MAMA-BEAR ONE ANOTHER’S BURDENS

By Amy Marie Bartlett

The lord giveth and the lord taketh away. And then sometimes the lord giveth back all covered in mud from the bushes outside Safeway, with the help of some serious sisters. 

I’d popped into the Goodwill, full daylight, less than 15 minutes, and when I came out, all my insignificant but favored “stuff” was taken away through a window of shattered glass. More shocking, a few days later, minus a little cash and three credit cards (one was business account, sorry boss) every other item of my purse was not only found but “care”-fully gathered by a Community Service Officer who put it in a grocery bag, called me, and offered to bring it to where I was, across town at the Trader Joe’s. I’m posting this not just to celebrate the small stuff but because it refueled my perspective of community, and sisterhood, in a way I didn’t know I needed:

You feel like you’re on your own out here — well I do, but I live a more nomadic life than most, as a single female. Without numbers in my household to connect me to school pickups and soccer sidelines, couples nights and hubby’s work circle, weekend family jaunts and vacays. While hand washing and repacking these innocuous material items I un-enlightendly call “mine,” I thought of all the strangers who had rallied around such a non-emergency — all of them women, who had especially hupped-to because, “girrrll…..it’s your PURSE!” 

I know, right?!?! The manager at the store where I was parked when it was stolen from my car (don’t yell at me — yes I left it in the car, but…only for a miiiinute!) was empathetic but defeatist. “Dude, that’s a bummer,” he said lighting a swisher sweet hidden in 10-inches of beard. “Yeah, I’ll check the cameras but it’s gone.” Yes I know it’s gone, thank you. “Police aren’t gonna help.” Yes I know, no one died. “Happens all the time.” I’m sure, but it’s a first for me this week, and I want my little leather things back! He was helpful in different ways though: He alleviated my question about, “how could this happen RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE ENTRANCE!? when he explained, “She probably had a spark plug.” 

Before we get into the spark plug thing, let me back up and point out or confirm if you caught that: Yes, the thieving thief that thiefed my things, was also a woman. Worse, she was a mother, there with her pre-teen aged daughter (presumably). We had watched the surveillance footage. Takeaway here is, figure out what kind of “her” you’re going to be in any given situation — take the purse her or return the purse her; make it worse her or make it better her.

But in order to explain the spark plug, he reenacted it, standing a couple inches from where my window used to be and “popping” it. Apparently ceramic tipped spark plugs and other such punch-tools will obliterate tempered glass, with, as mentioned, a punch. I stood there watching, feeling like someone had taken a ceramic-tipped punch-tool to me. 

I have a hard time writing this story because it’s so very nothing — no one was mugged and people are out there with stories about children with brain tumors, 2-week terminal diagnoses, life stories of gun violence. But the point here isn’t the bad thing [it wasn’t even that bad] — it was the good that followed; “the kindness of strangers.” The gentleness of cashiers and cops. Let’s get to that:

Officer Ann Marie Howland took a small vandalism and theft case and spent her day visiting businesses, pulling surveillance. Surely she had bigger things to do, but made the time. Community officer Noel went over in her black latex gloves and picked up my perfectly disposable not life-threateningly lost items and cared about getting them back to me. She even put it in a bag which she said several times was so it didn’t mess up my car AND had packed an EXTRA PAIR of latex gloves for me so I could look through it safely and clean. And I haven’t even mentioned yet the hilarious crew at Goodwill Sacramento Valley & Northern Nevada who jumped in to “bear my burden.” They’re a hoot. I’m also a frequent flyer. I had run into one of them at a Subway sandwich shop clear across town once, and my mother was mock ashamed that I’m “recognized” at Goodwill. 

But all of this and…it’s just a purse. A thrift store purse at that. It’s just a pencil case. But every single pen, pencil, and Sharpie was still in this beat-up bag. Probably the most significant was my license. No DMV, no lines, no fee, no fear of identity theft. And who got me here? 

The Goodwill gals: Immediate checking of security cams; maternal imploring not only to cancel cards immediately but also to call the managers RIGHT NOW (which they knew as Goodwill managers) at stores where the cards – plural – had already been used. Get names, ask them to pull footage, ask them to get ready for the cops calling tomorrow. (Walgreens and Jimboys – only two stops but over $800 spent in just SIXTEEN MINUTES, not counting the $300 blocked because I’d called. Not their first rodeo.)

