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 My Best Me
By Margaret Eileen

As far as God's children are concerned, I consider myself to fall into his high maintenance category.
  ... So I'm sitting in church last Sunday listening to our Youth Minister who was filling in for our vacationing Pastor.  She went on to tell us about the near death experience of a little boy named Colton, chronicled in a book called "Heaven Is For Real"
      Throughout the book Colton goes on to describe people he met in Heaven who had died before he was born including his Great Grandfather.  However, after his experience he didn't recognize photos of his elderly great grandfather until his Grandmother showed Colton a picture of him as a much younger man in his late twenties.  "Because", as the Youth Minister continued, in heaven we are our “Best Self."
Now that got me to thinking.  What age was or is my "Best Self".   In my twenties, it was the 80's, and although the body wasn’t bad, the big hair was out of control.  Now in my 40's, I’m happy with the hair, but the body has 20 extra pounds.  Then I remembered a prayer I had hastily babbled up to God in vain, and I do mean in Vain.
   It was the night before my wedding day and I decided I needed to consult with a higher authority regarding my hair and make up. I never considered myself a Barbie doll by any stretch of the imagination, in fact, I always felt rather nerdy and out of place. Growing up as a Tomboy, I never felt comfortable dressing up and wearing heels let alone have the confidence to pull it off.   All eyes were going to be on me walking down the aisle, and I found that daunting to say the least.  
 So I actually prayed, are you ready for this, asking God for this one day to look my best... AND I ended my narcissistic plea with the phrase,  “I won't care about the rest of my life if I can just look my best tomorrow."
Remember, I'm still sitting in church while all this is coming back to me.  Suddenly, I had a vision of myself floating about in Heaven in my wedding gown.  Old folks are filing in through the pearly gates doing a double-take when they see me.  "Oh my, the poor dear, died on her wedding day"  "No, No" Jesus says wearily.  "She actually prayed for that, it's the only day of her life she wanted to look her best.”  Perplexed at the idea that God would respond to such a self-indulgent prayer, they listened to Jesus as he explained the rationale behind that decision.  “The Father and I aren't in the habit of granting wishes, but we felt it a good lesson for her to learn.  We forgot, however, which child we were dealing with.   When her looks began to fade, instead of asking us for forgiveness and recanting her prayer...well, here she is.”
Every time Jesus explains the prayer that should have be left unanswered, the old folks begin shaking their heads with bewilderment as they transform into their "Best Self", but in regular clothing.
Seventeen years later I'm sitting in church realizing how completely selfish that prayer had been and why my gown is still stored in my attic. The truth is, until that Sunday I believed God had provided me the perfect Maxfactor wedding day.   Because for years my sweet Uncle Gerald would never let a visit go by without saying, what a beautiful bride I had made.  Uncle Gerald passed away last October and among the photos at his funeral service was one of the two of us dancing at my wedding. The smile on my face said it all. 

God didn’t grant me a wish.  He gave a self-conscious, young girl the chance to see herself as He did.  Today, I still struggle with self-esteem issues from time to time, though I understand now.  I am nobody special, but I’m as special as everyone is, in God’s eyes. 
But just in case you run into me in the hereafter, it's a bright white wedding gown with nine tiers of lace making up the skirt.  I went a little too princess on the puffy sleeves, but it has a pretty scalloped V neckline, and oh yeah, I look amazing in it!
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Conference Call Cupcakes
By Margaret Eileen


            Being a working Mom presents it’s own set of pre-configured challenges.  Our lives revolve around a meticulous schedule of business meetings, deadlines, social functions and our children’s activities.  Yet there are still those occasions when the slightest interruption in the schedule can cause two events to come crashing into each other. 
            It was September 30 and my son’s eighth birthday.  Whether by guilt or obligation, it was my Mommy duty to take cupcakes to school by the 11 am snack time.  I would spend 20 quality minutes making my son feel special then proceed to a 1pm meeting 45 minutes from the school.  Sounds like your child’s math homework, doesn’t it?  Remember those word problems we did in school?  If a train leaves New York traveling 70mph and another leaves Chicago… They seemed so ridiculous at the time.   Well, turns out they really did have a practical application. 
