Penmanship

"I like your pen," the young PA I saw at the doctor's office yesterday said to my husband. Taking the handsome, wood-look pen from the placket of his shirt, Howard said our son got it for him for Christmas. At the same time I said, "That's the wooden one made by a physician-friend of our daughter that she gave him."

Howard shook his head, said, "No," and the doctor chuckled. "I like the cross," he clarified, speaking of the gold clip that held it in place, which was all that had been visible. Hmm. He might be a Christian, I thought. Then when he said, "Be blessed," as we left, he confirmed it for me.

We had been so impressed by the courteous, thorough manner of the young professional, whose good looks reminded us of our 18-year-old grandson. The dark beard he sported was probably worn to make him look older, I suspected.

We had come to the urgent care facility because the parking lot of our own doctor was jammed with cars, indicating a long wait, and I was glad we did. My regular doctor would have probably ordered x-rays of my sinuses, which I didn't want!

"That was the mate to the pen you left in Cracker Barrel the other day," my spouse reminded me as we walked to the car. Oh! I had forgotten there were two! I wondered when I saw it where that one came from!

How well I remembered that day. My clerical husband had bought some cute little booklets from the office-supply store that had sayings like, "Things to Remember," or "Bright Ideas," and such written on the covers. I put one in my purse to jot down ideas for blogs when something occurred to me. That day I pulled it out to tally the number who had been at the family reunion we had just attended.

"Can I borrow your pen?" I had asked, not wanting to dig through my purse for the one I had purposely brought for that. Then when our order came, I laid the pen on a narrow ledge along the wall by our table and didn't think of it again until we were way down the road and he asked for it. I felt so bad (but not so bad that I didn't remind him of something similar he had done, though!).

Pens disappear, but not the love of the ones who gave them. Nor does the love of the One who gave His life on the cross. Something I am reminded of when I see the glint of gold on my husband's pocket.