phone cord and listened intently.

        “I just received word that the clinic lost PHP.” {PHP was a major insurance contract from which the majority of our referrals came.} We’ll be closing our doors at the end of this year.”  I held my elated composure in and secretly thought that this may be the best news I’ve heard all year. Now I don’t have to quit, and thus, fail.

        “I hate to ask you this, but will you return to work?” she then asked.

        “When?”

        “Now! There’s a lot of work to do.  We have tons of referrals to get out.  I don’t know where to begin. I just need your help.”

        “I have to find a babysitter.  I just don’t know if I can find anyone on such short notice.  I’ll try though. Give me two weeks to find someone and I’ll let you know, Jen.”

        My emotions wavered between elation (I was finally through with this go-nowhere job) and worry concerning my childcare predicament.  Much to my delight, my retired mother from Duluth agreed to come down and care for Erica until my termination date.

        Well, it was a long, grueling five months.  Getting back into the grind of my position was insufferable.  Senior management squeezed me out of my comfy cubicle and stuffed me into a lonely back office where I processed referral authorizations for patients requiring continued therapy after our closing date.  I remember whining to my poor mother about being overlooked for promotion and feeling insignificant at work. Mom would kindly offer bits of advice and encouragement to hang in there until the end. Consequently, my taking offense then yielded to bitterness toward life in general.  I had to do something, I thought. I had a strong inner need to take action but didn’t know what type of action. I already tried on my own to fix things with a new baby. It wasn’t the answer and I knew it.

        Finally, I reached a point that some may call “rock bottom.”  There I laid alone, stretched across my king-size waterbed, and weeping bitterly out of control.  All I could do was ask, “Why?” Why do I keep falling into the pit of depression? I was tired of living like this and didn’t know what to do.  I wanted so desperately to disappear off the face of the earth… to vanish into eternity, whatever that may be. I wished not that I could die, but rather, I had never been born.  I had two options: one, overdose on over-the-counter drugs and probably end up in a hospital mental unit; or two, simply pray (an interesting but somewhat illogical concept, I thought).  Having nothing to lose, I opted for the latter.

        “God, are you there?  If you’re real I want to find you.  Please help me find you, not some phony religion.”

        I don’t know how it happened, but something peaceful came over me.  It gave me the strength to stop sobbing and slowed my labored breathing.  I lifted my face from my pillow and was somewhat baffled. My focus was fixed on a plain black Holy Bible that was placed neatly on the headboard shelf for decorative purposes.  I never thought once to open and book and read it. I curiously grasped the dusty book. I opened to Genesis and commenced reading “In the beginning…” Even though my Bible comprehension was restricted, I loyally continued to read further in the Old Testament.  This worked for about an hour. I finally stopped in frustration because I could no longer memorize the names and events that took place, who could? There’s just too much going on here and too many people, I thought. Furthermore, what does it have to do with me?

        One evening I decided enough was enough!  I walked down the two flights of stairs and into the family room where my mother was watching the news on the tube.  I timidly stepped through the opened French doors with my Bible hugged tightly to my chest. I was trembling and walking on my toes.  I didn’t know if it was a good time or ever would be. I bravely approached the woman. This was the same lady who said, “When you’re dead, you’re dead, six feet underground…nothing.”  She made it clear to me at a very young age that religion was something she didn’t want to get near and I knew why. Mom was raised in a Catholic orphanage for girls in a suburb of Chicago, Illinois.  Nuns, known as the “Felician Sisters,” were more like teachers than mother figures, in that they never gave hugs or personal love to the orphaned kids though they occasionally had favorites. One could liken this to looking at a litter of puppies, where one stands out as your favorite.  The nuns were assigned to a three year stint, and when their time was up they were replaced. I suppose they had a job to do and were graded by their superiors. All of the children wore the same uniform and the same type of shoes. The shoes were thrown in the middle of the floor and kids had to scramble for a pair that would hopefully fit.  I can only imagine how insignificant the children felt. Mom once said, “If they didn’t have roll call or find an empty seat in the dining room, they would never know you were missing.” They were just a number and another mouth to feed during the depression era.

