Blowing a Fuse

Blowing a Fuse: 15 August 2021

Even though our stove has a clock, apparently, I only check the microwave’s. The discovery reoccurred many times this weekend when the microwave was merely a black, lifeless box.

I was heating up leftovers for the kids’ lunch. Emma’s was bubbling loudly so I opened the door, there was a spark, and then nothing. Dang. We were already running a little late and still needed to check off several agenda items. School supplies. Haircuts. Vet appointment. Conference call. Sneakers and church shoes. Allergy shots. Social media copy.

I unplugged it and plugged it back in. Nothing. I flipped the breaker. Nothing, except I had to reset the stove’s useless, blinking clock. I turned to the internet. Found a few videos and watched enough to diagnose a blown fuse, which would take a screwdriver, a trip to a hardware store, and more time than I had on hand to fix. Drat. No defrosting the frozen spinach. No reheating the coffee I left in my closet three hours ago. No warming up spaghetti. Sorry kids. Fix yourselves peanut butter sandwiches.

Among the weekend’s other agenda items was recycling a mountain of paper. For months I’ve been sorting through decades of paper at my dad’s house and returning home exhausted and, often, angry. Why had my parents let all this outdated stuff accumulate? Who did they expect would dispose of it? Years of tax filings—parents, grandparents, great aunt and uncle; a hundred committee notebooks; user manuals for appliances that no longer exist on Earth; on and, infuriatingly, on.

But this weekend I returned to a cache of boxes I’d packed after college. Oh my. Outdated text books; memorabilia from trips; a horseshoe; folding fans; Cliffs Notes; coffee table books of cities I’d visited; a sketchbook from childhood; pictures; and letters. Hundreds and hundreds of letters. Maybe every card I’d ever received. Bundles of letters from people I don’t remember. At all. Bundles of letters from people I do remember—a few of you subscribe to this blog. Let me just say, friends, we weren’t good letter writers. I’m recycling your letters. I hope you recycled mine years ago, and if you didn’t, stop reading this and go recycle them right now. Really. On behalf of children everywhere, do not leave this for the next generation.

I did keep a couple of stacks of letters. I kept the big envelope labeled “Letters from Mama and Daddy” and the one labeled “Family Letters”. There are some other bundles I want to decide about later. But I did wonder about my younger self. Why did I want to keep all of those letters?

I think just the mere fact of those letters—filed alphabetically by sender’s last name and, within that bundle, chronologically—I think the heft of them gave me substance. Those letters meant I was liked.

I have a vague memory of touring some fancy house or manor with my parents. At some point I decided to pull off small bits of my pocket fuzz and hide them in the house—tucked into a corner here, behind a curtain there. I think I was assuring myself that I, too, mattered in this historical setting, this opulent existence. I wonder if I thought I’d remember where things were hidden if I ever returned. As if that might somehow validate my younger, less confident self.

Growing up I had friends in lots of different groups (church kids, sports kids, theater kids, academic kids, popular kids) but never felt at home in any one group, even through college. I was always trying hard to be me without knowing exactly who that was yet. But I knew it somehow involved growing beyond what I considered the three strikes against me: being the youngest child and the only girl in a Southern family with distinct ideas of what was proper, and allowable, for young ladies.

As the youngest and the girl and the one who lives closest, one proper thing is to take care of your parents. Even after death. And so recently, I found myself in court.

My second day in court I stood as the jury filed in. The space was small, and they had to weave awkwardly around the new plexiglass shields that formed a horseshoe around the back of each juror’s chair. They sat, we all sat, and the case resumed. When my father died, the lawsuit he brought against the purchaser of his business was awaiting the reopening of the courts from the COVID shutdown. As the representative of his estate, I became the plaintiff and main witness for this now three-year-old case that should never have needed to go to trial.

But here we all were, debating when/if to wear masks, figuring out the court’s new technology upgrades, gearing up for the morning’s proceedings. I was wondering how this jury of my peers would change my life, how they would decide the merits of our case. And looking at them, I felt flooded with tenderness for them. Each of them taking time to serve, to participate in the beautiful and imperfect system that is our democracy, to put aside their own life’s difficulties to come render a verdict on one of mine.

