Keeping What We Have

By Virginia Smith

I recently attended my first “anonymous” meeting to support someone I care about. Never having been involved with a twelve-step program, I was a little intimidated, as was the person I went to support. Though I never realized it, my unconscious attitude toward difficult personal struggles has been “pray for strength, but suffer in silence.” This meeting blew that attitude out of the water.

Eighteen people gathered around a table and talked openly about their addiction. They told how their lives had been destroyed, how their disease took over every waking minute and every ounce of attention. It became the focus of their existence. They spoke of losing jobs and homes and families, of bankruptcies and suicide attempts. I was impressed over and over by how transparent these people were. They held nothing back. Their words were stark, often harsh, and the pictures they painted made me want to weep.

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Fake Fingernail Fiasco

By Virginia Smith

I recently did something I never thought I’d never do – I got acrylic fingernails. They looked lovely, but I quickly realized I’d made a mistake. For one thing, my typing skills suffered; for a writer, that’s a disaster. I also had a tendency to drum those lovely nails on any available surface just for the joy of hearing the charming tap, tap, tap. My husband wasn’t amused. He threatened to get his wire cutters and put them out of his misery if I didn’t stop. No problem, I said, because all that tapping made my fingertips sore anyway.

Then my nails started to grow, pushing those hard-as-titanium tips out with them and leaving an ugly gap at the base. Ugh. I decided I didn’t like the Edward Scissorhands look anymore. The fake nails had to go. But it seemed a tremendous waste of money to pay someone else to remove them when I could do it myself.

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The Right Clothes

By Virginia Smith

My husband and I enjoy taking trips together on his motorcycle. Last summer we rode down to Escalante National Park in southern Utah, and before we left I took the opportunity to do a little shopping. I had a jacket and helmet, but they were out of style. Now, that doesn’t matter one bit to my husband, but it does to me. I mean, what will the other biker chicks think if I zoom down the road sporting out-of-date clothes?

So, I went shopping for some snazzy new biker gear. Motorcycle clothing is expensive, but I was prepared to spend big bucks for a helmet, because I know how important head protection is. And I wanted a new riding jacket made of reinforced mesh with protective pads at the shoulders and elbows. The saleslady stuck with me, showing me different styles and commenting on the way certain colors complimented my complexion, – you know, the important stuff.

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Books and Covers… and People

By Virginia Smith

You can’t judge a book by its cover. We’ve all heard that saying. I know it’s true literally. I received a book as a gift not long ago, and when I saw the cover, I thought, “Nah. That story doesn’t appeal to me.” Then a week or so later I became desperate for fresh reading material and opened the book. Wow. Within a page or so I was into the story, hooked by the author’s writing and the character’s conflicts.

Perhaps more importantly, the saying is true figuratively. How many times have I formed an opinion about people because of the way they look? Oh, I’m never rude. But have I missed getting to know a truly delightful person because I didn’t take the time to see behind the façade? Have I been put off by a scowl, perhaps? Or by clothing that isn’t “appropriate,” by my personal standards? Have I discounted someone because they don’t speak my language well enough? Or because their beliefs aren’t the same as mine? Or even because I’m intimidated by the air of success they project? Am I missing some truly great stories because the cover doesn’t look all that appealing to me?

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Indescribable Love

By Virginia Smith

From an aging photograph on the bedside table, a bride and groom smile at one another with eyes full of love. The woman in the nursing home bed bears no resemblance to the bride. Dull, sightless eyes stare toward the ceiling, and sagging skin clings to the bones of her face like winter leaves reluctant to loose their fragile grip on the tree that gave them life.

As I hand a damp cloth to the man seated beside her bed, I detect a similarity to the groom in his wrinkled face. He raises the cloth to her forehead, and from the tenderness in his eyes I know he does not see her as I do. He sees instead every smile she has ever given him, every tear she has shed, every night spent together. He sees her as he knows she has been, and as he hopes she will be again. He sees her with love.

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