Faith

Yesterday I had a yeti of a day. You know, those days that snowball into an avalanche of disappointments, mishaps and frustrations. And to be honest I’ve been having a yeti of a year.

2020 has hit me hard, and I’m sure a lot of you can relate. I haven’t written in what feels like ages (months I know). I’ve dealt with health stuff, a long and tough deployment, an upheaval of life (quitting a career I loved and moving to a new city), an extra tough real estate market, the loneliness and isolation that is COVID and the daily challenges of a toddler.

Now back to my day yesterday. It started with a rejected offer on a home. We have been searching for months. And we were hopeful on this one. We offered listing price the day it hit the market, but were later told a higher offer had come in. We’ve put in multiple offers on multiple homes, only to be queued up with other buyers and sellers wanting highest and best offers, almost always over listing price. Another roadblock…

Meanwhile, my husband is on a work trip to the eastern bloc. He started his new position in Indy months ago and I’ve been back in the ‘Burgh with a toddler 24/7/5, with two days off on the weekend. I didn’t get my days of this week, no reprieve for my sanity. My fuse is short.

Then the little stuff started snowballing in…

An erroneous Amazon order was delivered. I had ordered ground coffee and they sent me whole bean. I hadn’t been to the grocery store in over a week, my daughter and I have been down with a summer cold for several days. I was completely out of coffee and counting on this order for more mommy go-go juice.

My solution, order groceries for pickup. My fridge had been scant for days. The only pickup times available were in the evening. The 6-7 pm block was the only option with a toddler bedtime fast approaching. As my pickup window neared, I received a message that my order was delayed but would be ready later in the night. I was now facing no morning coffee or a missed toddler bedtime. Neither is a good option for an exhausted momma.

I’m trying to decide what to do about my grocery pickup while washing milk cups. Meanwhile, baby girl goes in and out of the house to her water table on the deck. It’s the only thing that has kept her attention for more than two minutes all day. I leave the door open for her, as the kitchen fills up with flies. I pull the swatter from its resting place. Swat…first fly down, but with it goes down a succulent plant from the window sill that I caught the corner of the swatter on. The pot empties, soil is all over the counter, all over the drying rack with clean milk cups and down into the sink. Shit I yelled. Shit, shit, shit. And Freya chimes in shit, shit, shit. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Okay, I wanted to cry. Later that night I dreamed of a Bigfoot chasing me. I had had a yeti of a day.

Now, let me preface this by saying I often dream of yetis when things get tough. They’re one of my biggest fears. When I was a child, my sister Sarah’s favorite movie was Harry and the Hendersons. She saw the comedy in it, but it just caused me to have bad dreams. Nightmares of yetis chasing me through woods of falling timber. It’s been one of those recurring dreams that pop up when things get tough.

This morning when I woke up, I knew I needed to let yesterday go. The yeti had to go.

I turned to my Bible app on my phone. Days and nights like these need encouragement, a clean heart and a calm mind. I spent a few waking minutes with Him. I prayed for the yeti to get off my back, knowing God is so much bigger.

Today has been a challenge too. Things haven’t seemed to let up lately and I guess that’s something I have to deal with. Yeti days come and go, but I just have to remember I’m never alone with a Bigfoot.

Trust in him at all times, you people; pour out your hearts to him, for God is our refuge. —Psalm 62:8

I’ve always believed that I inherited my gift for words and love of reading from my mother. We share the same affinity for expressing ourselves through writing. As Veteran’s Day approached, I kindly asked her to share a story about my grandfather D. Dale Wooledge. His courageous service during World War II has always been a point of family pride. The following is my mother’s story, and at heart, his story:

“From my early childhood, I’ve always known that my father was in the army and was sent to Germany towards the end of World War II. But like many other veterans, he did not tell much of his story until he was an old man.

I had a very rosy view of my dad as a soldier. Dad had a chest with his army memorabilia. We kids excitedly sorted through the photos of army mates and smiling girls, uniform pieces and souvenirs. There were even a few medals. Most fascinating was an armadillo shell he saved from his basic training in Texas. (We don’t have armadillos in South Dakota, so it was very exotic to us.) But Dad never seemed too interested in talking about the things in that chest.

Dad always talked about his time in Europe as if it were one big adventure. He spoke of being in Holland, Belgium, Italy and finally Berlin, a long way from home for a South Dakota farm boy. He joked about kissing German girls who thought American soldiers were a great catch. He told me, “If I’d brought home one of those girls, you would have been a little German girl” (or Dutch, or Italian, as the story changed frequently). I had this picture of my dad romping through Europe with his friends, women sitting on his lap, handing out cigarettes and chocolates as they passed through the liberated towns.

Dad never actually talked about being a soldier. I knew he was trained as a tank driver, but he often told how the army discovered that he was the only one in his company who knew how to type, so they made him company clerk. He implied that this assignment kept him safely behind the battle front.

It wasn’t until Dad was in his late seventies that he began to share his war experiences. He finally told how he was sent to Europe just in time for the Battle of the Bulge. That he was a tank driver in a reconnaissance unit that went ahead of the troops to scout enemy positions. His unit was trapped across enemy lines, facing almost certain death or capture. They continued to fight and held on until they were finally rescued by General Patton’s troops.

Dad described how a sharp shooter’s bullet went right between him and a friend, narrowly missing them. And how one of his best friends was killed by a sharp shooter’s bullet the very next week. It turns out that he was not made company clerk until the very end of the war, and only for a short time.

Dad believed that God had His hand on him, even as a wild young man. He was on guard duty one night, and foolishly leaned his gun against a tree, feeling pretty safe with the war winding down. Then he heard a rustling in the bushes, and someone saying, “GI Joe! GI Joe!” He grabbed his gun and called out for whoever was there to show themselves. Out came three German soldiers with their hands up. He said they were exhausted, and knew they were on the losing side and wanted to surrender. Dad ended the story by saying, “Any one of those guys could have shot me from the bushes in the dark. I didn’t even know they were there. But God protected me for some reason. I just hope I have lived my life in a way to please God. There were so many who never made it home, and I know how blessed I am.”

Every veteran has stories to tell, good and bad. Things they regret and things they are proud of. Whether they choose to share their stories or take them to their graves, every veteran deserves our gratitude for risking their life for our freedom.”

Desmond Dale Wooledge
1924-2012

Love,
L.N.

The write dish

Serving up a slice of my life, one dish at a time

Yeti of a Day

Veteran’s Day 2019: Reflections from My Circle