Strolling through my Facebook feed, I clicked on a video from a do-it-yourself site. The lovely hostess began the segment by using these exact words: “Hi, I’m Jill Cooper from livingonadime.com. One of the biggest challenges you’re gonna face in your life is how to fold a fitted sheet. So today, I’m going to show you.” What did she just say? One of the biggest challenges I am going to face in my life is how to fold a fitted sheet? What world do you live in, linen queen? Was that a subtle joke and you just don’t know how to deliver the punchline? Maybe her mom left her at the doorstep of a coin laundromat, and before this fitted sheet crisis, soiled undies were her biggest issue.
Then, I thought, is life really that simple for her, or does this DIY hostess just have a different perspective? Maybe her life experiences shaped her thought process of fitted-sheet-folding to be this magnanimous task! I guess it’s all about your personal viewpoint.
My husband had an Aunt Carolyn that I only met twice. Once when we were first married and then again when she came to stay at our home for a week. Carolyn was a curmudgeon. She was older, cranky, and always had an opinion that could not be swayed. Hailing from Kentucky, she was not impressed with Florida folks and their southern ways. She wasn’t mean per se; she just wasn’t someone you would want to spend the day with. And our week together seemed long, kind of like our time was in dog years. I used some rather clever tactics during the stay so I didn’t have to be alone with her. I would get up later than she did, go to bed earlier, and spend extra time in the bathroom. This was the one time I appreciated having ulcerative colitis.
When her last day here in the sunny state had come, I was careful to not seem too excited. After breakfast and pleasantries, we took her to the airport and went back home. About five months later, we got word that Aunt Carolyn had died of cancer. And when you are Italian, it doesn’t matter if she stole your cannoli, you support family. We hopped on a plane and headed north.
On the trip up, I jumped into “planner” mode in my head. As an event coordinator, I felt like I could insert myself into the funeral service and lunch prep so that the family could grieve and not have to worry about the little stuff. I didn’t really know most of the people who would be attending, so I thought I should make myself useful. As we arrived at the church, the first encounter was the bathroom. One big room and three exposed toilets. No stall, no half wall, just one big “pee-for-all.” That was the first indication I was not in Kansas anymore.
As I made my way up to the kitchen, I could barely get in. There were about a dozen ladies arranging casseroles, salads, hams, lasagna, about four macaroni salads (some with mustard, some without), and cookies and cakes galore. These old gals were like cogs in a finely tuned machine, all working together to produce a meal fit for a king. They assured me that they had everything under control and encouraged me to sit with family and be comforted. I certainly wasn’t comfortable; in fact, I was a little put out.
The music began, and an old biddy walked slowly to the front of the church and started to sing “Amazing Grace.” As she finished, the preacher thanked her and started his words of encouragement. Just as it seemed like he was wrapping up, he said that the family wanted to encourage anyone who knew Carolyn to stand up and say something about her. Yikes! I immediately started to panic inside. This could be something worthy of a daytime talk show. One by one, folks stood up. Every single guest heartfully and tearfully described this amazing and kind soul. I immediately sat straight up. Is this the same person I saw months earlier? They went on to describe a loving mother, a caring neighbor, and a big-hearted parishioner who often gave money to strangers in need. On and on, people who were touched by Carolyn were not just mourning her loss but were celebrating her well-lived life. I found myself wiping a steady stream of my own tears. Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming loss for not knowing Aunt Carolyn in a way that these other people felt so privileged to know. I left learning an important lesson – hoping to be less judgmental and more understanding in the future.
Earl Nightingale said, “When you judge others, you do not define them, you define yourself.” I don’t know if you have an Aunt Carolyn in your life, but be reminded that every life has a story. If you choose to only see what happened today, you could miss out on one of life’s blessings.