        At some point along the road she threw in the towel and raised her own children with the freedom to find God in their own way, declaring, “Choose for yourself.”

        I bent down to couch level and extended my reach to where the Good Book was right under her nose.  Mom glanced at me strangely. “You’re reading the Bible, Tammy?”

        “Yeah. I wanted to start at the beginning so I wouldn’t miss anything.”

        I tiptoed to her side, holding my breath.  “Mom, I’m having problems understanding. Will you help?”

        I was pleasantly surprised to see her push down the volume button on Peter Jennings, who was airing the dirty laundry of the day.  Wow! Was I more important than the news? The unspoken rule of the household as a child was: Never interrupt Mom while she is watching the news, or else.  I never pressed Mom hard enough to find out what “or else” was.

        “If you want to learn, start by reading The New Testament.”

        “Where is that?”

        She took the book out of my hands and found Matthew.  “Here…start here,” she said, tapping her finger on the page.

        “I was confused at her helpful reply.  It wasn’t what I expected, and I couldn’t help but ask, “So Mom, do you do believe in God?”

        “Sure. Somebody had to put all of this here,” she said, spanning her arms out in a wide stance.

        I walked back to my room with my right hand between the pages where Matthew starts.

        As I read each Apostle’s version of the extraordinary course of events occurring nearly two thousand years ago, numerous thoughts crossed my mind.  To have witnessed the miraculous healings that Jesus performed would have been an honor to say the least. As I meditated, I could sense an ongoing battle in my mind as to whether or not the Scriptures were accurate or perhaps a magnificent piece of writing manufactured in the minds of a collaborating group of genius authors.

        Closing the book, I questioned in my mind: Why is so much suffering allowed by God?  Where is he when innocent children are being abused or tortured in heinous, unspeakable acts?  Is he real? Does he hear my small voice crying out in the noisy confusion of millions of others moaning at the same time?  

        I flipped forward to Acts 2:38 (NIV) “Repent and be baptized every one of you in the name of Jesus Christ for forgiveness of sins.”  Be baptized.” Those words rang loud in my conscience night and day. I knew I had not yet been baptized.

        I delicately placed the Bible back on its shelf and silently said a prayer to a God I wasn’t sure was listening or even existed for that matter.  “Please help me make sense out of all this. Help me believe. I want to believe in you, but I just don’t know how.”

        I looked at the floor in shame, feeling like a darn fool talking to air.  I had nothing better to do than continue. “I’m so lonely God! Is there someone out there who can relate to me?  Is there someone who understands how I feel?”

        I was fragile, timid and self conscious beyond hope and had always been that way.  I never liked myself that way. I suppose, somewhere along the road I gave up and derived the conclusion:  I would always be a “loner” and a misunderstood, feeble woman who fades away into the background of life- lost and forgotten.  I would have considered myself fortunate to have drawn a small crowd of ten at my own funeral.

        I pressed my bed pillow against my face, because I wanted to hide and muffle the shrieking noise that started from the pit of my stomach and burst out my mouth uncontrollably.

Chapter 2

My job at the clinic came to a not-soon-enough end on December 31, 1991.  It was a hopeful finale to an otherwise agonizing year. I utilized quiet moments at home to plan my future.  Dale and I agreed to spin the baby roulette wheel once again since the timing seemed right, and Erica would delight in a sibling to play with.  Shortly after Erica’s first birthday we were successful again. My second child was due on Christmas Day.

When interest rates plummeted to their lowest since the seventies, we decided to move our growing family from our suburban home to a more rural community twenty miles northwest.  Lot after lot of pristine, wooded land caught our eye in Zimmerman. We drove back roads through the Woodlands on quiet neighborhood streets and stumbled upon a small split-level home attractively displayed on top of a lofty hill, landscaped with a variety of trees, flowers, and hedges.  Perfect! It was easy to assume this home was out of our price range, but we dared to dream anyway.