            The last of my three children leaves for school at 8:40am.  Most days I would already be dressed, but I didn’t want to run the risk of spilling anything on my suit.  I’m not exactly Betty Crocker in the kitchen.  I grabbed a quick bite of breakfast before cleaning up all the family dishes left from the morning meal. Now I was ready to make the cupcakes.  Most women would have made them the night before, but working late and utter exhaustion always seem to overtake me.  Just as I ripped open the Pillsbury box the phone rang.  It was a sales rep, one of the 40 I supported in my region.  He had a rush print job and needed my assistance to put it into production.  Several minutes into the conversation, I couldn’t wait any longer, I propped the phone between my shoulder and chin and set the oven to 325.  He was still explaining the job specifications while I poured the mix into a bowl, added 2 eggs and a quarter cup of oil and water.  The noise of the electric mixer was out of the question, so I quietly hand stirred the batter listening intently to every painstaking detail as he continued to talk.  I glanced at the clock, it was 9:35 am. The cupcakes would need to bake for 35 minutes and cool for another 20 before icing and getting them up to school.  It was going to be close, but the school was a short two minute drive up the street and disappointing my son was not an option.
            Suddenly, the rep asked a question I couldn’t answer.  “Hold on”, I said, “I’m going to have to call the vendor and conference him in.”  It was imperative for the job to be sent to the vendor by that afternoon in order to meet the customers’ deadline.  I put the rep on hold, dialed the vendor, found the cupcake wrappers, and began to spoon the mixture into the cups.   Just then, the phone slipped off my shoulder nearly landing in the batter.  Fortunately, the call didn’t get dropped with the phone. But it was a narrow escape from disaster and my heart required several deep breaths before returning to a normal rhythm.  We all arrived at a mutual course of action for the print job.  I hung up the phone and popped the cupcakes into the oven, it was now 9:55.  I had just enough time to throw on some business casual, paint on a face and accessorize before the oven buzzer went off.
            Almost done with my primping, and I swear I’m not making this up, the oven buzzer and the doorbell went off simultaneously.  The dog was barking his head off even though the doorbell was just a friendly alert from the UPS man that my package had arrived for my 1pm meeting.  “Hush up!” I hollered.  The cupcakes came out of the oven looking fabulous.  It was 10:19.  Cooling time would have to be cut short if I was going to make it.  I responded to a few emails while waiting for the cupcakes to cool.  At 10:30 they were still a little warm, but time was running out quickly.  I iced each one and carefully placed them into my cupcake transporters.  I don’t know what else to call them.  They are two rectanglar cake pans with snap on lids and handles I purchased in the mall last year.  It was one of those impulse buys that give our husbands ammunition to complain about our spending habits, but end up becoming a pure stoke of genius.
            10:46 and the cupcakes are done. I loaded them, my briefcase, and the UPS package in the car and I was off.  A few hundred yards from the house it hits me, no napkins.  Showing up at school with a messy snack and no napkins would be a major faux pas.  I turned the car around and charged back to the house to grab the yellow napkins I had saved in a ziplock bag left over from my daughter’s birthday party.  I felt something hard in the bag, and there I discovered the number 8 candle.  A little forethought had kept that from being totally forgotten.  “Matches!” I said aloud.  Fumbling around in two kitchen drawers, I finally found some, and I was off for the second time.  Walking swiftly across the parking lot to the school I checked my watch.  It was 10:59.  If you think I made it with a minute to spare, guess again.  Things have changed since we were in school.  There are security procedures to be followed, forms to sign in and out and a mandatory self-adhesive visitors pass.
            From the main office I broke into a jog to the classroom.  Arriving at the door, a cupcake transporter in each hand and bright yellow napkins under my arm, I saw my son’s face light up.  I also saw the teacher trying to force a smile after looking at the clock on the wall.  It was 11:06.  To make matters worse Nancy Randall, the Diva of all room mothers was volunteering in the class that day.  She and the teacher exchanged a “She’s finally here” look.  Nancy falls into a category of women I call “June Cleavers”.  These are women who by their choice of husband or circumstance have the luxury of being a stay at home Mom, a luxury I couldn’t afford.  I chose to ignore the look and focus on my birthday boy still beaming from my arrival.  Despite my tardiness, we sang Happy Birthday, ate our cupcakes, and had all messes cleaned up by the end of snack time, 11:25.  But I still couldn’t help feeling a little remorseful.  Having 24 second graders wait in their seats for six minutes must have felt like a punishment especially for the teacher.  Even though I promised my son that I would make his favorite flavor, Funfetti, perhaps store bought cupcakes would have been the better choice.  Oh well, it’s a lesson learned for next time I suppose.