And Ann Marie and Noel and their latex gloves and paper bags and their time and the tone in their voices. The world is full of murders and home invasions and Grand Theft Auto, yet they returned a purse. Not only returned it but (the entire point here, ladies…) did it with a level of empathy and endearing sweetness that I haven’t SEEN in another’s eyes, even inner-circle, in years. They befriended the situation. 

It reminded me of those I’ve experienced in more dire situations, with equivalently more heart and gusto. They not only work and serve and sacrifice; they understand that you need to connect and be reassured – to know that there’s a system in place to take care of you. That people are “there.” I’m not talking about a purse anymore, I’m talking about the 911 operator, fire response medical crew, two police units, and ambulance/paramedics that showed up in 5 minutes (!) when I’d called from about a young man who had lost his mind and control of certain bodily functions (drugs). I’d called a male friend who worked 10 minutes away because it wasn’t a safe situation and I assumed medical and police would take time, but they beat him there by half the time. Or the hospice nursing staff after my grandfather suffered a heartbreaking and shocking accident. They weren’t just Medical Care. They were therapy for a family of thirty crammed in one room at midnight. They were babysitters. They were honorary cousins. They were prayers and harmonizers. They were angels.

What they offer isn’t a single skillset (medical, law enforcement, transport, etc.), the result of their education and training. Just as importantly, they offer the package-deal of “care.” They don’t just fix, they connect. They get it. They let you know that they get it. They walk you through it. We’re not quite as bad off as Facebook will tell you or red and blue maps might segregate.These folks aren’t here to pick apart my politics.They’re here to pick me up when I fall down and throw a couple stitches in it while they’re at it. 

As you’ve noticed by now, this isn’t your typical “girl power” piece — it hardly has anything to do with women (other than the sisterhood of how these [coincidentally all] gals were more “I gotchu girl” about my purse because they all had purses and got me indeed). But we’ll tighten that point up here: Caring, mothering, taking care, serving, helping, openly loving — whatever you call it, it’s one of the gifts we’re “more” known for as women! It may get us made fun of as we cry in baseball (there IS crying in baseball; back off Tom), or when we hallmark chick-flick the fellas out of the room (I myself prefer Die Hard, but I’ve been known to cry at commercials a little sooner than my Y-chromosomed counterparts). But embrace it and use that bleeding heart for good. We know how to suck it up when we need to Rosie-the-Rivetter the situation and we just have to accept that sometimes the gazelle gets eaten by the hyena. But there’s a reason that fire is lit in all of us and usually especially a part of women — to be your brother’s (and sister’s) mama…I mean, keeper. Even the non-maternal types still seem to have this thing — this don’t mess with my peeps, or whoever I’ve decided I’m going to protect right now. It might be a playground or a barfight, but it’s called “MAMA-Bear” for a reason. (I once saw my mother walk out of the house at midnight in her bathrobe and scare off the guy who’d just egged our house and was now casing it — with her “finger gun.” My father smartly stayed in the house whisper-yelling at her to get back inside, but you can’t talk sense into a mama bear.)

I got my wallet back, but while I was getting it back, I got to see all the pieces and peoples in place in this spinning web and how we are connected. When one string pulls, the whole web moves. My things left me and people made phone calls and wrote reports and found my things and took them out of the muck and brought them back to me. Who does that? Family does that. This happens negatively, too, that other strangers take a spark plug and shatter my window. They’re the “difficult cousins” I also lift up the Lord to use for good what the enemy intended for evil and turn lives around. 

Beyond that, was the aha-moment of the connection between girl stereotypes and the mama-bear badge of honor. Wear it. Roar. Take the world under your wing. Paw? Claw? Whatever the moment dictates. The stereotype might be that girls get picked last for kickball, but when the baby-bouncies hit the wall, you WANT a mama-bear in your corner, your foxhole, your classroom, your boardroom, your police force, your inner-circle, your heart. And if you ARE the mama-bear, thank you. Holster your finger-gun for now, but bless you for that empathetic glance, and for raging for my sake. I feel better behind your “that’s my sister” roar, and equipped and refueled to go out and roar for others.

So yeah I got my wallet back. It still smells wonderfully of leather, but in the process, I got the laughter and looks of sisters who get it and mobilized and reminded me I belong with all of you, and you’re out there. The web that pulls as I move, and who moves me. And God loves you. Just those few things.