After inquiring at a local real estate office as to what homes were for sale in the Zimmerman area, Judy (our assigned agent) printed out a list and escorted us to five houses that day.  My eyes grew wide in eager anticipation as she cranked a sharp turn and traveled up the steep, winding driveway of the house on the hill. It was the same house we had previously admired, but now it was for sale and the first house we viewed that day.  There was a steel plaque on the front door that read, “Welcome in the name of Christ.” Also on the plaque was a narrow metal strip with the owner’s last name engraved in it which incidentally fell off of the plaque when we shut the door after viewing the home.  Judy said that the house was fresh on the market and not yet in the official MLS listing of houses for sale. Much to our glee, a modest offer was made and accepted by the owner after a day of minor negotiations. There was no way we would allow the competition a chance.  

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that having children, plus a lovely new home, does not equal happiness.  After the birth of our second daughter, Courtney, marital problems were tossed into this opened can-of-worms life of mine.  Power struggles involving topics like, whether there was a head of household or an equal partnership. I wanted equality and was prepared to fight tooth and nail for it.

A form of escape seemed to be in order, so I began browsing through the “Help Wanted” ads in a blind attempt to fill the emptiness with a new and improved career.  While skimming through the ads I caught notice of a secretarial position available at a local hospital in the nearby town of Princeton. Right before my eyes in bold print was a wanted description of every office skill I possessed in addition to perfect gravy evening hours (making it possible for me to work without putting the girls in daycare).  I promptly responded with a cover letter and resume.

A week later I received a reply requesting an interview.  An emergency room registrar position was offered which would give me the prestige and recognition I was looking for, I figured.  When my would-be boss Marilyn informed me of the salary, I made a weak attempt to boost the wages and paid the price dearly. Marilyn lowered my grade level to on-call.  My performance was under a microscope because I was the big shot who dared to question the wages.

Working in the ER at the hospital was the exciting yet stressful pace I was familiar with at the clinic.  I was intrigued but not surprised at the course of events that transpired before, during and after a patient was treated.  A number of physicians would walk by my desk without any form of acknowledgement that I was there, then enter a patient’s room and provide the best medical care in town.  There was, however, a small group of doctors who considerately cared enough to know the basics (my name, family status, etc). I won’t soon forget the medical student, David Boyer, who pulled up a chair and sat by my side on a quiet Saturday afternoon and competed with me in the Reader’s Digest Word Power section.  Of course, I was no match for this sophisticated scholar.

Another day echoes gruesomely in my memory.  It was my fourth day of training in the ER registering patients.   My mouth gaped open in gripping fear and I shook my head in disbelief.  Did I hear that right? The ambulance scanner boomed in dispatch of two units to a dreadful three vehicle accident on highway 95.  Three adults were in critical condition and a 17 year old female was dead at the scene. Seconds later an unrelated cardiac arrest was also on the way to this small town ER.  The usual staff tripled in a matter of seconds in preparation of the worst case scenario.

I grabbed my trainer Kari’s arm.  “Does this happen all the time here?”

“It’s not rare.  This is an ER, but to be honest I haven’t seen this much action in a long time,”she added.  

The head nurse approached the two of us and clapped her hands in front of my nose. “Come on!  Get on your feet; we have got to be alert! And put these on.” She handed out two pair of exam gloves and told us to put ID bracelets on the patients as they came in.  I pulled the gloves over my trembling hands. My mind instantly shifted to an automatic pilot state, giving off the sensation of being somewhat removed from the situation.  A natural surge of energy coursed through my veins triggering the “fight” or “flight” response.

The first patient rolled through the ambulance door.  It was a young adult male. Kari ran to his side with an ID tag.  A nurse learned his name and hurried over to me with a phone book.  She shoved the phone book and a piece of paper with his name on it in front of me.  “Here’s the name. Call his parents. We don’t know if he’s going to make it. I will call this man Doug.