            A week or so later I was on my way to another client meeting and stopped into Starbucks for a much needed cup of coffee.  Desperate for a caffeine fix, I didn’t notice Nancy Randall come up behind me in line.   She and a group of other June Cleavers meet regularly each week occupying the same table to discuss their various volunteer activities.  Usually I just give a friendly wave, but today Nancy decided to probe into the mysteries of life as a working Mom.  “So do you like working?”  If that question had been any more loaded, dynamite would’ve been hanging out of her butt.  I know there are some women who choose to work, but I wasn’t one of them.  My income was an absolute necessity for our family.  My husband, Brian, is a self-employed contractor, he works long hours and he works alone.  The honest truth is that we are only one broken bone away from serious financial difficulty.  Nancy continued her questions like she was speaking to someone from a foreign land.  “So what do you do?” she asked.  “I’m in contract sales.”  I replied.  “Oh you’re in sales!”  I had come to recognize that familiar tone of voice.  Over the years I learned that sales jobs were considered by many to be a means of getting paid for doing nothing.  Although tempted to defend my employment, engaging her in a conversation about performance based company’s verses the nine to five face time requirements of others seemed like a big waste of time.  So I elected to just smile. “It must be hard to keep up with three kids, a house and a job?” She went on.  “Who takes care of your children in the summer?”  “My oldest son is 15, he watches my younger two.” I told her.  “Fifteen!  I can’t get my son out of bed before noon in the summer!” She exclaimed  “My son is very responsible, he takes good care of his younger siblings, and they are all good about getting their chores done before we get home.” I said proudly.  “Chores!” she repeated, “What kind of chores do they do?”  “Well”, I said, “I leave a list on the counter everyday.  Like today, when my son gets home from school, he has to empty the dishwasher and vacuum…”
“Vacuum!  Your 15-year-old vacuums?”  Judging from the look on her face, it was apparent that I had just graduated from Foreigner to Extra Terrestrial. I had absolutely no idea how to answer her.  Was I breaking some child labor law or was vacuuming a new form of child abuse I hadn’t heard about?  In all fairness, I never saw an episode where June Cleaver made Wally and the Beave vacuum.  I mulled over a few response options.  Should I resort to being catty and chastise her for enabling her children to be lazy or should I take this opportunity to make a statement for working Moms everywhere?  Well, of course, I chose the latter.
            “Both my husband and I have to work to support our family and it’s necessary for our children to pitch in and help with the household duties.” Impressed with my level of  diplomacy, I found my answer to be very straight forward and fitting for this situation.  “Oh I see” Nancy replied.  You could hear the pity in her voice from a mile away, not that I was looking for any.  My objective was to make Nancy understand that not all working Moms are career minded go-getters, in fact, much of the time it’s just the opposite.  Most of the working Moms I know don’t strive to be the best at what they do.  They simply try to do the best they can.  Nancy was right about one thing though.  It is a lot to keep up with a job, a home, and children which is exactly why we don’t need any added guilt. 
            I left Starbucks hoping the next time Nancy sees a Mom running a little late to the classroom she’ll cut her some slack.  Then it occurred to me that Nancy’s opinion wasn’t important nor was anybody else’s for that matter.  It was the smile on my little boy’s face just happy to have his Mom come to school on his birthday.  And I was proud of myself for resisting the temptation of store bought bake goods, but instead, taking the time to make his favorite flavor.   The entire episode gave me a valuable life lesson I want to share.  For every working Mother out there who’s encountered her own June Cleaver along the way, please take this advice.  When you get home from work put down the guilt and pick up your child, because at the end of the day, it’s all about the cupcakes.
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The Mighty Jeff Nathan
by Margaret Eileen
            To understand my father was to understand his love for baseball.  Every heart to heart talk with Dad always included a baseball analogy by which he could solve any childhood crisis.  According to him, we all hit the occasional home run, had our share of strike outs, and would always succeed if we learned to rely on our teammates.
            All I knew about baseball was that is was the four months a year when I became invisible to my father, the ugly stepchild to his family of 12 sons.  And one son in particular was his golden child, Jeff Nathan.   His name became synonymous with my annual exile from my father’s attention.  Dad coached little league and Jeff Nathan was his shining star pitcher.
I had played catch in the yard with my Dad since I was four years old.  So at 14, I decided to play girls softball.  But Dad elected to contribute his volunteer hours coaching boys baseball instead of me.  I wanted to play baseball, but at the time girls weren’t allowed.  At least, that was the unwritten rule back then.  The softball was huge, and I couldn’t even steal bases, let alone pitch the ball underhand.  All I could do was watch the boys play from the sidelines.  Of course, that wasn’t by choice because Dad always had me ride up to the field on my bike and bring him a sandwich.  I used to stay and watch them practice for a while.  But I wanted to be out there so bad, before long I’d get mad and ride on home.