I held them all in the Light for a minute or two, just being grateful for each individual. My gratitude extended out to my attorneys and legal team, the judge, even the defendent and the opposing counsel. I am grateful for a peaceable system of resolving conflict, as faulty and flawed as the system is. It shouldn’t be so complicated; it shouldn’t be so expensive; it shouldn’t take so long; but it is beautiful the way a symphony is beautiful. Each voice playing its part and moving in time toward the conclusion.

I hesitate to describe the defendant, or my antipathy towards him. You don’t know him, or need to. He’s neither a comic book villain nor an evil threat to humanity. He is, in my admittedly biased estimation, a slightly pathetic man, greedy, unwilling to admit his own mistakes, and probably used to throwing money at problems to make them go away.

He claimed that my father’s generosity toward the company’s employees in the months before the sale somehow damaged the company’s future profitability. I resent his greed and the fact that his actions tainted the three short years of my father’s retirement. I resent that his actions have tainted my first year without my father. But, maybe surprisingly, I don’t hate him.

That day in the courtroom I felt a little sorry for him, in part because he’s a child of God every bit as much as I am. But also because my attorney is really good. He’s a really good lawyer, but I have also come to appreciate him for the very good man that he is. With the defendant on the witness stand, the contrast felt palpable to me. So I found myself holding them both in the Light during the cross examination. And wondering why in the world this had to come to trial.

I didn’t have these words in front of me in court, but the essence of my prayer that day is reflected in this prayer that our congregation prayed at an outdoor vespers service last September:

“Dear Holy One who has created the path that we walk upon, Open our eyes to see your presence in each step that we take. Keep us tethered to your word, guided by your faithful servants, and constantly in communication with you, our Sustainer. Hold us tightly as we open up our hearts to hear how you are speaking to us this day. Amen. ”

I prayed for illumination, for faithfulness, and, yes, for justice.

Fast forward.

The judge gave us a directed verdict. In this case, that meant that he dismissed the jury because he decided that the defendant’s countersuit had fundamental flaws and couldn’t be argued, which meant our case prevailed, and the jury was unnecessary. He ruled the court out of session and went to inform the jury. Woo hoo! We won!

The down side was that we couldn’t ask the jury for punitive damages, which might have kept this man from scapegoating other people and damaging other companies. Still. The victory was sweet, and felt not only like a justification of my father, but also a vindication of generosity.

The verdict was also a bit of an anticlimax. We milled around the courtroom, packed up our things, decided to head back to the law firm for the lunch that wouldn’t have even arrived yet. While we waited for the elevators, a few of the jurors passed by. We smiled around our masks and gave little waves. I thanked them and said I was kind of sorry they didn’t have a chance to hear the case. Everyone smiled and one juror called out to my lawyer, “I was going to vote for you! You’re just like Matlock!” Indeed. I kinda hope that nickname sticks.

I still struggle with it: with deciding on the authentic me and being courageous enough to claim her. But, age and experience do help. The authentic me raises empathetic children and money for a non-profit. She volunteers. She figures out the logistics for all kinds of family gatherings and dynamics. She’s vulnerable in her writing and she fixes the damn microwave.

Tomorrow she’ll take the recycling—the bins were too full today. She’ll put in a good week of work and take first day of school pictures on Tuesday. She’ll pack lunches and insist kids wear masks. She’ll write the letters she meant to get to over the weekend. And she’ll prepare for whatever the judge decides about the post-trial motions each side filed.

The defendant must have blown a fuse, because he appealed. I’m grateful that, at this point in my life, I know I can’t fix him and I don’t need his validation. Much as I wish I could reach inside, take out the burned, hurting piece that keeps wanting vengeance and give him a new, hopeful fuse charged with the determination to learn and grow; well, I know that I can’t. He has to want that for himself, and be brave enough to pursue it.

What I can and will do is continue to work on nurturing my own brave and vulnerable self. And I’ll continue to pray for all of us, “Hold us tightly, Lord, as we open up our hearts to hear how you are speaking to us this day.”