When I called, his mother answered. “Do you have a son named Doug?”

“Yes.”

“This is Northland Hospital.  I am sorry to say that Doug has been in a car accident and we need you here right away.”

“Oh, no! How is he?”

“I don’t know.  It’s serious. Please come now!”

I heard something thud on her end of the line and she hung up.

In came the cardiac arrest male, then the driver of the motor home: a retired man in stable condition.  The EMT rolled him into a treatment room where he was left temporarily unattended. Then entered his wife, unconscious and bleeding and in critical condition.  Staff wheeled her in the trauma room next to Doug and started cutting her clothing in full assessment of her injuries.

Meanwhile, patients with minor cuts, scrapes and coughs were waiting to be treated.  I think if I were the young woman waiting to have a tiny piece of glass removed from my pinkie, I would have stood up, counted my blessings and walked out at that point.  I poked my head through the sliding windows and informed the patients it would be a long wait. Just then the public access doors burst open and a woman came at me in shambles, pleading with me, “Just tell me if he’s dead!”  It was Doug’s mother. I was sick to my stomach and wished I could have been a mouse in the corner.

I immediately signaled a nurse to help me but they were all busy saving lives.  Doug’s mother leaned against a wall in the waiting room and cried in disbelief.

The family of the seventeen year old girl approached my window.  The head nurse, who was standing behind me, waved them in. They pushed the door open and filed into an examination room right behind my desk.  My eyes dropped down in futile pity as I overheard the on-call doctor notify them of their loved one’s death. The screeching squeals and screams I heard bellowing through the walls of that room were something I’ve never heard even the finest dramatic actor portray.  I had to get out of there!

I forcibly held back tears while rising from my chair with my head down.  I certainly reached the point of shock by this time but knew this wasn’t the time or the place to lose control.  I walked stone-faced past a trio of nurses who looked at me affectionately. Out two swinging doors I went, leaving the impression they had just lost a secretary.  

After regaining some semblance of composure, I returned to my desk and finished my shift.  

Life Flight helicopters came in and boarded, then flew out the two critical patients to a trauma hospital in Minneapolis.  The cardiac patient went to the Cardiac Care Unit.

“Whew!” When I looked at the clock I knew I was going to make it.  I only had five minutes to go.

All I could think of on my commute home was how fortunate I was to have a family waiting for me to hug when I get there.  It was a stunning reality check of how quickly a family’s life can be turned upside-down without warning.

Weeks passed by, and I was grateful I didn’t experience another day like that tragic Sunday in August.  

Once a month Marilyn would schedule a meeting for the office workers to sound their grievances and work out the glitches in our new computer system.  Our meetings were like carbon copies of the same old issues being debated with the same people complaining, with the exception of November’s meeting. A petite young woman with a stylish shoulder-length bob sat across from me.  She was quietly listening but not offering input (much like I was that day). Now I didn’t speak to her or even make eye contact but several thoughts came to mind. Either she was the person who just returned from maternity leave or some high-school teacher was going to barge in any second to retrieve their missing student.  She didn’t look a day over fifteen. A yellow Post-it note with the name “Cheryl” and “baby girl” stuck neatly to the front office desk during my training may correlate to her identity, I thought. I found myself looking her way several times. There was an aura of approachability about her. I am not sure how to explain, but if I were among a group of strangers and needed directions, she would be the one I would ask.

In the midst of my busy schedule of dishes and dirty diapers, I conspired a scheme to take my two daughters to my hometown of Duluth to celebrate Christmas and Courtney’s first birthday early.  Apparently the sympathy card didn’t work; there were no takers on the bonus ten dollars offered to anyone willing to work Courtney’s birthday for me in the ER. Little did I know when I accepted the job, I would have to sacrifice four holidays in a row from my family and how difficult it would be to find a replacement.  I deliberately crossed off the week of December thirteenth on the calendar, assuring no interference with my pre-holiday celebration plans.

