Pie Station

My first twilight in Paris. It was 33 degrees, I was seriously regretting my decision to not pack a coat, and my coral jeans concealed spaghetti legs flimsy from 10 hours on a plane and two hours walking along the Seine. Transfixed by the architectural repetition of that deserted metro station I waited and waited and waited for my train to come in.

I am still waiting.

Train, are you ever going to arrive? These lengthy delays worry me. Did I read my map wrong? Am I at the right station? Why am I the only one here? I have tried to jump the tracks. I have flagged down passing trains. I have been jealous of actual passengers, lucky ducks physically riding somewhere. I have asked for a refund on my seemingly worthless ticket. I keep thinking I hear the chug of forward motion...but nothing is in sight.

Last week was the last straw and waiting caused a load to come crashing down on my camel's back. Every Monday and Friday I sit on a contraption called the Upper Body Ergometer and pedal my arms for 14 minutes. It's good for my core and all the tiny muscles behind my shoulders. For those 14 minutes I stare at all of the posters in the workout room. The grazing rhino, the beach scene that says RELAX, the young, pre-adultery Schwarzenegger committing me to be fit, and the still of Martin Luther King, Jr. giving his "I Have a Dream" speech. The speech is printed at the bottom of the poster and I have now read that beautiful tear-jerker a dozen times. This is my favorite line:

I say to you today, my friends, that in spite of the difficulties and frustrations of the moment, I still have a dream.

Today when I reread my favorite line I groaned in secret because my broken back and bruised heart feel the same way. I still have a dream. I dream I will sell our guest bed and set up the Italian four poster crib in its place. I dream I will glow and be kicked from within one more time. I dream I will throw away the bottle of Phisoderm Baby Cream wash the hospital sent home with me in 2001 that is still next to my jewelry box. It's empty but I still squeeze it to produce a zephyr that mimics my version of NEWBORN. I dream about bathing and swaddling and smelling my new baby and throwing that old bottle away once and for all.

I dream these dreams while I sit stationary in this station.

The frustration of being stuck reminded me of a story I once read about a pioneer named Mary Ann Mellor who crossed the plains via handcart in the 1850s. Her daughter, Louisa Mellor Clark, recorded this incident in her journal:

"The first snowstorm left about two feet of snow on the ground, and we began to feel very nervous. We had to wade through more streams, and sometimes up to our waists, and when we got through our clothes would freeze on us until a great many gave up and many died, mostly old people. At last the snow got to be four and five feet deep and often we had to shovel a road before we could move. Thus our traveling was very slow and our provisions nearly gave out.

"My mother, still being weak, finally gave up and said she could go no further. The company could not wait for her, so she bade my father goodbye and kissed each one of the children Godspeed. Then my mother sat down on a boulder and wept. I told my sister, Elizabeth, to take good care of the twins and the rest of the family, and that I would stay with mother. I went a few yards away and prayed with faith that God would help us, that He would protect us from wolves, and that He would let us reach camp. As I was going back to where my mother was sitting I found a pie in the road. I picked it up and gave it to mother to eat. After resting awhile we started on our journey, thanking God for the blessings. A few miles before we reached camp we met my father coming out to meet us. We arrived in camp at 10:00 p.m.

"Many times after that mother felt like giving up and quitting, but then she would remember how wonderful the Lord had been to spare her so many times and offered a prayer of gratitude instead. So she went on her way rejoicing while walking the blood-stained path of snow."

Oh, how I identify with this woman! I have felt like the company has moved on without me, that it isn't worth digging out of five feet of snow for one small step forward, and that sitting and quitting is all that I have left to give. However, every time I've consigned myself to die on a boulder a pie miraculously appears and I gobble it down and gain enough strength to keep plowing ahead. I have eaten many pies in many flavors. Some taste like encouragement, some taste like a heavenly witness all is as it should be, and some taste like miracles. Today's pie tasted like gratitude and endurance and it made my aches go away.

I have finally deciphered my stop on the map. It's called PIE STATION and the reason no one else is here is because this stop was made just for me. I can dream my dreams while I sit stationary in this station because perfect pies arrive at just the right intervals. Today I realized pies and trains are sent from the same source, meaning I can't receive one without believing in the other. It is sometimes easier to wait for a pie than to wait for a train but I am certain each will arrive on schedule.

*Pioneer journal quoted by Vaughn E. Worthen, Ph.D., "The Value of Experiencing and Expressing Gratitude"