October 8, 2001

 mfinley.com   
"Perspective"

by Michael Finley
(c) 2001 by Michael Finley

As you know, I haven’t written in a while. I've been busy trying to build my business up again from scratch. So busy that I've not let myself think about the war we're in, or the danger we're in. It makes me less a citizen, and less a "commentator," but what can I do? I have to take care of my family.

You see, when I got the bad news about losing my best client, I grieved for about two days, then hit the street. Rachel had a tougher time of it. Usually she is the one full of spunk and can-do attitude. But this really seemed to crumple her. For the better part of a week she was visibly depressed. And a little angry at me.

I think it's because she has so many more plans than me. Plans to take singing lessons, to act, to learn Yiddish, to dance. Books to learn, jigong to do. When it comes to self-improvement she is like a many-armed Hindu goddess, spinning in numerous directions at once. My losing my job meant all these bright plans had to go, for the moment, on the shelf. She was mourning the obliteration of all these dreams. And I felt guilty because I never saw it coming. Or, I didn't have enough of a fallback plan.

So I've been rushing around, calling up old friends, poring over a shoebox of old business cards, looking for someone to appeal to. The economy is frighteningly bad, and the very sectors I am strongest in -- technology, newspapering, HR consulting, big company corporate communications -- are the ones hit hardest. I am probably afraid, but I am staying so busy that I just feel -- busy.

Now comes the story. In the midst of our middle class freak-out, while Jon and I were watching the Vikings game, the our doorbell rang. Jon answered the door, and when he returned to the couch, he said, "That's funny. There was a girl on our porch, and she's crying."

"What did she want?" I asked.

"Daniele," he said. Daniele wasn't home.

I jumped out of my chair and ran to the door. A girl about 17, one I had seen a couple of times with our daughter Daniele, but whose name I couldn’t remember, was drifting across the street, her shoulders hunched from sobbing.

"Hello," I called after her. "If you like, you can use our phone to call Daniele's cell phone."

The girl turned. Her little face was a river of tears. "Could I do that?" she blubbered.

"Of course you can," I said, ushering her into the kitchen. "I don’t know where she is, but I'll bet she has her cell phone with her. Here's the number." I left the room so she could have some privacy.

I was aware from the dining room of her speaking in low tones on the phone, and several times breaking down in sobs. Jonnie was looking at me like, "What can I do?" I told him to go upstairs and fetch his mother. She would know how to handle this.

I went back into the kitchen. "You know, why don’t you just sit here for a little while," I said, "until you start to feeling a little better. If you like, you can lay down in Daniele's room. Or I could make you a nice cup of tea. Things sometimes seem more manageable with a cup of tea."

"Thank you," she said. "I think I will sit for a while. It's just that --" and she broke down again, crying.

At this fortuitous moment Rachel arrived, and sat down beside the girl, and put an arm around her. The girl responded by caving in completely and weeping in Rachel's arms.

"Heat up some water," Rachel told Jon, as she gently smoothed the girl's hair.

And the girl finally told us what the problem was, in gulping, gasping syllables. "Justin and I -- I don’t know -- we had a fight -- and we're engaged --"  Her body quaked with her sorrow and fright.

This was my cue to back off, and I did so, knowing I was leaving the girl in good hands. Rachel is such a pro. Half of her patients at the clinic break down and cry. It's just part of the territory.

Later I found out that the great problem was not so great. The boyfriend, 20, suddenly looked at her and said, "What are we doing? Do we even know one another? Is this the right thing to be doing?"

Sounded pretty smart to me. Hell, Rachel and I didn’t even meet until we were 25, and we took years to take the plunge. We didn't tell the girl that every obstacle to a too-young wedding was a good thing, because it made people think. To her, the problem was the only problem in the world, it was the center of the world at that moment, and it undid her completely.

And Rachel and I looked at each other, and we felt, for the first time in days, how strong we both were, and what a blessing this tearful moment was.  

mfinley.com 
_{COPYRIGHT (c) 2001
by MICHAEL FINLEY}

Mike is available to write for your publication or organization right now. Call him at 651-644-4540. Or e-mail him.

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