When the phone rang the following morning, I briefly hesitated in debate of answering it.  During the past few months, I developed an ability to sense when someone from the hospital was calling to ask me to work for them or have a favor carried out.

A courteous, soft spoken female voice introduced herself.  “Hello, Tammy?”

“Yes.”  

“Hi.  This is Cheryl Olson.  You don’t know me but I work at the hospital with you.”

“Oh, hello!” I graciously replied, reflecting her kindness back to her.  I paused for her proposition.

“I was wondering if you had plans for December sixteenth and seventeenth.  I’m scheduled to work and I need…”

I interrupted in attempt to cut her short and tell her my plans that week.  “I’m sorry, Cheryl, but I just made plans to go up north for the holidays. You see, I’m scheduled to work Christmas Day and my baby’s first birthday, so I plan on celebrating early this year.”

“Well, I’m pressed to ask you because my infant has a medical problem.  She is scheduled for hip surgery and I can’t find a replacement.”

I was sounding through a list of office employees in hope of stumbling across someone else to inquire of when suddenly mercy overcame me.  I was overwhelmed with heart-felt compassion as I quietly listened to the outpour of desperation and flowing sweet sincerity in her voice. Though I did not know the stranger on the other end, I was compelled to break down and help her.

“I’ll do it, Cheryl!”

“Oh, but what about your plans.  Maybe I should…”

“No! Forget my plans; they weren’t definite anyway.”

There was an uneasy, long pause.  “It’s no trouble, really!”

“I’ll work any day for you, Tammy,” she said.

“December twenty-sixth?”

“No problem!”

“Let me know how the surgery goes,” I added with genuine concern.

I hung up the receiver and sighed with a mixture of relief and delight at the trade-off we had arranged.  I discovered that day a joyous insight into the true meaning of Christmas.

Chapter 3

The following Sunday exemplified my routine of forcing myself out of bed, getting ready
for work, and leaving last minute child care instructions with Dale.

I grabbed a strong cup of coffee in the ER and walked back to the nurses’ station where I engaged in small talk with two nurses. Midway into our dialogue, I could hear the sound of rustling papers and shuffling footsteps at my desk area. I turned my attention to the noises and observed a young woman sitting in the chair at my desk. Somewhat perplexed, I walked slowly toward her with eyes fixed on her face in an expression of familiarity. She turned the swivel chair in my direction and floated its wheels slightly closer to me.

“Are you Cheryl?” I asked.

“Yes.” She leaned forward and dropped a pen on the floor then bent down to pick it up.

“I’m Tammy.”

When she sat up and looked at me again, a picture registered in my memory. It was at that moment I think both of us silently processed that we had recognized one another from November’s office meeting. Cheryl… I thought to myself; she is the one who called about her daughter’s hip. Did I read my schedule correctly? Why are we both here at the same time?

Without uttering a word of my confusion, she read my bewilderment and immersed into an explanation.

“I bet you’re wondering why I am here!”

“Yeah, the thought did cross my mind.”

“I just returned from maternity leave. Marilyn asked me to work your shift with you because the computer was implemented while I was gone. Don’t worry though, Tammy. I think I’ve got it down. I registered some patients in the front office already. It’s not complicated.”

laughed. “Good. Maybe you can teach me a few things. You’ve been here longer.”

“Since the move from the old hospital, everybody feels new. It’s like a new job to people who have been with Northland for years. Well, it will be nice to have someone to talk to when it’s quiet and there’s not much to do.

Hey, we could take turns registering patients like teamwork.”

“Deal!”

She stood up to offer me her chair. I shook my head at her amiable gesture and went to the nurses’ station to find a stray chair, only to return to a fresh cup of coffee, compliments of my new colleague.

We exchanged basic family information in a light, easy conversation.

Cheryl left momentarily and returned with juice and muffins from the cafeteria. I sipped my beverage slowly and bit into the warm, fresh muffin. In a quiet pause I examined in my mind the question: Why was this stranger rolling out the red carpet of hospitality for me? It seemed like one of those rare occasions when two strangers meet and magically click together.