            Although, Dad coached many teenage boys during his ten year run, Jeff Nathan was the only name I could recall.  For three long years I heard Dad speak of Jeff Nathan so much that I came to loathe him.  I never actually had a conversation with Jeff myself, but I knew everything about him…”How great an athlete was Jeff Nathan”, “He’s a natural ball player that Jeff Nathan”, “He has such a fluid motion in his wind up…Jeff Nathan, Jeff Nathan, Jeff Nathan…”  Well, if he can do it, so can I.  Dad was down at his desk working one afternoon so I went out to his van and found his bag of baseballs.  With my glove in one hand and a marker in the other I drew an X on the back fence and started pitching.  The more I thought about Jeff Nathan, the harder I threw.  It took 4 days and a tube of Ben Gay before my shoulder started feeling better, but I left a nice, strike zone dent in the fence for Dad to see.  I don’t know if he ever noticed the mark on the fence or whether he just chose to ignore the actions of his hormonal teenage daughter.  But in either case, he never brought up.
            You gotta come to my church!  I have learned so much about myself.  The pastor always relates his sermons to everyday life.  My best friend Francine could be very persuasive, but Brian was pretty set on staying in the Episcopal church.  We had agreed that it was the best fit for us since he grew up Catholic and I Presbyterian.  But in a weak moment, I got him to go.  Four weeks later I was so impressed with the church, I decided to attend a Q & A session with the pastor. 
            There were twelve people in attendance so we went around the room and introduced ourselves.  At person number three, the women said, “Hello, I’m Barbara Nathan.”  What did she just say?  Since we moved to Burke, I heard a neighbor once mention that his doctor was a Jeff Nathan.  I remember thinking, of course Jeff Nathan grew up to be a doctor.  He was great at everything else he did, figures.  Now here I was face to face with another Nathan.  After introducing myself, I blurted out.  You aren’t by chance related to a Jeff Nathan?  “Why yes”, she replied, “he’s my son.”  Two years after my father’s passing I was sitting across from Jeff Nathan’s mother looking like she belonged in a make-up Ad featuring women who looked half their age.  But it wasn’t until after the meeting that she really took me by surprise.  “Oh you’re Dad talked about you all the time.  You got a black belt and went to Japan right?”  I was shocked.  Jeff Nathan’s mother seemed to know all about me, but how was that possible?  Considering we were at a church function, I didn’t feel it was an appropriate time to tell her just how much I had hated her son.  The bigger revelation was that he was also a member of the church.
            Well it was bound to happen, and it did one Wednesday afternoon.  I brought my son Brady to meet with Pastor John and discuss his upcoming first communion.  Crossing the parking lot to his office, Pastor John called out to a man.  “Hey Jeff, come here I want you to meet somebody.”  Pastor John, as I would learn had a memory that could defy a NASA rocket scientist.  He turned to me and said, “Didn’t you say you knew Jeff Nathan? 
            There he was, the mighty Jeff Nathan, greek god of the little league pitching mound, hauling an overloaded garbage can to the dumpster.  I had to laugh a little inside at the sight of my father’s superhero pushing trash.  And before I could stop myself an equally ignorant comment came right out of my mouth.  “Is he a garbage man, I thought he was a doctor.”  It may not have been the best thing to say, but I sure got a kick out it.  Pastor John said simply, “Jeff is a good man.  He has a servant’s heart.” 
            Indeed he did.  After chatting with Jeff for a few minutes and one more stupid comment about him being a garbage man, I began to see the person my father had always seen.  My arch nemesis, Jeff Nathan was exactly as Dad had described him…smart, quiet, humble, now a successful doctor and father of four.  And suddenly, my high school years of resentment melted into a few more treasured memories of my father.
            Easter Sunday, I met Jeff again, and this time with his whole family.  I met his wife, son and three beautiful daughters and his mother was there too.  I introduced them all to my husband and children and there we were, standing together in the church lobby.  It was then that I came to realize my Dad had a hand in arranging this meeting with Jeff.  I guess it fell into the category of unfinished business.  He wanted me to see the real Jeff Nathan so I could finally be rid of that green-eyed monster I’d let grow inside of me for so long.  Isn’t it funny how our perspective can become so distorted when we harbor our hurt instead of letting it go?  And what’d ya know, that was the exact topic of Pastor John’s worship series during this entire episode. 
            I wondered what baseball scenario Dad would use to describe my latest life lesson. But on the way home that afternoon it was my daughter, Meghan who provided me the answer.  She told me how excited she was to be moving up to AA ball this season so she could tryout for pitcher.  She is the only girl on her little league baseball team.
 

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