MY Heart in San Francisco, Part One
Can I rename my 86 years-young mommy Huldah,* the prophetess?
Monday, January 10th, 2011 my beloved hubby (MBH) and I were to jump a plane home from a weekend stay with her. That morning Mommy had us call SFO airport before we left. Two nights before she asked me, “You’re going home Wednesday aren’t you?” We laughed.
My mom was wise to get us to check our flight before we left her house. Snow and ice storm closed down the Atlanta International Airport. The earliest a frazzled agent could find two return seats for us was early Thursday morning.
Of my many sisters, Percy, the stunning singular one called me later that Monday. She deemed this flight snafu “a higher purpose” for me, for our greater family.
She was one of two quiet sisters at the previous night’s gathering at another sister’s home. We were to be a Norman Rockwell Freedom from Want tableau. Think happy eyes and glances across the table of wine glasses, a tossed salad, and Italian beef over flat wheat noodles with blueberry pie in the wings. Of course we’d reminisce. But we gathered to help our mommy resolve a roof disaster on a fifty year-old house that would always be her home. We had divergent solutions. I thought pre-event huddles, phone chats and fervent prayers would avert any verbal collision. After all "we are family," I got all my Latina sisters and me.
Oh I had me there.
Suddenly, “ME” strode to the kitchen bar over the pre-meal appetizers. I didn’t throw cheese bites or cherry tomatoes. No expletives came from me or anyone else. As the dialogue heated high, I let that “me” verbally blast up and out of the room.
I found myself on the edge a quiet suburban curb. It was a clear January night in the San Francisco Bay area. Jacketless I hardly felt the ocean chill. Heart pounding hard, I blinked my eyes up at the distant stars, begging their Maker for absolution. Or just a hug.
MBH came out to deliver one, later, too, the host sis plus the stunning sis. I even hugged the one I blasted at.
“Me” fretted over her smeared mascara and bloodshot eyes as I chewed pasta. Early next morning God fulfilled Mommy’s prophetic words. During the extra days by the picturesque Bay God gave me hugs, hugs I did not deserve. But I got the squeezes anyway.
While we were yet sinners, God loved me . . . and you.
someone close to me once wisely said that we need love most when we are most unloveable. Thank God that he is there for us!! Glad you are safe home, and I hope your mother's roof will be taken care of in the way that is best for her.
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