I broke the silence and asked her about her baby. “How is your little one doing? You mentioned something wrong with her hip?”

I could see the corners of her mouth turn down in slight distress. “Well, Tammy, I’m very concerned about it. I brought Katie in for a two month check up with her pediatrician, thinking all was normal with her health. The doctor was routinely checking her hip alignment (like they do) when he noticed one side was asymmetrical. Her right hip was completely dislocated. Immediately she was referred to an orthopedic surgeon at Children’s Hospital. And now I’ll have to wait and see how the surgery goes.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’m glad I can work those two days for you; and let me know if you need me to work other days.”

“Thank you. That’s very nice of you to offer,” she said smiling. It will be okay, I just know it,” she added.

I nodded and changed the subject to family history. I told her my age (27). I spoke haphazardly of my husband being a machinist and then went in to the ups and downs of having two daughters in diapers.

I could see her eyes light up with delight while I was rambling about the girls. Her mouth opened in excitement like she couldn’t wait to tell me something. “I’m just a year younger than you!”

“You’re putting me on. You don’t look like you’re old enough to drive.”

“My daughter Tiffany is the same age as your Erica, and Katie is just eight months younger than Courtney! My husband Dave is a police officer.”

“Do you live in Princeton?” I asked.

“Yes. We built a house just outside of town.”

“That’s interesting. I moved to Zimmerman last year. It’s a nice country area. I like it.”

Our jubilant conversation was rapidly flowing deeper into more mutual commonalities with only an occasional interruption from a patient or nurse to remind me of my whereabouts.

Black casual slacks and a simple hunter green floral print shirt sweeping just past her tiny waist gave the impression that Cheryl was more interested in comfort than high fashion brand names. By all appearances, she was a natural beauty in a petite package that couldn’t have tipped a hundred pounds on the scale. She wore very little makeup (she didn’t need it). Her hair was a naturally curly single-length bob that tapered to her jawbone; it was a striking feature with a mixture of golden blond highlights, tousled with reddish brown strands. She had a sensible pair of “child-sized” black leather slip on shoes. I couldn’t help but notice how tiny her feet were next to my size eights.

Right around noon we slipped away together to a fast food restaurant where I listened intently and focused on her dark brown eyes as she spoke fondly of the hobbies she enjoyed. Cheryl described herself as an “imitation artist” who enjoyed painting when the mood was right, snowmobiling on wooded trails, and swimming in the summertime at her mother’s retreat on Lake Mille Lacs and at David’s parents lake home in Brainerd. I was taken immediately in by her happiness and zest for living life to the fullest. Before I had an opportunity to relay my own interests, she laid down the welcome mat, inviting me to all of the places she spoke of and to her home.

We returned to work. Only a few hours passed since our introduction, and I couldn’t quite lay hold of the reality of a friendship transpiring before my eyes so quickly. It had never happened before. It was as if I were speaking to an old friend I had known since childhood or beyond. The similarities in our personal histories completely boggled my mind. Even the description of her mother depicted a younger version of my own mom with a few variations, of course. However, a sliver of envy overcame me as she portrayed her father as the “ideal” father figure with a chiseled movie star appearance, crystal blue eyes, and perfect teeth. He was the model package of a strong yet gentle man who was so highly respected by his children that it was rarely necessary to spank them.

The portrayal struck a chord of sadness that I couldn’t hide. I looked down at my shoes and reminisced briefly of the father who left my mother before I was born. Aside from spending one summer with him when I was four years old, I could count on one hand the number of days I spent with my dad.

Sensing my uneasiness, Cheryl changed the subject to her adolescence. She recounted her high school days as bittersweet. She attended a private Catholic school and participated in the usual proms, dances and parties with her circle of friends, but this was in contrast to a strict disciplinary life at home.

