Daddy said Ma Welp got her teeth from a Sears catalog. We believed him. If you could see those teeth, you’d believe him, too.

Ma was a thick bodied woman with a tight grey bun and sensible shoes. She was the babysitter when our grandmother, “Mom,” wasn’t available.

When Mom came over, once the parents were gone, she would say, “You kids go to bed now.” Then she’d settle herself down in front of Gunsmoke and fall asleep.

Ma Welp never slept. And pretty much never smiled; on the rare occasion when she did the gums on those teeth shined like new Silly Putty.

I don’t remember Ma being mean to us, but I do remember my brother and I did our best to stay out of her way. The woman was square shouldered; she could fill a doorway. She was backlit.

Ma’s daughter Tootie and our mother were best friends. Tootie was a professional golfer and had curly red hair. She was long and slim with freckles across her nose.

Tootie was always laughing. As a kid I was puzzled about how big, solid Ma Welp could be the mother of lythe, bubbly Tootie. I guess Ma’s no-nonsense way is why our parents considered her the best “number 2” on the short list of sitters.

Late one afternoon my brother and I decided to make a racecar, which we did fairly often. We walked down to Brinlee’s grocery store on the corner, and hauled back a cardboard shipping box from Rainbow Bread. The box fit snugly in our Radio Flyer. We wedged it in, and gathered our tools: an old paring knife, and crayons.

We’d done a pretty good job of carving out the opening for the driver when we heard Dad through the kitchen window.

“Okay, Ma, I’ll be by to pick you up in about twenty minutes.” We stared at each other. Awe, dammit. Ma Welp? Tonight?

“We better work really fast,” my brother said.

“We haven’t done the doors, or the lights. We’ll never get it done in time!”

“Well, we could just cut the doors,” he said, and began feverishly sawing on the cardboard.

“NO!” I hissed. “You can’t open the doors without handles and we have to put lights on it.”

“If we just cut the doors …” he had sawed about halfway through on his side. “Then we could take it to the top of the hill and ONE person could get a ride.”
I stopped drawing the headlamp and glared at him. I knew exactly where this was going.

“And who is the ONE that will ride?”

He finished cutting the door, then stood there, plucking cardboard shreds from the knife.

“Hmmm … weeell,” he said slowly as he tested his door. He threw me a sideways glance. “Y’know, racecar drivers ARE boys, so …”

“YOU are stupid!! That’s a stupid answer. And you smell like Cheerios and baloney. Racecar drivers do NOT smell like that.” I threw down my crayon. “I’m not doing this anymore.”

He put down the knife and, without looking at me, picked up the tongue of the wagon.

“Okay. Bye-bye.”

He pulled our race car through the gate, down the driveway, and headed up the hill. I went down the driveway and watched him reach the top. I saw him climb in our race car, give it a shove, and head down the hill. He gained speed as he rolled, steering with the tongue. He was Mario Andretti. I hated him.

When he got to our driveway, he steered it right, and up the incline. I saw daddy coming down the street with Ma in the car, so I got behind the wagon and started pushing him up the driveway and through the gate. The wagon came to a stop back where our race car building began. He climbed out and looked at me, smiling.

“That was a great ride!” I glared at him.

“Shut up. Daddy’s back with Ma.” His face went pie eyed.

“Uh oh. We better chop chop.” We gathered our crayons, our little knife, and slipped inside. One thing we were good at doing together was making ourselves scarce. And we did that more often that we made race cars. I guess you could say we were pros at it.

Recently someone expressed upset over trying repeatedly to connect with a friend … and the friend was not responding. She wondered what was going on; she felt hurt by the person’s silence.
Basically, what I told her is this:

I know that it’s disheartening and disappointing … sometimes even heartbreaking … when that happens. We reach out to someone we know and we love … and they don’t reach back. The silence is confusing, painful … and it feels so personal.

In the ‘pastoral counseling’ practicum I did in Seminary, there was a statement we were taught to employ:
“Unless you tell me otherwise, I am going to assume that what’s going on with you has nothing to do with me.”

It’s a good tool to use … I recommend it often, and I say it to myself when I’m in situations like this. It’s easy to start searching in my head for what it is I could’ve done wrong; otherwise, why would they be avoiding me?

But in my sane moments, here’s what I know:
Most people are so busy battling their own demons, they are completely blind to what the people around them experience when they fail to respond. And really, there is no way to know what others have going on; they could be dealing with a death, or an accident, or the typical drama we all face every day just being here on the planet.

Their situations – whatever they might be – and the apparent lack of awareness to our feelings – always call for us to extend tender hearts; mercy, and grace. And let’s be gentle with ourselves as well; it’s truly not about us.

Maybe the other person’s conduct or choices will not allow us to be around them … but we can love them from afar, and hold them in prayer.

I’ve found that it’s when we are at our most unlovable … that we need love the most. It was true for my children, and it’s true for all of us.

“Strive to be understanding, rather than be understood.”

That’s another one we learned in Seminary. It’s sound advice, and something I always try to remember.

Take a deep breath; take three … and wrap your arms around yourself. You are loved. And not forgotten.

May we all be compelled to love without condition … and if, ultimately, we get the sense it’s time to move on, may we do what is necessary; what is best … guided by our tender, compassionate hearts.

Not sure any of this helps, but I hope it does. ♥