In her nonchalant manner, Cheryl communicated a unique ability, a gift, if you will, of reading the feelings of individuals in particular circumstances (not was he or she is thinking but rather, feeling). I attended to her words with interest as she gave the example: “If I noticed a girl at a high school dance, let’s say, I would know whether or not she was really having fun, even if she was trying to conceal her sadness with laughter. I can’t explain; it’s something I just know. It has something to do with the eyes. I can detect sadness in her eyes.”

“Would you go and talk to her if you didn’t know her?” I asked.

“Sure. I would especially talk to a shy person at a dance or party. I guess I have always preferred quiet people; they seem more genuine… like true friends. I would show her how to have some real fun!”

I could feel her eyes studying my face. My eyes nervously shifted focus and I looked away from her. I knew she was analyzing my feelings and relating to me without saying a word.

A collections of bleak high school memories flashed through my conscience, and I turned to look at her again and said, “I guess I would be the shy girl you were talking about. I would be the one holding up the wall, nervously studying the silliness of my peers.”

I impulsively muttered, “Do you think I’m stuck up?”

“No way, Tammy! How could you think such nonsense?” she hastily replied.

“Thanks. I just wanted to hear it, that’s all.”

Was it time to go home already? The day flew by. It was truly remarkable, and the first time I didn’t want to leave work. I was refreshed and built up in her presence. How was I going to express to Dale the new gladness I discovered in the friend I met that day? How could I do justice in describing her? I just got paid eight hours wages to talk to the most warm, intuitive woman I had ever met whose wisdom far surpassed her years lived. All I said was, “I met this really neat girl at work today.” I didn’t go into any details.

Making good on her invitation, Cheryl asked me and the girls to her home that following week to meet Tiffany and Katie, her two little girls. Our daughters happily absorbed themselves in a huge box of toys while I toured the lovely split-level home that was tucked away in the country. Beautiful long-needled pines surrounded the house on all sides, securing privacy but leaving plenty of room for sunlight to beam in. Just outside the family room window an orange tabby cat and a German Shepherd frolicked playfully in the fresh fallen snow. Exquisite unframed original paintings casually lined shelves and door frames. One particular watercolor painting of a boy holding a frog close to his face, gingerly studying his creature, caught my peripheral vision as I walked slowly down the hallway to the staircase. I passed several antique wooden crates with farm animal scenes of chickens, cows, and pigs sported on the sides of each crate. Spectacular! I couldn’t wait to see the main level.

We reached the top of the main level where I noticed a dining hutch that was crowded with a vast collection of paper mache Santa Clauses; each one was uniquely designed and painted. Another assortment of antique ironing boards with old fashioned Santa Clauses painted on each, was scattered about in various stages of completion. Some were still waiting for attention in the garage. I was in awe and entirely convinced the self-professed amateur had underrated her abilities in the artistic department. Never before had I personally viewed such a ravishing collection of art whose master had created with her own hands. When I complimented her obvious talent her demeanor shifted to a modest nod and a quick, “Thank you.” No doubt, the young artist was not interested in accepting credit for anything she possessed or created.

A dainty opened-arm motion welcomed me to sit on a fine white leather sofa in the living room.

“Where is your baby? I haven’t seen her yet.”

“I forgot to mention, she is in her crib napping. She’s a good sleeper.”

“How is her hip doing?” I asked.

I saw a sparkle in her eyes like she wanted to burst into excitement. She paused and looked up and little off to the left before answering. “Her hip is fine now. She won’t be needing any further medical care.”

I was a bit stunned. “No surgery?” I questioned.

“None.”

“That’s wonderful news!” I declared.

My hostess stood up and walked to the kitchen counter where she pulled out a canister of instant coffee and asked, “May I make you a cup?”

“Sure.”

I came to the table and sat down. The next thing I knew, pots and pans were clanging and lunch was being prepared. She pulled out a box of macaroni and cheese and went to the refrigerator for hot dogs.

I quickly downed my coffee, assuming it was my cue to leave. I didn’t want to overstay a first time visit. My hostess wouldn’t hear of it, and I couldn’t refuse the “I’m hungry” annotations from the mouths of my two little moochers.